The Liberators (17 page)

‘It's so good to see you,' Ivo said, his voice somewhat muffled by the fact that his mouth was in Felix's shoulder.

‘And you, old boy,' said Felix, and Miranda kissed him on the cheek.

‘Yes, yes,' said Hunter, hiding her own smile. ‘Come on chaps, let's get on with it.'

Ivo told them that Perkins had tried to trap him, but did not mention Jago.

‘Are you hurt?' asked Miranda.

‘No – I'm all right. But listen. We've got to move fast.' He broke off, and felt energy leaving him. He was almost a shell. He needed to eat. But he could do without it. He wrenched himself up. ‘Olivia's an interior decorator, right?' He told them his plan, in a hurried whisper. Felix smiled. ‘So what we'll need is, some silver spray paint, some plain white bedsheets and some ivy leaves. We can do that, right?'

Miranda nodded.

‘We'll get into the gallery through the tunnels. You still got the map?'

‘Yup,' said Felix, fumbling in his pockets and bringing it out with a flourish. ‘Still got it.'

‘There are two entrances,' continued Ivo, ‘one that goes into the East wing, and one into the West. We'll take both, and then block them up afterwards to stop anyone else coming in.' And Ivo felt the Koptor responding to his emotion, felt it glowing with renewed energy. ‘And Hunter . . .' She looked down at her dress, which was torn now, and dusty. Her boa was trailing on the ground, and she flung it flamboyantly around her neck.

‘I get your meaning,' she said. ‘I'll have to slip into something a little different.'

In Charmsford Square, in her dressing room, Lydia was sitting, a still rock whilst Jago rushed about her, hunting for his favourite cufflinks. Her face was calm, beautifully made up, her clothes perfect; she had been staring at her reflection, emptying her mind, ready, waiting for the car that had been ordered, waiting to make the entrance that she had been dreaming of, waiting for the adulation of thousands.

In houses all across London, from Wimbledon to Whitechapel, from Holland Park to Hampstead, women were having baths, getting their hair done, pulling on their dresses; men were squeezing into waistcoats, polishing shoes, fiddling with their ties. From houses in the counties, cars were setting out, their occupants late, excitement roiling in their stomachs.

The National Gallery glowed like a beacon, or a spaceship, decked with green lights. Trafalgar Square had been roped off, but there were still crowds of people waiting, drizzle splashing their faces, with anoraks and flasks and autograph books, mobile phones at the ready, and a bank of photographers, milling, chatting, waiting for the first cars to arrive.

And underneath it all the Acolytes were stirring.

Ivo slipped through the shadows in the tunnels beneath the gallery, a wraith now, a mole, the one who brings down the great from within, from below, silently and stealthily.

Quickly and lightly, he passed a room in which Strawbones and Julius sat, in beautifully cut tails, and Acolytes were gathered around them.

Ivo thought, You don't know what I'm doing, and he felt a surge of power, and he knew how it must feel to be like them, to think nothing of human life, to waste away for centuries, to have the ultimate key to freedom in their hands and to be so near completion.

He grinned to himself maniacally, the glint from the fire on his eyes making him look like a demon, and scampered on.

Outside the National Gallery, a swarm of elegant young men with umbrellas emerged, waiting in the portico. A long, lush red carpet had been laid out and the men lined the route. Inside the portico were a couple of hired actors, dressed in Roman costume; they paraded up and down, behaving as if they were not entirely in this century or this place, but rather some remnants of the past, wandering down what they thought was the colonnade of the temple of Jupiter. Some jugglers were doing tricks, and some children came and danced round them.

The first car drove up – long and low, and the door was opened by a man in a bright yellow security jacket; one of the elegant young men, nimble as a racehorse, leaped forward and held the umbrella ready, the door opened, the crowd gasped and got out their mobile phones; but then put them away in disappointment, as out of it stepped Lydia, and behind her, neat, charming, smiling, Jago. ‘Why is that man wearing a yellow jacket? I told them not to,' Lydia whispered to Jago. Her dress billowed in a gust of icy wind. A coal-black sable was curled around her throat, which gleamed whitely. Her eyes were wide. Jago's face was set. His hands were in his pockets. If you looked closely, you might have seen him clenching his jaw, very slightly, and unclenching it again. A muscle moved in his cheek. He took Lydia's arm.

They paused for the
Tatler
photographer, and then went in, Lydia floating in a wide, green gown, a tiara sparkling on her head, Jago in white tie. They stood at the bottom of the stairs, ready to greet the guests. Behind them rose the marble steps, and the echoing halls of the galleries spread into the distance, carpeted in crimson. Huge electric chandeliers dripped with light. Green lamps had been set all the way along the edges of the entrance hall. It looked like a forest, sun tinged and in leaf, and Lydia and Jago stood arm in arm. The actors in Roman costume walked sedately around them, as if they weren't there at all.

‘Where are the nymphs? Why aren't the drinks ready? Why are the ornamental young men drunk already?' Lydia looked around her, the questions coming out almost automatically, her face retaining its smile.

‘There's not much you can do about it now, Lydia,' said Jago under his breath. ‘Where are the Luther-Ross brothers?'

But he did not have to wait long for an answer, because it was as if a fanfare had been blown; suddenly the entrance hall was alive with nymphs, rushing, dancing and playing, running away from men dressed as satyrs, throwing leafy crowns to each other, calling and laughing and singing as if they were in some forest glade in Arcadia, not in a cold building in the capital of a foggy little island.

Julius and Strawbones entered. There was a rustling sound and a train of women followed them. Both brothers were as far from their demonic selves as possible, both walking very tall and smart, their clothes sharp. In Julius's right hand he held a staff; it was the first thing everybody noticed about him. A lot of the elegant young men thought that they should probably get hold of one too, it looked so appealing. The brothers approached the Moncrieffs, shook Jago's hand, and, having kissed Lydia on both cheeks, took their positions at the other side of the flight of stairs.

Back in the underground tunnels, Ivo was heading towards the eastern end of the National Gallery. Now he was set for the final push. He was hungry, and tired, but his body did not care; his brain was pulsing with excitement, his limbs twitching with energy; it was as if he were an athlete on the night of a competition and he'd been training for years to get to this one moment.

Ivo's mind was flashing with thoughts; he felt wild, free, a savage. He could do anything; there was no stopping him: he was the hunter, he was the terrorist, the freedom fighter, the one who could save everything.

The tunnel this side was empty. His knees were grazed and his elbows were bleeding, his hair was dishevelled and crazy. He knew it was not far now. The passage came out into a dusty back corridor of the gallery, where paintings hung that nobody wanted to see and a few busts languished uncared for. He saw light ahead of him. He reached the exit and crouched, listening. There were no sounds. He pushed on the grille and entered the gallery, and, on the other side of the building, Felix and Miranda slipped through as well.

.

Chapter Eighteen

The guests were pouring up the steps now, a river of diamonds and flowers and laughter. In and amongst them darted the nymphs and the satyrs. Sometimes a nymph would run up to a guest and throw a girdle of laurel leaves around their neck. Sometimes two satyrs would take a woman by the hands and lead her away, whispering into her ears. Everybody was excited. Jago watched them all as they flowed upwards. Shouts came from the photographers outside; endless bulbs flashed like lightning. A film crew trailed its wires over everything. A starlet shivered in the cold as she gave an interview.

The Prince of Wales and his Duchess arrived last. Silence and reverence descended as the pair made their way, followed by a train of people, Lydia and Jago among them, into the main gallery, where tables had been laid out. Jago left Lydia talking with the Prince, and slipped away and grabbed a drink off a waiter's tray. He watched the throng.

Beneath paintings hundreds of years old, the rich and the famous, the beautiful, the lucky and the charmed sipped their champagne. Everybody was in a raucous mood, everybody had been looking forward to this for months, not least Lydia, who was surrounded by people she loved and admired, and was having an absolutely terrible time. Her necklace felt like a noose around her neck. Conversation was stilted, she thought the cocktails were too strong, and she had seen one of the guests smoking next to a Titian. She was pleased with the living statues though, who stood around the edges of the room, painted in gold and silver. They did look incredibly imposing, although some of them weren't quite as good at staying still as she had hoped. She looked for her husband and saw Jago leaning against a pillar; she lifted a finger. He saw her movement and, bowing his head slightly, slipped back to her side.

‘Stop fretting, Lydia,' Jago whispered to her. He turned to the group in which Lydia stood, and said something that made them all roar with laughter. ‘Here, have a drink,' he said to his wife. He motioned to a waiter, who sprang forward and filled Lydia's glass with wine; she absent-mindedly lifted it to her lips and drank it down in one gulp.

‘Hey, I didn't mean that quickly,' said Jago, but Lydia glared at him and he lapsed into silence. Lydia, emboldened by the wine, began to enjoy herself rather more, managing to make a witty remark after a professor of history said something which required one.

Jago kept glancing over at the Luther-Ross brothers, wondering what their next move was going to be; in truth, he knew very little about them, or about what the Thyrsos was or even what Liberation meant; he half believed it was going to be like a sort of mass religious experience, and half feared that it was just some ghastly publicity stunt.

He hadn't been entirely sure what had happened in Julius's flat, when he had stumbled upon the boy. At first he thought it was a prank. Perkins had told him to go there. He was a little troubled. The things he'd been doing in the financial markets – that was fun, it tested his brain. But when it came to Ivo – he liked the boy, dammit. After all, he and Lydia had never been able to have children and he liked having Ivo around. He was beginning to feel unsure about the Liberators. Yes, he was bored of his life, and yes, he wanted an escape; but if it involved massacring innocents, he wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. He remembered Perkins in the flat, and shuddered.

Ivo looked out over the scene in front of him – a whirling kaleidoscope of colour, sound and movement. Men in white tie and tails, women in beautiful long balldresses, some with tiaras glistening on their heads, many with heavy jewelled necklaces. But he could not enjoy the bustling crowd. He was standing discreetly, in a small alcove, from where he could see the top table. He was wearing a toga made out of sheets from the Rocksavages' linen cupboard, and he was covered in silver paint, and there was a wreath of silver ivy leaves on his head. It was impossible to tell him apart from any of the other statues, aside from the fact that he was a little smaller, a little thinner. Felix and Miranda were positioned on the other side, and Hunter was milling amongst the guests, a leopard-skin around her shoulders, and a matching mask on her face. They had changed at the Rocksavages' house, and taken a taxi that had deposited them in the back streets behind the gallery.

Ivo was planning to wait until Julius gave his speech, and then he was going to slip around to the table. From there he hadn't really thought about it, but he knew that he might even have to kill Julius. After that . . . he couldn't tell. Nymphs and fauns danced amongst the guests, asking them politely to sit down for supper. Many more wandered around the edges, pausing to look at the guests, smiling at each other; some ignored the party completely, as if somehow our world had merged with that of the ancients. Wine bottles were opened, the beautiful red liquid poured into crystal glasses, the noise of the guests like a hive of bees.

Julius and Strawbones strode down the centre of the gallery, followed by a procession of people: two men in leopard-skins, a man with a snake – a living, long snake – wrapped around him, a small boy dressed as a faun, and women in long robes clashing tambourines. A hush fell over the room. Julius stood behind his chair, smiled, raised his staff. Ivo tensed, ready to spring forwards, but Julius banged the Thyrsos on the floor.

There was a silence – or at least something approximating a silence. Julius held out his arms and smiled. He said, his voice bouncing and echoing off the gallery walls, ‘Welcome!' That was all. He smiled once more, then he sat, and everyone followed, their chairs scraping and shuffling on the floor. The light from the chandeliers was dimmed, and candles were lit on the tables. People's faces flickered in the half-light.

Ivo shivered. He watched Julius and Strawbones carefully. Julius was sitting at the main table, on which the Prince of Wales was the guest of honour. Strawbones was on a more lively table, in between two very beautiful young actresses, who were shrieking with laughter. Strawbones, Ivo noticed, was exceptionally pale, and was not eating anything. His eyes were greener than ever.

The dim green light seeped in from the entrance hall. Cymbals clashed as the nymphs and satyrs continued to dance around the edges of the room. Ivo looked across and saw that Hunter had gone to her prearranged hiding place. Felix and Miranda were still in their positions. He saw Lydia laughing, and Jago, his fingers around the stem of his wine glass, leaning intently into his neighbour. I can do it, he thought. I can destroy them. Just as he was steeling himself with this thought, he heard a voice at his feet.

‘And what have we got here?' said the voice, and Ivo looked down to see a woman. It was Jennifer Brook. He could see the tip of a pistol pointing out of her robe. ‘You're not on my list. There are only meant to be ten living statues. Why are there suddenly thirteen? And you're an awful lot skinnier than the rest of them. Get down.' She spoke in an undertone. ‘Oh, Strawbones will be so thrilled.'

Ivo saw that it was useless to make a scene. All his highly strung energy seemed to flow out of him.

‘You'd better come with me,' said Jennifer. ‘And don't worry, we've got the other two as well.' Ivo stepped down from the alcove. Nobody noticed the exchange.

‘I will have to take you in front of the Liberators,' said Jennifer Brook. ‘They won't like it. They won't like it one bit. I don't suppose you'll live to see the new dawn tomorrow . . .' Her voice was soft and bright, the voice of authority, the woman who tells you to report anything suspicious, or to wait because your call is important to her. Ivo hated it.

‘Come on, this way,' she said, and poked the gun into his back. Ivo walked, or rather stumbled, ahead of her, cursing himself inwardly. He saw Felix and Miranda with another nymph. He caught Felix's eye, but the nymph pushed him on. He felt the hardness of the gun in his back. He saw the light glinting off the silver skin of his friends. Ivo wanted to speak, to shout, but held his tongue.

They were all led down one of the side corridors. Waiters swanned past them. They tramped down the long passage, and came to a small room.

It was clearly an office of some sort. In it were two more nymphs. Jennifer Brook pushed Ivo inside, and Felix and Miranda came with him. Jennifer closed the door. The other two nymphs stood up. They were smiling. One, delicately, took Felix's arm, so that he was restrained by two; the other took Ivo's.

‘So . . .' said Jennifer. ‘Three little rats. Three, little, silver-skinned rats. You two . . .' She put her face close to Miranda's. ‘I know your parents. And do you know where your parents are?'

Miranda said nothing. Her eyes were tightly closed. Ivo saw bright globes of tears shivering at the edges of her eyelashes. The tears fell and streaked a white path through her silver make-up.

‘Your parents,' said Jennifer, ‘are downstairs. Bound, drugged, incapable.'

Miranda's tears poured forth, her face dissolved into a crush of pain. Ivo struggled against his captors; he saw Felix straining against his own, but Jennifer had put the gun to Miranda's forehead, and Ivo knew that she would pull the trigger. ‘Felix!' he said sharply, and Felix caught his eye, and went limp. He closed his eyes, his silver head fell limply forwards on to his chest. Don't go, Felix, thought Ivo. Stay with me.

‘And you.' Jennifer removed the gun, and pointed it at Ivo's heart. ‘We know all about you, Ivo. We've been watching you for some time.' Her face was lit by a wide, toothy grin. Ivo tensed.

‘You,' said Jennifer, pointing at a fellow fanatic, ‘go and get Strawbones. Tell him it's important.' One of the nymphs, dressed in trailing vine leaves, got up and slunk out of the room.

‘Why do you keep looking at Julius?' whispered Lydia into her husband's ear. ‘His speech isn't until after pudding.'

‘I know, dearest, I know,' said Jago. ‘But I want to make sure I don't miss it.'

‘How can you miss it, darling?' said Lydia. She had now had three large glasses of wine, and was not at all nervous. In fact, she was positively enjoying herself, and hadn't, as she kept announcing to anybody who would listen, enjoyed herself quite so much since her student years.

Jago noticed that one of the nymphs had sidled up behind Strawbones's chair, and was bending unobtrusively down to whisper in his ear. He saw Strawbones, very carefully and very slowly, break a glass with his hand, making a noise loud enough for the tables around him to stop talking and look in his direction.

‘It's nothing,' said Strawbones, loudly and clearly and got up. His hand was bleeding. Jago saw the thick, blood spill black on to the white tablecloth. The actresses on either side of Strawbones didn't seem to mind. Strawbones bowed, and left, led by the nymph.

What is going on? thought Jago. What had made Strawbones break the glass? Jago decided that he would get up and follow. He whispered to his wife, ‘Just popping out for a sec.'

‘Not for a ciggy, darling, please,' came Lydia's voice, raucous now.

Jago pushed his chair in and went in the direction of Strawbones. The dining room erupted in laughter as the pudding was brought.

‘What can you possibly have to drag me away from my
dinner
?' came Strawbones's drawling voice as the door to the room swung open. The nymph came in first, followed by the Liberator.

When he saw the three children standing, huddled but firm, against the wall, he pushed the door to behind him, very softly, without taking his eyes off them. Blood was spilling down his arm but he didn't seem to notice. His civilised clothes, the white tie and the waistcoat, suddenly looked out of place on him. His skin had become very, very pale, and his eyes were changing colour, becoming green, his hair was growing; before their eyes he morphed into the inhuman despot that Ivo had seen before, lank fronds trailing the ground, beads and bones and skulls twisted into the locks of his hair, his mouth a gash of redness, his teeth long and animal-like.

Stone Eater, Swallow Feather, Prince of Deer
, thought Ivo, remembering the chants. Strawbones came forward, and inclined his head, almost politely. Ivo saw Felix, standing to his left, tall and skinny and angry, containing himself, his breaths coming very slow, very deep; and Miranda, to his right, like a frightened fawn, shivering in the breeze.

‘Hello, my little chicks,' said Strawbones, his voice suddenly rasping. He took one step closer towards them, and all three tried to stand further back. ‘All my pretty chicks – all of them? Three, all lined up, ready for the
plucking
.' His voice had taken on a guttural quality, as if he were speaking a language foreign to him.

‘Where did you find them?' he said to Jennifer abruptly.

‘Pretending to be statues,' she said.

‘Well done. You shall be
rewarded
,' said Strawbones, dripping with venom. Jennifer affected indifference, but Ivo could see something like passion blazing behind her eyes, her black-rimmed eyelids fluttering.

Strawbones now seemed to take up much more space than he should have done. The bones and skulls entwined as ornaments in his hair clattered when he shook his head from side to side. Ivo could smell him – the reeking smell of animal, of hot horseflesh. Strawbones waved at one of the nymphs, who brought him a cloth. He pressed it to the gash in his palm, and then turned to Ivo.