‘And now, shall we go down to the kitchen?’ asked Strawbones quietly. ‘I’ve worked up rather an appetite.’ Ivo nodded, confused. Strawbones was so strange, so changeable. Ivo liked him, that was true, but he was also a little scared of him, as if he was in a cage with a tame tiger. Strawbones made you want to follow him, to dance with him, to fight for him. If Strawbones walked off a cliff, thought Ivo, then he would probably follow.
They left the room together and pounded down the stairs, Strawbones taking them three or four at a time, and Ivo behind him. They entered the kitchen to find that Christine had got everything ready for lunch, and nobody else was around.
Strawbones slid into a chair, and it looked almost as if the chair should be grateful that he was sitting in it. As Christine ladled out some stew, Strawbones made a ridiculous, hungry face. Strawbones’s hands were very long, and the bones could be seen under the skin; his veins were quite prominent, and almost blue, like Chinese porcelain.
‘How much?’ said Christine, holding the ladle over Ivo’s bowl, and Ivo, catching her eye, indicated that he wanted lots. Christine filled it up and placed it in front of him, smoothing down her apron. ‘Have more, there is a whole vat, and I do not think there is anybody else who wants it. Have you seen Juniper? Are you looking forward to the kittens? I do not know who the father is, she is a very naughty cat.’
Ivo laughed and said he had seen her walking down the street this morning, but not since then.
‘I will leave you to eat then,’ she said, ‘But you must find Juniper and feed her. Au revoir, Monsieur, à bientôt.’ She smiled at Ivo, nodded at Strawbones, and Ivo watched her go, then turned his attention to Strawbones, who was scooping up the stew as if he hadn’t eaten in months. He barely chewed each mouthful, and let the gravy run down his chin, but somehow in him it did not look unattractive.
When he finished, Strawbones looked absently out of the window, and Ivo was squirming in his seat. Ivo ate a particularly hot potato and, frantically blowing and waving his hand, quickly swallowed a glass of water; he noticed that Strawbones was looking directly at him with a skewed expression.
Strawbones leaned forward, picked up a decanter and poured himself a glass of wine; he filled Ivo’s glass too, ignoring the fact that it had half an inch of water in it. Ivo picked it up hesitantly, and gulped at it.
‘Where’s the snake?’ asked Ivo, emboldened a little.
‘What snake?’ said Strawbones, looking thoroughly confused.
Ivo spluttered.
‘What are you laughing about?’ said Strawbones, suddenly, and with such vehemence that Ivo nearly jumped out of his chair.
‘Nothing! I wasn’t laughing.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Strawbones.
‘No . . . no . . . I wasn’t!’
Strawbones paused and looked evilly at Ivo, before bursting into laughter again.
‘Got you there!’ he said, and Ivo found himself joining in with the laughter, it was so infectious. Strawbones put his hand in his pocket, and out of it came the tiny, jewelled garter snake. Ivo watched the shining beast slither around on Strawbones’s hand. He put the snake on the table gently, and it moved over towards Ivo. Ivo instinctively moved backwards. Strawbones regarded him keenly. Ivo didn’t want to touch the animal; he felt repulsed by it.
‘Do you want to touch him?’
Ivo shook his head. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘Is it poisonous?’
‘Hmm,’ said Strawbones. ‘I don’t think that matters. I think you’re restrained by something.’
The snake eased its way forwards over the white tiles of the kitchen table, its tiny, dart-like tongue shimmering in and out. Ivo didn’t want to seem cowardly in front of Strawbones, so without waiting for him to say anything, he put his hand on to the table and let the snake slither on to him. He couldn’t help shuddering, but managed to repress the thought. He felt the creature on his skin, cool and alive. He held his hand out, as Strawbones had done, and let the snake weave in and out of his fingers. He was surprised to find he loved the sensation of the animal, wild and free, connecting with him in this way, and he gazed at it, mesmerised. It coiled off his hand and dropped elegantly to the table top, sliding back across to Strawbones, who scooped it up and stowed it away. There was no need for him to say anything; he merely caught Ivo’s eye, and a deep understanding flashed between them. Ivo knew that he had proved something to Strawbones.
Strawbones poured Ivo another glass of wine. Ivo was feeling giddy, his cheeks were getting red, and his mind was getting fuzzy. The ruby, warm liquid looked almost like oil as it slid into his glass.
‘Wine, Ivo, nectar of the gods, ambrosia even. It’s a strange business, wine, and an even stranger thing to want to do – to intoxicate oneself, to be out of control, to lose your senses, don’t you think?’
Sleepily, Ivo nodded, the warm, yellow walls of the kitchen cocooning him.
‘Let me ask you something, Ivo,’ said Strawbones, his long teeth gleaming in the light. ‘Do you think you’re happy? Do you think that you have everything?’
‘Well . . . yes,’ answered Ivo. ‘I mean . . . I’m pretty lucky, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, Ivo, you are. But even if you have everything, even if you lack for nothing, are you then truly happy, truly free?’
Strawbones leaned back, rocking on two legs of his chair, pushing his bowl carelessly away, holding the wine glass to his cheek.
‘A long, long time ago, Ivo, there were two men who thought they had everything. They were rich – richer than your Uncle Jago, richer than the richest man in England, richer than Croesus. They lived in a country thousands of miles from here, in a haunted, freezing castle on top of a mountain.’
Strawbones rocked forward on his chair, making a sharp crack on the stone floor of the kitchen, and leaned his elbows on the table. His voice was soft, and it soothed Ivo, as if he were much, much younger, and being read a story by his parents.
‘They thought that they had everything. All the barons in the lands around sent them tributes, they had silks, horses, furs, maidens. They could kill a peasant,’ he said, his voice rising, gripping the edge of the table, the wine glass forgotten now, ‘if he failed to pay due obeisance, and nothing would happen to them. Sometimes they would kill for fun, sometimes out of pity, sometimes out of duty. You don’t believe me?’
Ivo shrugged, moving his glass from side to side upon the table top. ‘I don’t know what to say. It sounds like a fairy story.’
Strawbones shook with laughter, banging his fist upon the table, shaking his glass so that his wine was spilled, looking for all the world like spilled blood. He stopped laughing, his teeth bared, his eyes soft. He twisted his scarf around his neck, and breathed deeply, heartily, his chest expanding.
‘They became bored. They felt that their life was meaningless. What were they doing, spinning endlessly on this rock? Was there a God? Was there anything? They began to search, everywhere. And it was pure chance that brought them meaning, Ivo. Can you imagine? Chance! It made them think that there was some authority in the world. For they found something that gave them ultimate power. It was a remnant, Ivo, something left over from the days of the gods; and it still had some power within it, stronger and stranger than anything they had ever felt before. They used it, and were filled with new life . . .’
His words were loud now, echoing in Ivo’s skull, battling for possession of his brain, some repeating themselves, some fading. Left over from the days of the gods . . . Ivo was feeling dizzy. Strawbones’s outline was blurred, now it looked as if he were growing, expanding, until that alabaster face was larger than a giant’s, and the whole room curved around him. And then his voice drifted off, and immediately, almost shockingly, Strawbones was sitting there, thin and nervy, dangling his glass between his fingers.
‘And what happened to them?’ said Ivo sl
owly, as if in a dream.
Strawbones was silent for ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Then he leaned forwards, grinned, and said, ‘They lived happily ever after.’
The rest of the meal was in silence.
When they had finished, Strawbones said, ‘Shall we go and look at my portrait?’
‘Do you think Lydia will mind?’ replied Ivo, struggling to say something normal.
‘Oh, she won’t mind,’ said Strawbones, and leaped off his chair as if he were a deer, and scampered out of the room, with Ivo trailing behind him.
‘Oh wait,’ said Ivo. ‘I was meant to feed the cat.’ He went to the French window, which led into a small garden, in which was a little stone fountain surrounded by grumpy looking statues of nymphs. The only things that inhabited the garden were rats and a noisy dog fox.
‘Puss!’ he shouted. ‘Here, puss! Where are you? Juniper!’
Strawbones came and stood by him and joined in with his shouts. They searched round the garden, but could find no sign of her.
‘I saw her going up the road earlier. God knows where she’s got to,’ said Ivo.
‘I’m sure she’ll return. They always do,’ said Strawbones.
Lydia’s studio was empty of Lydia – she had gone to consult with Julius about the party. Long, low and open to the world, it was full of washy light. Spatterings of drizzle on the windows made a not unpleasant sound. There were relatively few paintings hung here – some abstract ones of which Lydia was particularly proud, which she enjoyed having around her.
The easel was set up near the door, and there was a stool perched in front of it; behind the easel was the chair, draped in cloth, in which Strawbones sat for the portrait. Ivo didn’t expect to see anything in it, he’d managed to banish the hallucinations from his mind, and he was feeling brave with Strawbones and the wine.
‘Do you know much about art?’ said Strawbones softly.
Ivo didn’t, and said so.
‘I don’t either, although I have seen a lot of it. So many paintings, so many . . . I wonder what it is that they all want to say – what do you think the point of it is?’
He went towards the easel. ‘I mean, come and look at this. This is Lydia’s portrait of me. She’s been doing it for, I don’t know, a week now. Come, look.’
His voice was low and hypnotic, and warm, and
Ivo drifted over to where he was standing, his body shielding the painting from him.
‘I mean, is a portrait meant to capture one’s essence?’
‘I think so,’ said Ivo. ‘Isn’t it meant to show your personality? Painters are meant to see your soul, aren’t they?’
‘They are . . . so what, Ivo, do you make of this?’
Strawbones stood aside and revealed what stood on the easel.
A mass of colour, light and shade, all swirling together; the strokes seemed to be shifting, vying for dominance. Ivo squinted at it, but he could not make out a figure.
‘I can’t . . . I can’t see you,’ said Ivo.
‘Try harder,’ whispered Strawbones.
Ivo moved nearer. The colours of the painting were clashing together, they seemed to move as he looked at them – and yes, he could see a figure, although it changed: now it was a man, with bloody hands and black hair; now it was a deer, rushing through forests wild with fire; now it was a youth, throwing stones into a savage sea.
What am I seeing? thought Ivo, as he came closer to the painting.
‘You can see,’ whispered Strawbones, and Ivo was aware of menace clawing down his side, his senses were suddenly as keen as a hound’s on the trail when it finds blood. The weft and warp of the world had been pulled tight and something was about to break; somebody was whispering madness into his ear, madness that was sweet, knowable, enticing.
‘Ivo. Ivo?’ came a voice from downstairs, and Ivo turned round, pale. He was alone in the room and Strawbones was nowhere to be seen.
‘Ivo! Come down here. I want you to come here, now.’ Lydia’s voice sounded terrible, a biting edge of authority in it which made Ivo rush downstairs.
‘What is it, Aunt Lydia?’ he said when he’d reached the hall.
‘Look.’ Lydia’s stern face puzzled Ivo. The front door was open, and Christine was hanging out of it. It sounded as though she was sobbing.
‘Mon dieu,’ she was saying. ‘Mon dieu. C’est un diable . . .’
‘Do you know anything about this?’ asked Lydia. She wasn’t accusing, but puzzled. Ivo looked at his aunt, and shrugged. Tenderly, Lydia pulled Christine aside, revealing what she had been weeping over.
There, lying on the front doorstep, was Juniper, the cat, and somebody had taken a knife to her, and slit her from end to end. And not content with this, where her tail had been there was nothing but a raw, bloody stump.
.
Chapter Seven
Ivo padded down the stairs later that afternoon, still reeling with shock from seeing Juniper dead. No one in the house had seen or heard anything. Two policemen came to take statements, but left without anything useful to say. Christine had been given the rest of the day off and was recuperating in her flat.
Ivo passed the drawing room, and paused to look in at the painting of Bacchus and Ariadne. He was about to enter, when he saw Strawbones, sitting on top of the piano. He’d swept away everything that was on top of it. Ivo nearly said something, but Strawbones was staring straight up at the ceiling, mouthing something; so, without disturbing him, and greatly puzzled, Ivo went out of the room. He had arranged to meet Felix and Miranda at the bus stop, as Perkins was having one of his afternoons off and so they were free. Felix was wearing a black jacket, which fitted him very smartly; he dug his hands into the pockets and had put his collar up, in what he thought was an extremely cool way. Miranda was huddled up in a fleece. She blew some strands of hair away from her face as Ivo came up, and grinned at him; Felix nodded curtly. Ivo told them about Strawbones sitting on the piano, and about the cat, and then the bus came.
They found seats on the top deck, right at the front. Ivo loved the crazy feeling that you were floating high above the busy streets, and everybody below looking so small, and the shops and houses looking unreal. Despite the weather, and the general mood of financial gloom, Oxford Street was pulsing with crowds, all bent on buying. Buses snarled up the street, letting out hoots and honks as they filled up with passengers and dodged pedestrians.
The journey didn’t take long, down Park Lane and round Hyde Park Corner, and along Sloane Street on to the King’s Road. They jumped off the bus quite far down the King’s Road, and walked on a bit further; soon they were standing at the end of the mews where Blackwood had lived. It was a tiny road, hidden in between a jeweller’s shop and an expensive restaurant. The houses were very small, but well cared for, window boxes enlivening the facades.
Number 17 was squat and painted an incongruous peach colour. The doorknocker was shaped like a heraldic fish, a spiky dorsal fin sticking out of it.
‘Well, there’s your fin,’ said Felix.
‘Should we knock?’ asked Miranda.
‘Why? No one’s there. Blackwood’s dead, remember.’
‘Shh,’ said Ivo. ‘So how do we get in?’
But Miranda had already pushed in front of him. ‘Come on, Flixter,’ she said commandingly. ‘Show him the goods.’
‘Right.’ Felix rubbed his hands together and blew sharply on them. ‘Card please.’
Miranda dug into her pockets and pulled out a cash card. Felix, looking from right to left, went casually up to the door, and jammed the card into the gap between the lock and the wall. He fiddled for a few seconds, and then appeared to be satisfied. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, and pushed at the door.
To Ivo’s surprise it opened. He turned to Miranda. ‘Where did he . . .’
M
iranda shrugged. ‘Don’t ask. Too much time on our hands.’
‘In quick, guys,’ said Felix, and they followed him. Felix pulled the door to behind them.
The entrance hall was narrow and crammed with objects, all of which were disappointingly ordinary. A telephone table was piled high with books. A flight of stairs led straight up to what must be a bedroom, whilst a cramped passageway led into a room which served as kitchen, sitting room and dining room.
It was oddly baronial, with panelled walls and a large fireplace. The mantelpiece was marble, and the pillars holding it up were fluted, carved with intricate fish. A large oak table stood in the centre. The room was ridiculously messy – a chaos of ashtrays in which cigarette butts and olive stones jostled for space, fragments of quails’ eggs, candles long burned down to the end, photographs scattered aimlessly, as if Blackwood had had no real interest in them, jumpers cast across sofas, a bike helmet on a hatstand, a toothbrush on a bookshelf, every kind of book imaginable, in every kind of language, and the papers – piles, reams, acres, of papers, all towering and spilling from box files, arch files, folders and filing cabinets.
‘Sheesh,’ said Felix. ‘Where do we start?’ He put both hands on top of his head, revealing his skinny wrists, and kicked at a pile. It tottered for a second, and then slid over. The movement caused a minor avalanche; the three of them watched, helpless, as stack after stack fell. Clouds of dust poured up.
‘What?’ said Felix, in response to baleful glares from Ivo and Miranda.
‘There must be something here, some clue somewhere, that explains why Blackwood was killed,’ Ivo said, prodding a collapsed stack with his toe. Nothing happened. ‘OK,’ he said, sighing, ‘we’ll do this systematically.’ They split the room up into thirds and began searching.
Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes went by. Felix began to grow restless. He flung down a file. ‘I give up,’ he said, stretching his long body and giving an almighty yawn. ‘There’s nothing here, and if there is we’ll never find it. It’s a mare’s nest. A wild goose chase.’
The Liberators Page 7