Once they were outside in the freezing air, Ivo couldn’t help but gasp in admiration as they approached Trafalgar Square. Ivo saw two of the great lions, gazing out magisterially over the traffic, and then as they neared he saw the base of the great column with Admiral Nelson standing at its top. The square had been infected with a sense of festivity: it was draped with lights, twinkling faintly in the dim daylight. Tourists, wrapped up in scarves and hats, mounted the lions and posed for photographs by the fountains. Ivo wanted to stop and gaze up at the statues, but Strawbones grabbed his sleeve and pulled him onwards towards the National Gallery.
The enormous building, taking up almost the whole of the north side of Trafalgar Square, looked as if it had been built as a palace: it had a huge central dome, two wings that spread on either side, and a vast entrance hall, with steps leading up to it. Many people swarmed up and down them, clutching umbrellas, scarves across their faces against the cold. Large, martial-like flags hung down from the roof, advertising the current exhibitions.
Strawbones didn’t say anything, but pulled Ivo straight into the gallery, and up the stairs into the central hall. The first thing that Ivo felt was an enormous sense of space and peace. Huge, hushed galleries stretched out on either side. He wanted to linger, but Strawbones acted as if he knew exactly where he was going and dragged him on by the sleeve. The marvellous paintings on all sides went by in a blur. After a short while, they came to a small room with wooden floors and dark red walls. Two leather sofas were positioned in the middle, so that weary visitors could rest. Strawbones led Ivo over to one, and plonked himself down in it. It was comfy, and Ivo leaned back.
‘Now,’ Stawbones said, ‘look at that painting.’
Ivo did so obediently. It was very familiar. It looked almost exactly like the painting in Jago and Lydia’s drawing room, except that theirs was less colourful and had less action in it. This was a riot of tone and movement: there was a man leaping out of a chariot, and it felt as if he was leaping out of the painting and into the gallery.
‘It’s a Titian,’ said Strawbones. ‘Bacchus and Ariadne – like the one in Jago’s room, but that isn’t a real Titian, of course. And that one is . . . different. Do you know why?’
Ivo studied the picture in front of him, taking in the smiling, cheeky faun at the bottom, the two sedate leopards, the followers entwined in ivy. ‘Well . . . in Jago’s painting, there are two people in the chariot – but one of them has been painted out.’
‘Right first time! You are sharp. Sharp as a spear,’ said Strawbones, grinning his benevolent grin, his face lit up by it. Some tourists clustered around the sofa, hoping to sit down, and Strawbones pulled Ivo off. ‘Here, please, sit down,’ he said, as if it were his house, and he led Ivo slightly away, walking out of the room.
‘There are two forces in the world, Ivo,’ said Strawbones quietly, so that Ivo almost had to strain to hear. ‘Two major forces, that is. One is shown in that painting you’ve just seen.’
‘What do you mean – Bacchus?’
‘Yes – or, as the Greeks called him, Dionysus. The god of wine. The Dionysian power. The power of freedom. And then, opposing that, is the Apollonian. Apollo, god of music, order, symmetry.’
‘So why are there two people in Jago’s painting?’
Strawbones grinned again, quite wolfishly this time, Ivo thought, and said, ‘because sometimes two people can be Dionysus.’ And then a crowd of people bustled past Ivo, and he lost sight of Strawbones, and when the tourists had passed, waving leaflets and maps, Strawbones had gone.
When Felix and Miranda had finished their lessons at five thirty, the two siblings came lolloping down the stairs and settled in the basement kitchen. Their mother was there, quietly writing in a large bound notebook; the radio was on.
‘Hello, darlings,’ said Olivia. ‘How were your lessons?’
‘Filthy,’ said Miranda.
‘Horrific,’ said Felix. They glanced at each other. Their mother was bent over her work. Miranda was wondering about Perkins. She hadn’t discussed it with Felix, but felt that she was bound to tell her mother what they’d seen. He could, after all, be dangerous.
Miranda said, ‘In fact . . . Ma, I think there’s something you should know about Perkins.’
‘Oh really?’ answered Olivia, with an amused glance. ‘Has he been whipping you? Or performing other barbaric and cruel acts?’ She laughed. ‘You know our pact. You have lessons every day, and behave well, and you will get an amazingly cool holiday at Easter.’
‘Oh Ma, don’t joke,’ said Miranda, anxiety creeping into her voice. ‘You know the stuff that happened on the tube?’
‘Yes,’ said Olivia, ‘horrible, isn’t it?’
‘He was there.’ Miranda went up to her mother, and grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to look right at her.
‘Oh I know, darling, he came straight and told me. He says he doesn’t know what happened. The police took him aside – he’s got total amnesia. Poor thing. I asked him if he wanted time off, and he said he didn’t – so there you go. Pretty brave of him, don’t you think?’
‘Ma!’ said Miranda, bursting with urgency. ‘We hate him!’
‘That’s nice,’ said Olivia, with an amused glance. They knew when they were beaten; Miranda retreated back to the sofa. ‘I met your nice friend Ivo today,’ continued Olivia.
‘He is nice, isn’t he,’ said Miranda, and then said, ‘Ow!’ as Felix kicked her.
‘Miranda fancies him,’ said Felix.
‘I do NOT!’
Their mother got up, slightly awkwardly, and pushed her hair back. ‘I’m off up to the study,’ she said. ‘Lydia wants you to meet these Luther-Ross people. I’ll tell you when, OK?’
‘OK, Ma,’ they both murmured, and she went out. Felix then turned to Miranda. ‘Why did you say that to Ivo?’ he asked. ‘I mean about me agreeing with you? I don’t.’
‘You mean, when Ivo stopped you from going into that frenzy? Are you mad?’
‘No!’ said Felix, his eyes glistening. ‘I felt it . . . I know what it is – I think I do, anyway – and I want to know more about it!’
‘But Ivo says it can kill people!’ said Miranda, shrinking from her brother.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Felix. ‘But if harnessed properly . . . just think!’
‘Well, I think you’re crazy,’ said Miranda, and pushed him. ‘I’m going to watch TV. You can come if you like, but I think you need to calm down.’ And she left him, long arms crossed over each other, eyes alive with fire.
Felix waited for a little while, and then, checking that no one was around in the hall, slipped upstairs. His father had a small study right at the top of the house – an attic, basically, with little more than a small table, an old computer and a few books in it. Felix slid into it. It was dark outside, street lamps casting their dim glow upon the ground. He didn’t turn the light on. He switched on the computer, which took a few minutes to warm up, and sat down at the desk, one spindly leg dangling. He rubbed his hands in the cold. They never turned the heating on up here. Eventually, the screen lit up, and Felix tapped in the password that he’d found in his father’s papers. His face took on an unhealthy green light. The system blinked, and up came the government data centre. Felix smiled, showing his long teeth, and continued his searches. He kept his ears strained for the slightest of noises. After a while he went to the door and looked out; then came back, and soon there was something wheezing out of the ancient dot-matrix printer. He’d found the plans for the tunnels, and, as yet, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with them. He folded them up and put them in his pocket, turned off the computer and went back innocently to the sitting room to join his sister.
Dancing flames threw shadows on to the walls. A large mastiff lay in front of the fire, its tongue hanging out; it raised its eyebrows slightly as a door opened and
two men walked into the room. Outside it was night, the freezing sky picked out with stars, the orange glow of lamp posts tainting the pavements with a sickly hue. Inside the room it was sweltering, but the two brothers did not seem to notice. Their faces were very similar, looking almost as if they had been carved out of wax, devoid of any colour.
They sat down in heavy armchairs, on either side of the fireplace. The mastiff placed its head back on its paws, whining slightly; one of the men aimed a kick at it.
‘Don’t kick my dog, Strawbones.’
‘I will kick it, if it whines.’ He ran a hand through his thick blond hair.
Julius sighed. ‘You are starting to annoy me,’ he said. The flames flickered light over his face; smoke billowed, but neither man coughed. The dog whimpered and padded to the door; they ignored it. Strawbones leaned forwards, and lit a candle that stood on the table in between them; then he held the candle up to Julius’s face. Julius tapped long fingers on the side of his face; his nails were long, and pointed, and very, very clean. ‘Do you have to be so blatant?’
Strawbones began to laugh, at first quietly, and then louder; and then suddenly, in the middle of a spurt, he stopped. ‘I did the job, dinn’t I?’ he said, imitating a Cockney. ‘Don’t blame me, guv’nor.’ Then he returned to his normal voice. ‘You just haven’t got the guts for it, have you, old brother of mine?’
Julius stood up quickly and grabbed Strawbones by the throat, raising him up from his chair; he choked and grabbed at Julius’s arms, flailing in vain. ‘Stay out of trouble,’ Julius rasped. ‘You,’ he said, gripping around his brother’s neck harder, ‘cannot afford to spoil everything. I will do more than this, next time.’ He released Strawbones, who dropped back on to his chair, feeling around his throat.
‘That really hurt,’ he said in a whiny voice, and looked up at Julius.
‘Do you swear?’ asked Julius.
Strawbones looked right at him. ‘I swear,’ he said; Julius smiled. ‘Of course I swear,’ Strawbones whispered, and sat back in his chair, shaking with silent laughter. Julius returned to his seat. The fire burned out, and for a moment it seemed as if only their eyes could be seen, four little orbs glowing strangely.
From his window Ivo watched the Moncrieffs’ pregnant cat Juniper heave itself along the road, and he felt it to be an omen. He had begun to believe that every movement of every branch, every flutter of a bird’s wing, was a sign. She’s hiding, he thought, or in flight from something. He watched a flock of sparrows bloom out from a tree, like a mushroom cloud, and speed off in the same direction, away from 43 Charmsford Square. Everything is running away, he thought. It was the next morning, Tuesday, and he had slept for only three hours the previous night.
The crumpled postcard from Mongolia caught his eye from where it was nestling on the shelf in between some other of his keepsakes. He went to it, the light from the window barely illuminating it, turned it over and read:
.
Darlingest Ivo,
We are thinking of you so much. We talk about you every day. It won’t be long now before we’re home. We’ll be back for New Year’s Eve.
Your ever loving parents.
He put it back on the mantelpiece and sat down at the computer, logging on to his email. After a couple of seconds he brought up on screen a small, grainy video. His mother’s face, shining and pink-cheeked, appeared taking up almost all of it. ‘Whoops . . .’ she said, and then stood back. ‘Er . . . Hello, Ivo!’
Ivo moved his mouth in response. The face disappeared, and then the camera was picked up and tracked over a huge, open space. It was arid, but there were sparks of life here and there – ground squirrels, clumps of grass clinging on, a motorbike shooting across the Mongolian plain like an arrow. In the distance was the faint glimmer of water. There was a moving figure, small, getting bigger, coming straight towards the camera. It resolved itself into a horse, and on it was his father. His mother laughed. ‘Here comes Daddy,’ she said. The horse slowed to a trot, and then a walk, and drew up in shot. Ivo’s father patted the horse’s neck, and then leaped down. His hair was blown back, and he looked exhilarated, his round face made ruddy by the wind. He came to join Ivo’s mother. ‘Hello, darling, I’m making a video for Ivo!’ His father beamed, and turned to the camera.
‘Ivo! We wish you could be here with us. Look – it’s magnificent!’ He took the camera from Ivo’s mother, and tracked it over the landscape. ‘They used to venerate the wolf. All this was grassland.’ There was an edge of sadness in his voice. ‘Everything depended on everything else. The grassland needed the wolves, and the herdsmen learned from them. It was a balance – complex, fascinating, every factor as necessary as a cog in a clock. It worked. The herdsmen worshipped Tengger, and when they died, they gave their bodies to the wolves so that their souls could fly up to Tengger. And then the farmers came, and slaughtered all the wolves. But the wolves are clever, Ivo – they moved on, they found a way to be free.’ He stopped speaking and held the camera facing himself, and leaned in to Ivo’s mother and said, ‘We love you very much, darling.’
Ivo stopped the video. He was lost in thought, when the door opened quickly and Strawbones came running in and flung himself on the bed.
Ivo could see a tangle of blond hair, a yellow embroidered shirt and a pair of jeans, and the flash of a brightly coloured waistcoat, and he could hear sobbing, then Strawbones turned over, and Ivo realised it was laughter. The young man’s face was completely crumpled up, and dry, racking sounds were issuing from his mouth, which was opened like a gash, revealing canines that looked like they would have no trouble tearing apart a raw steak. The red lips eventually closed, and Strawbones’s eyes, which had been screwed shut, opened; on seeing Ivo, they closed again and the laughter began once more.
Ivo was unsure what to do, and embarrassed, and eventually decided that he should make his presence known; so he coughed, quite loudly, and Strawbones immediately sat bolt upright, although he seemed unable to do this for very long, for he quickly lapsed and relaxed, putting all his weight on one elbow. He was curiously long, thought Ivo, and limp, as if he didn’t have any bones at all; his face, on the other hand, was defined as clearly as if a sculptor had chipped it out of marble.
‘Er . . . hi,’ said Ivo. He couldn’t think of much else to say. ‘Did you . . . want to go and do something?’
‘Er . . . hi to you too,’ said Strawbones, imitating Ivo’s confusion, and giggled, though didn’t quite fall back into his hysteria. He had a long red scarf around his neck, looped several times, in which he buried his head, the blond hair falling over it.
Strawbones, when he had finished, and taken a deep breath, looked up, his eyes bright and his mouth grinning. He held out his hand in greeting, and Ivo moved forward rather awkwardly to shake it. Strawbones clasped it, and patted him on the shoulder.
‘Ivo, my friend,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know anyone was in this room. I didn’t mean to barge in like that. Sorry. It’s just . . . it’s just some people will do anything.’ He put his hands over his mouth and emitted a curious squealing noise, like a pig. Ivo realised that he was still laughing. He contained himself, and stopped, and looked up at Ivo once more.
‘That’s . . . that’s all right,’ said Ivo. ‘Is . . . is Lydia painting you today?’
‘Yes,’ said Strawbones, and threatened to burst into laughter again, but managed to stop himself. He snapped upright and began rearranging some objects on Ivo’s bedside table, placing books on top of each other and then knocking them all aside. Then he got to his feet, and began to sway; Ivo started to laugh, and Strawbones began to play up to it. First he jigged like a chimney sweep, waving an imaginary brush from side to side; he pretended to kill a standing lamp; he conducted a duel with an imaginary opponent, thoroughly enjoying the thrusts of his sword, and eventually, tired of his exertions, but obviously pleased with the reaction they had
caused in Ivo, he collapsed upon the bed again, directing a beam of such joy at Ivo that he immediately lost all his inhibitions.
‘Is Strawbones your real name?’ said Ivo conversationally.
‘No,’ said Strawbones, suddenly serious.
‘So why do they call you that?’
Strawbones shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve had it for a long time. I suppose it’s because I broke my arm about a million times when I was young. And my legs. I kept falling off horses and stuff. So they said my bones were made of straw, and my brother started calling me Strawbones, to annoy me, and it stuck, and then I ended up kind of liking it.’
‘What is your real name?’ asked Ivo.
‘You wouldn’t want to know,’ said Strawbones, and all the light had gone out of his eyes. He threw himself back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Ivo, feeling rather shy, said, ‘Why were you laughing so much?’
Strawbones stretched and yawned, like a cat, and said, ‘Oh, at something very funny, that’s all.’ The young man sat up, and faced Ivo, a grin on his face. Ivo found that he desperately wanted to know what had made Strawbones laugh, and that he wanted to make him laugh too. Strawbones turned away from him, and was hidden from Ivo by a fall of hair; when Strawbones turned back his expression was set.
Strawbones opened his lips slightly, and Ivo started back as a small, forked tongue appeared; Strawbones opened his mouth wider and a garter snake darted out, hissing, and slithered down softly on to a hand that was carefully put out for it. Ivo watched as the snake wove its way between Strawbones’s fingers, emitting little, cross explosions. Watching Ivo carefully, Strawbones grinned, and suddenly the snake was gone. Ivo remembered the snake that had been in his pocket in the kitchen, which he thought he had imagined. Ivo froze. He didn’t know what to think or say. Strawbones made no reference to the reptile. Ivo was about to open his mouth to speak, when Strawbones moved to the door.
The Liberators Page 6