The Liberators (15 page)

‘Do not be afraid,' it said. ‘I am on your side. Wait and I will help you escape.'

Perkins – the vile Perkins, who had trapped Felix and Miranda – Perkins was on his side? It was unfeasible, he thought; it must be a trick, a sadistic trick, which even now Perkins was revelling over, probably with Julius or some of the Acolytes. If you spent time with someone as inhuman as Julius, then surely you would become inhuman yourself? How could Perkins possibly be on Ivo's side? It was inconceivable – and yet the message was there, and now it burned in his brain.

It gave him hope, a twisted kind of hope, but enough to keep him going. He remembered the image of ivy crawling up a great house, slowly and surely destroying it. There was a way of stopping the Liberators. It was going to be hard, he knew, but he was ready for it. He clenched his fists together and beat the ground twice.

Many more hours passed. Later he heard the sound of the lock, and pulled himself into an upright position, ready to face whatever it might be. It was Perkins. He came in and closed the door behind him, and moving towards Ivo aimed a kick at him. ‘Ow!' Ivo let out an exclamation. He had been hurt in the ribs.

‘Where's the Koptor?' said Perkins loudly. He kicked Ivo again.

‘I don't know!'

Perkins retreated to the door. ‘You know we have many ways of torturing people. The brothers are old. They have done it many times before, and in more ways than you could imagine. I will leave you to think about that.'

Ivo kept his mind alert. He wasn't going to let himself be dulled into passivity. He focused on happy memories, and the prospect of escape, and the task which he must complete. Sometimes he could not help reliving the horrible events of the past few days, and they were all the more vivid for his isolation, but he managed to force them out of his mind. He pictured his parents, roaming around Mongolia on horseback, sitting in yurts, drinking fermented mare's milk, meeting shamans, watching the wolves as they tracked deer. He thought about school, and his friends, and walking through the draughty cloisters, clutching books, being late for lessons, all the humdrum school life. He tried to remember some poems, and was glad that he'd been made to memorise a few. He listed names of animals, plants, books, people. He was not going to be beaten.

A hollow
clang
drove him out of himself. He looked up, his eyes unaccustomed to focusing, and saw that it was Perkins. Ivo immediately stiffened, for he was still suspicious. Perkins changed nothing in his behaviour towards Ivo, acting as meanly as he had done before. Maybe they're watching him, thought Ivo.

‘Do Lydia and Jago know where I am?' asked Ivo when he'd drunk some water. ‘They'll come looking for me.'

‘Your aunt and uncle think you're with the Rocksavages. I said you'd gone with them to their house in Scotland, where there's no phone reception or Internet. Lydia's hardly noticed and Jago's working very hard.' Perkins said all this with a malicious expression on his face.

‘They'll find me. My parents will fly back when they realise they haven't heard from me. You can't keep me here. You'll be put in prison.' Ivo spat out the words.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' snapped Perkins. ‘In a few days' time, Liberation will come, and none of that will matter any more.' He removed a knife from his belt. ‘But until then . . .' He went up to Ivo and grabbed his arm suddenly, and drew the tip of it down Ivo's forearm, making a long, bloody scratch. Perkins did not look Ivo in the eye. ‘It's very easy to hurt people, you know, once you've started,' he said, and got up. ‘Where's the Koptor?'

‘I don't know!' shouted Ivo, trembling.

‘We'll see about that.'

A thought had occurred to Ivo. He needed to get a look outside, see where he was. As Perkins was leaving, he ran right up to him and cannoned into him, faking sobs. ‘I want my mother!' he said. ‘You'll get sent to prison, you will, you will!' He was pretending so hard that he actually felt tears forming. ‘Let me go, let me go!' he cried.

‘Get off me! Rat!' Perkins yanked at him, but Ivo clung on. All the time he was hanging on to Perkins, his head half-buried into Perkins' side, he was looking carefully up and down the corridor behind. It was quite long and appeared to be deserted. There were doors at both ends.

‘Please go and see the Liberators! Please, I want you to take me there! I want you to set me free!'

Perkins grabbed hold of him and propelled him back into the cell. ‘Humph,' he exclaimed. He kicked Ivo for good measure, and marched out; Ivo quickly crawled to the door as Perkins shut it, and just glimpsed him turning to the right.

He remembered the map that Felix had found. He guessed that they were in the complex which lay underneath the tiger in the square near Julius's flat. That entrance hadn't been marked – he supposed it must have been constructed after the map had been made. So that left two exits. If Perkins had gone to the right in order to see the Liberators, that meant that he would surely be heading for the central chamber. And that meant he was in the corridor on the eastern side.

But the Koptor, he thought. He cast back furiously in his mind to when he'd last had it. Blackwood's house, in Chelsea, where he'd tried to see if there were any more messages left. His body stiffened, and he held his breath. He clenched his hands, and brought them together, and closed his eyes. Perhaps it was safe. For now, all his thoughts must be on escape. He could still resist. Hunter would want that, and he in himself knew that he could never see the Liberators win. He would rather die.

And so he scouted out the confines of his prison. He felt all around the door to see if there were any cracks. There was one air vent, high up in the corner. Too high to reach. He remembered his father and mother, out there in Mongolia. The wolves had found a way out, his father had said. People had escaped from worse prisons than this before. And, he thought with resolve, so would he.

.

Chapter Sixteen

Tapestries swung lazily in a breeze that couldn't possibly be there; there was a hint of fire, of roasting meat. Strawbones threw a chewed bone over his shoulder and burped loudly, stretching out to his full, elastic length, his long hair, now black and greasy, falling on to his shoulders in waves. His face, so white, was dissolving, or so it seemed, for rivulets of sweat were snaking their way down his cheeks. A long black fur dangled around his body. It glimmered and shone. Picked carcases gleamed on a plate in front of him. A dog snapped up a rib and retreated to a corner.

‘Why is it so HOT in here?' drawled Strawbones, flinging off the coat. ‘Somebody
do
something about it.'

An Acolyte scuttled to the corner of the room, and fiddled with a thermostat. They were in one of the underground chambers beneath Julius's flat. All around them were the sounds of trains, and mysterious, dark, underworld noises. But Strawbones did not fear them. Strawbones was fear. Strawbones was the shadow in your nightmares, Strawbones was the violence under the surface, Strawbones was the blood-dimmed tide, the thing of darkness that cannot be denied.

‘I haven't noticed any difference,' said Strawbones, burping. ‘Why can't anyone do anything I want?'

The doors to the chamber were flung open and Julius came marching in. ‘We must go to see the boy.'

‘Excellent,' said Strawbones, and he stood up and mooched after his brother.

They came bursting into the cell in which Ivo was kept. He was huddled in the corner, his knees drawn up in front of him. He tried not to shiver when they came in, especially when Strawbones leaned forward and grinned, not an inch from his face. Strawbones poked him. Ivo felt the tip of his nail press into him and shuddered.

‘Do you know what pain is?' said Julius. Ivo did not move, or look at him. ‘It is an extraordinary phenomenon, and I have studied it all my long years, and attempted to understand it – and, eventually, to overcome it. Although I don't suppose that you have learned such a thing. Well, we shall see. Strawbones?'

He motioned to his brother, who came forward, grinning in a lopsided way. He was holding a whip. Ivo thought, I can deal with this, I can transform the pain.

Strawbones, smiling almost tenderly, turned Ivo over. ‘Kneel,' he commanded, and Ivo slumped into a kneeling position. He wondered whether it would be better to tense, or to relax, but he had no chance to decide, as a blow came down upon his back and he felt the whip searing into him. The pain was stinging. He tensed his body as another blow came down.

‘Where is the Koptor?' asked Strawbones, in a quiet, gentle voice.

Ivo didn't answer. Strawbones brought down the whip again. Ivo felt fire spread across his shoulders. Tears sprang into his eyes and he blinked them away. Strawbones took a couple of paces back, and then whipped him with such force that Ivo's whole body rocked, and, against his will, he whimpered. Strawbones let out a ghastly yell of exultance, and did it once more. Each blow felt like a line of flame across his back, but Ivo clamped his teeth together and focused all his thoughts on other things.

Strawbones put down the whip, and Ivo breathed out; and then Strawbones came forwards, holding a cat-o'-nine-tails in his hand. Without saying anything, he cracked it down; and Ivo let out a scream of real pain.

Immediately Strawbones stopped and knelt down beside him.

‘Ivo? Ivo, my boy, is it hurting? I am sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me.'

Ivo's face was wet with tears. Strawbones leaned in to him and whispered, ‘Here, don't worry, it'll be OK.' For a moment all Ivo wanted to do was collapse, but he shrank away from Strawbones, who put a hand on his shoulder and said, with a cloying sympathy that chilled Ivo to the marrow, ‘I am sorry, Ivo.' And then he backed away, a look of grave apology on his face.

When they had gone, Ivo let his tears flow. The agony was overwhelming. He didn't know where the Koptor was. But he had to escape, and he had to stop the Liberators, and that was what was keeping him going. He lay on the ground, feeling the cold concrete, breathing heavily. He remembered Felix and Miranda, and wondered if they were trapped in another room somewhere, or if they were Acolytes by now.

He turned his thoughts to escape. The door to his cell was heavy and made of iron. He forced himself to stand up and tottered over towards it. There was a handle on the inside; he grabbed it, and jiggled it up and down with all the force he could, but it was solid, immovable. He looked around the room. There was, in the right-hand corner, above the level of the door, an air vent, which looked as if it might be just wide enough to crawl through. If only, he thought, he could get up there. Exhausted though he was, he moved to the corner and drew his energy together. OK, he thought, I can do this. One, two three . . . He jumped, but his hand just touched the bottom of the grille and he fell back down, feeling hopeless. The welts burned. He put his hand to them and brought it away wet, covered in his own blood.

At this point the door opened again, and Perkins came in. He was carrying bandages and iodine. Brusquely he said, ‘Take your shirt off,' and Ivo did; Perkins dabbed his back with the iodine, which was unpleasantly stinging, and then taped some bandages on.

When he'd finished, Ivo turned to look at him. Perkins' T-shirt was damp with sweat, his spectacles slipping down his nose, his pasty face screwed up in a sneer. Ivo said nothing, but pulled his shirt back on.

‘We don't have much time,' said Perkins quietly. ‘Come with me and wait for my signal.'

‘Why are you helping me?' Ivo asked suddenly.

Perkins, rocking back on his heels, looked sharply at Ivo. ‘I was a secret service plant at the Home Office, reporting to MI6. I met Blackwood. He was working in the Defence Ministry. He'd noticed my CV and decided to induct me into FIN. My job was to infiltrate the Liberators. I've been successful, haven't I?' He flashed a smile at Ivo, who shuddered inwardly. ‘I was the one who told them about the tunnels. I had to give them something big for them to trust me. As well as, of course . . .' he stopped. Ivo guessed he was remembering whatever he had had to do for his initiation. ‘The party, of course,' went on Perkins, ‘was their idea. They love spectacle, like all terrorists. Because that is what they are.' He spoke matter of factly.

‘One more thing,' He continued in an undertone. He put his hand into Ivo's, and closed Ivo's fingers over something. Ivo uncurled his fingers slowly, and then gasped, biting his lip. It was the Koptor. Ivo was unable to believe what Perkins had done. If he was on the side of the Liberators, there was no way he'd have given him back the Koptor. ‘You left it in Blackwood's house, in the mantelpiece,' said Perkins. ‘Come on then.' Perkins pulled Ivo up roughly from the floor and motioned to him to follow. Ivo began to wonder whether he was being taken to his execution.

It was cold in the corridor. They turned left. That means, thought Ivo wonderingly, that we're going away from the central chamber. Why would that be? Perkins said nothing as they walked along, Ivo in front of Perkins. There was nothing pressed into his back, but he knew that if he moved or tried to run he would be dead instantly. They passed several open rooms, in which Ivo could see people gathered. One contained weapons, rows of grim black rifles, boxes of ammunition, even what appeared to be hand grenades.

A door appeared ahead of them at what Ivo supposed was the end of the corridor. Perkins said, ‘Wait here,' and then went into a room on the left. Ivo, puzzled, stood where he was. He drew nearer to the door.

‘The Acolytes will wait underneath the National Gallery.' Ivo recognised Perkins' voice and wondered who he was talking to. ‘They will be armed, as a precaution. The party starts at seven thirty. Five hundred people have been invited. The Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall, the Prime Minister, the heads of all the banks, of all the galleries, newspaper editors, magazine editors, Russian oligarchs, singers, actors, socialites, philanthropists – all are coming to this party, which is being dressed up as the charity ball to end all charity balls. Which, I suppose, in a way, is what it will be,' said Perkins. Ivo heard a smirk in his tone.

‘The Acolytes under your lead,' continued Perkins, ‘will come up the tunnel into the gallery, and will secure it from the inside, ensuring that no one can escape. Julius will stand up to make a speech – but instead he will bless them with the Thyrsos, liberating them entirely, and they will be released into the night. Chaos will ensue and Julius will take over. And so will his reign begin . . . All the safe trappings of current civilisation will be overthrown. There will be breakdown.'

There were murmurings from the others. Ivo looked at the door at the end of the corridor. What if it was open? He shook the thought away. But no, it couldn't be. He inched towards it.

‘But what about the boy? What's his name – Ivo?'

Perkins laughed. ‘Oh,' he said, in a very clear voice, ‘I think he knows what to do.' This was the sign, thought Ivo.
Knows what to do
. . . his heart thumping, he put a hand on the metal bar. The door was plastered with notices that said, ‘
ALARM
' and ‘
DO NOT OPEN
'. Gently, very gently, he pushed it.

And the door clicked open. Without stopping to think, Ivo pushed it just enough for him to slip through, and then was into the tunnel beyond. He was hungry, he was tired, he was in pain, but he was full of a fire that smouldered in the recesses of his body. Why had Perkins let him out? He didn't bother to question it for the moment. But where should he go? To get out, that was what he had to do first. He powered on. The tunnel was coming to an end. Curious humming underground noises were filling his ears. He imagined the world above him – icy pavements, pedestrians muffled up against the biting cold, the shimmering lights of Christmas, shops spilling over with produce, cars revving their engines at lights, indomitable rickshaw drivers bicycling in shorts. All so peaceful, so self-absorbed. People never thought anything would happen to them, he reflected. Typhoons, floods, earthquakes, famine, dictatorships – they all happened on the other side of the world, far away, never in London, never in the United Kingdom.

Well, they were wrong, he thought. And as he crawled, he felt that he, too, was dangerous, that he also was a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode.

He saw a ladder ahead of him. He reached it and struggled up it. It was rusty. He eventually reached the end, and guessed that it opened into a trapdoor. He pushed against it, hoping that it would be open. It didn't move. Come on, he thought. He pushed harder, feeling all of his weight and power, and there was a creak; slowly he tipped it open and then let it fall to the ground of its own momentum.

He was so excited about getting out that he almost tripped as he came into a cellar. It was gloomy, but his eyes had become accustomed to the dark. He was only wearing a shirt and it was cold. He had no idea where his coat was. He shivered, but it was a pleasurable shiver. Free . . . the word filled his mind and expanded. He was free. He charged up the cellar stairs into the hall.

And then he stopped dead. He recognised where he was: the vast entrance of Julius's house in Mayfair. Perkins had sent him here and given him the Koptor. That was why he'd done it. He felt a sudden admiration for Perkins, working under the very noses of the Liberators. And he'd break the Thyrsos now, and they could do nothing about it.

Winter light gave everything an eerie air, and Ivo was filled with a hot madness, as if rationality had deserted him, like a berserker in battle. The grand staircase was threatening, menacing, but he went up it. He was focused now upon his task. He went into the drawing room. Everything seemed to have gone silent as he entered, almost as if the rest of the world had disappeared as soon as he had crossed the threshold. Ivo was aware of the blood pounding in every part of his body. He could feel the swiftness of his heart's beating, his tongue dry, his stomach overturning queasily. He had envisaged everything closing in, eating him up until there was nothing of him left. A place like this, he thought, knows how to get rid of you.

The room appeared to be empty. He thought he sensed movement in a corner, but it was only a curtain flapping in the wind. He looked around, gazing at the crowding treasures. He saw the hoof – Julius had never explained it. Suddenly taken by an enormous sense of curiosity, he moved to the cabinet where it stood and gingerly lifted it up. He turned it over. There was an inscription in very small writing, engraved into a silver plate.

.

.

Killed by one of the brothers and kept as a ghastly souvenir for nearly seven hundred years. He noticed each hair, each bristle, and imagined the warhorse falling; then he replaced it where it had stood and returned to his task. He wondered where the Thyrsos might be. He could feel energy coming from the Koptor as if it knew the Thyrsos was nearby. The room was so large, and so full of cabinets, cupboards and boxes, that it could be anywhere. He'd seen Julius take it from somewhere though, he remembered. It was hard to sift through his memories of the last time he'd been here: everything was blurred by the wine. He went to the chair where he had been sitting and sat down in it once more. Where had Julius come from? He racked his brains. He looked around the fireplace. He sat in the chair in which Julius had sat, on the right-hand side of the fireplace, and reached out his hand.