The scene it revealed was devastating. The clouds rolled back across the sky. Everywhere, as far as Ivo could see, lay injured, groaning people. Smoke gushed out of windows, the constant sound of sirens pierced his eardrums, shattered glass lay everywhere.
Ambulances began to make their way in; the buses were moved on; Ivo saw people on stretchers, policemen corralling rioters. Television crews were already on the scene; a man whose ear had been bitten off was giving an interview, the sky above was buzzing with police helicopters. Someone helped Ivo down off the phone box, and, somehow, he found himself heading back to Charmsford Square.
.
Chapter Thirteen
RIOT IN OXFORD CIRCUS screamed the boards of the London papers that night. Ivo had phoned Felix the moment he got reception, and found that both Felix and Miranda had fled into a shop and slipped out of the back just as the riot was beginning. Felix sounded a little upset about this. ‘I had to protect Miranda,’ he said, although Ivo felt there was a deeper current there. As soon as he could, he’d gone over to the Rocksavages’, and they were now sitting in Miranda’s room. Felix went out to get a newspaper, and came back exclaiming, ‘The papers are flying off the stands. Everyone’s rushing home. Look outside!’
They went to the window and saw, down towards the Marylebone Road, streams of people, looking neither to the right nor the left, hurrying off in the direction of tubes, buses, cars, swarming and foaming, umbrellas shooting up like hideous black mushrooms.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Felix, to break the silence. His chin was tucked into his jumper. Miranda lay on her front on a rug. Ivo was curled into the corner of Miranda’s sofa, feeling the plush red under his fingers.
‘Ma and Pa are out to dinner. Something’s been left for us if we want it.’
‘Let’s look at the article,’ said Ivo, getting up and drawing the curtains, feeling a shade of anxiety creeping up his spine. They settled on the sofa, and Felix read out loud: ‘Oxford Circus was today the scene of horrors not witnessed since the Blitz. A riot broke out in the afternoon.’ Journalists suggested that terrorist groups were involved, and connected the idea of laughing gas with the murder of Blackwood. The London Stock Exchange had taken an enormous fall that afternoon, dropping over two thousand points; the paper was illustrated with pictures of mournful bankers, phones clamped to their ears, and graphs diving downwards. A large investment bank had collapsed; many jobs were on the line. The London Mayor was called to account; the police chief besieged.
‘Julius and Strawbones. They’re behind it, I know. All of this,’ said Ivo, remembering the man with black hair. He had looked exactly like the man in the picture Hunter had shown them. But Ivo was sure it wasn’t Julius. This smacked of Strawbones – extravagant, provocative. ‘What can we do?’
‘I don’t know why you’re so set on stopping them,’ said Felix, mooching towards Ivo. ‘Didn’t you feel the riot? It was wonderful.’ His face shone. His fingers were twisting, nervously; he unzipped and zipped up his top. Miranda whacked him with the rolled up Evening Standard.
‘Idiot. We should do something, now,’ she snapped.
‘What can we do? There’s three of us. And what, like, supernatural powers have we got? None.’
‘There’s this.’ Ivo showed them the Koptor, sleek and dark.
Felix scoffed. ‘And we don’t even know where the Thyrsos is. What good will that do for us?’
Ivo felt the hotness of anger burn in his stomach. He felt as if his brain were suddenly blocked, and he wanted to shout; but he controlled himself. ‘Felix – don’t you understand? This is chaos.’
‘But what’s wrong with chaos?’ said Felix testily. ‘What’s so good about order? Just think,’ he said. ‘What kind of a world is this, anyway? Wars, famines, dictators, floods – there’s a disaster every time you turn on the news. And where does it come from? Order! Without order, there’s no one at the top. Without order, you haven’t got dictators, you have no wars. You just have the freedom of yourself. And that,’ he continued, his voice growing more urgent, ‘is electrifying.’
Ivo couldn’t believe it. Was Felix being converted? He struggled to reply. ‘You’re wrong!’
‘How?’ said Felix, his voice nasty.
Miranda sat up suddenly, her eyes glistening with tears. ‘If you can’t see that, you’re no brother of mine!’
It evidently hurt Felix, for he swiftly turned around, and bent his head, placing his forehead against the wall; Ivo saw his back rising slowly up and down. He was collecting himself, thought Ivo. He’ll turn around again in a minute, and be the same old Felix. The silence in the room was thick.
The sound of the front door being opened interrupted the silence. ‘Hang on – didn’t you say that your parents were away?’ asked Ivo.
‘Yeah, out for supper. Why?’ Miranda sank back into the sofa. Felix turned around, and stood with his back angled against the wall, not looking at either of them.
Ivo motioned to them both to keep silent. They listened, intently, and there was the unmistakable sound of a door being shut. And of footsteps in the hallway.
‘Perkins!’ mouthed Felix. The three glanced at each other in sudden terror. ‘In the linen cupboard!’
Miranda scuttled across the room and waved the two boys after her. She opened a nondescript-looking cupboard door. In it were slats on which piles of white and blue linen reposed innocently. Miranda crouched down and slipped under the bottom one. ‘Come on!’ she whispered urgently. ‘Quick!’
The other two scurried after her, and squirmed under, Felix finding it hardest. There was about two foot of space at the back of the cupboard, which was about the width of a man’s armspan. The mountains of linen, falling down, concealed them, and Miranda managed to pull the door to.
They heard rumbles and murmurs coming from downstairs, and then the feet headed upwards. The steps were pounding quickly. Perkins must have been leaping two or three at a time, and now it sounded as if there were more people coming up after him. Sharply and brutally, the bedroom door was flung open.
‘Felix!’ Perkins said, in a wheedling voice. ‘Miranda! It’s time for your Latin!’
The three held their breath. They could hear Perkins stamping around the room.
‘Come on, you two,’ he barked. More clomping feet entered.
‘They’re not here. They must be out, the little pests. Probably with that Ivo Moncrieff. It’s time we did something about them. I have a feeling they know a little too much about us.’
Perkins came closer to the door, and they shrank back as they felt pressure on it. Without warning it was whipped open.
Never had Ivo been more frightened. He was so scared he closed his eyes as tightly as possible, wishing it was all a nightmare and that when he opened his eyes they would be drinking tea in a café somewhere. A shiver of cold, liquid terror washed over his body, his dry lips chafed, his heart beat slowly, one, two, three . . . and the cupboard door closed again. They were well hidden by the blankets.
‘Yes . . . those irritating mites must be got rid of. Eliminated.’ They heard him pacing up and down, the floorboards protesting, and they heard the sound of chairs being knocked over, and the mattress on the bed being pushed away. ‘They’re getting too close.’
There was another pause, during which Ivo was sure that if he even so much as opened his eyes he’d give away their hiding place. ‘We’ll come back later, when they’re in bed. And then . . . well, you know the drill.’ The way he said ‘drill’ drove right through Ivo’s brain like a sliver of glass. ‘Right. Let’s go.’
Clomp clomp clomp . . . the heavy boots of the Acolytes went out first, followed by Perkins’ lighter steps, and the door to the bedroom closed. Felix immediately made to move, but Ivo restrained him; he waited, counting to a full sixty seconds, until they heard the front door slam shut, before s
ignalling that they could go out. Felix kicked open the door with relief and they all tumbled out.
They spoke in hurried undertones.
‘We have to go after them,’ said Ivo. ‘We have to now. We’ll follow them, we’ll find out what to do, we’ll find their weak points, we’ll do it.’
‘No, we’ll follow them,’ repeated Miranda, her voice, though a little shaky, full of conviction. ‘You’ve got the Koptor. You’ve got to keep it safe. You go home. There’s a back way out, a fire escape that takes you into the area, go out there and you’ll be in Charmsford Square.’
It was true, thought Ivo. If he was caught by Perkins now, then it would be all over. He had to keep the Koptor safe until he knew what to do. ‘It’s dangerous out there!’ Ivo said, worried. ‘You should stay here!’
‘What, and risk being a sitting duck for Perkins when he comes back up? No thanks. I’d rather die fighting than in my sleep,’ Miranda said.
Slightly more muted, Felix said, ‘Yeah, me too.’
Ivo felt a surge of admiration for his two friends, as they stood in front of him, surrounded by the chaos of their upturned lives, but strong and firm, with the blaze of battle burning within them. He glanced thankfully at them. ‘OK. But keep in touch. Don’t do anything stupid. Stay out of sight. Where will you sleep?’
‘We’ll think of something,’ said Miranda, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Ivo crept out into the corridor, and, first checking to see if there was anyone around, carefully opened the window that led on to the iron fire escape. Worried that it would make a lot of noise, he was pleased when he found that if he trod lightly it made no sound at all; he tripped down it as lightly as a squirrel down a tree, and shot across Charmsford Square to the Moncrieffs’ house.
After Ivo had gone, Felix turned to look at his sister.
‘Are you ready?’ he said.
Without pausing, and without speaking, Miranda nodded. A grim kind of certainty had gripped them. Felix opened the door to Miranda’s room, and they stepped out on to the landing. Down below in the stairwell he could see the faint blue glow that came from the fish tank. There was no sign of anyone. He turned and beckoned to his sister. The siblings smiled at each other, a smile of love and apprehension, of understanding and fear. Felix was excited; the knowledge that Perkins could be involved with something as dangerous as the Liberators had almost given him a touch of glamour. Miranda too was filled with a strange kind of emotion, almost glee, that thrummed and bounced within her, as boiling and bright as the rays of the sun. They crept out and down the stairs. ‘How can we find him?’ asked Miranda.
‘We’ll try the alleyway.’
They ran down the stairs into the hallway. Their faces looked strange in the blue light, unreal and ghostly. Miranda stepped forwards and reached for the door. ‘How far do you think they’ve gone?’
Felix didn’t reply. Miranda lowered her arm slowly. ‘Felix?’ she said. ‘How far do you think they’ve gone?’
‘Not far at all,’ said a voice, and Miranda turned round to see Perkins holding her brother by the neck. Perkins, standing tall and full of rage. He gleamed, and opened his mouth wide, but Felix wrestled free from his grip; Miranda wrenched open the door, and they ran outside, banging it shut. They ran fast, heading by instinct towards the bright lights and cars of the Marylebone Road; Perkins came behind them, two Acolytes with him.
‘You! Come back here!’ he shouted.
Perhaps it would have been more sensible to go to him, to say that they had no idea what was going on, but it was too late, and Perkins’ enraged, maniacal face was enough to send them bolting.
‘Maybe we can lose him over the road,’ Felix shouted to Miranda breathlessly, as they reached the wide expanse of the Marylebone Road. The lights were on green and the traffic was fast. Miranda and Felix teetered on the edge of the kerb. Perkins and the Acolytes were fast approaching. A lorry zoomed past them. Miranda stepped into the road, but Felix pulled her back.
‘Now!’ said Miranda, seeing a space in the cars. ‘Let’s go! Now!’ She sprinted across, darting between the cars; one honked at her; she made it across to the island and looked back. Felix was dithering – the traffic had speeded up. The Acolytes were a few metres away from him, and closing in.
‘Come on! Move!’ shouted Miranda.
Felix judged the cars, and their speed, and jumped off the kerb; then he let out a yell, and Miranda saw Perkins catching him by the back of his jacket.
‘Go!’ shouted Felix. Without looking back, Miranda went. She ran and ran through the streets of Marylebone; but the Acolytes were behind her; lost and confused, she fell and scraped her knee. Lying there, on her front, she allowed herself a second of rest, as the tears sprang unheeded to her eyes.
‘Get up,’ she said to herself, ‘get up.’ She managed to force herself, and, hobbling, almost toppling over, shrill animal noises coming from her mouth, she ran on again, ignoring her bleeding knee, her torn jumper, her broken bracelet, which shed pieces as she sprinted, wildly, blindly, as quickly as she could, as far away as she could, until she found a main road. The dirty London buildings, shops lit with Christmas lights, glowered down on either side. Repelled, she turned back and went down a side street.
‘Are you OK?’ It was an old man, concerned; she shook him off, and walked further, until the bustle of people absorbed her in its anonymity.
What could she do? She had lost her brother. Perhaps even now they were murdering him, ripping him apart, sacrificing him in some strange and dreadful ritual, to that creature, that monster. She felt as if a wedge had been driven into her brain and somebody was splitting it in half. She needed Felix, as he needed her. She saw ahead of her a large building looming, and recognised it as the Wallace Collection; she sat – almost collapsed – on the pavement in front of it, feeling the rough cold stone beneath her. Her foot was in a puddle but she didn’t notice.
Ivo. She must talk to Ivo. His face came back to her, and she felt in her pockets for the bump of her mobile phone. It looked alien to her when she took it out, and she stared at it, unable to remember how to make it work. Then a wave came over her, she pressed the buttons hurriedly, and held the phone to her ear, breathing more slowly now, but lips quivering.
It rang, the beeping in her ear seeming unbearably slow. When she heard a click, and Ivo’s voice softly saying ‘Hello?’ she could barely suppress a yelp. But she did and, biting her lip, she said, ‘Ivo.’ And then left a pause, long enough for Ivo to say, now sounding impossibly far away, ‘Miranda? Is that you? Hey, Miranda, are you OK?’
The tears came now, and Miranda couldn’t stop them; she let the phone fall to her side, Ivo’s voice calling in vain, and she lowered her head into her hands and wept.
Julius stood in the half-light, the dim orange glow from the electric lamp illuminating him only feebly. Strawbones was standing with his back slightly facing his brother; he was looking away. Julius was looking right at Strawbones’s neck. His hands were held together, and he was leaning against the wall; this, somehow, made him look menacing, like a tall praying mantis. There was silence between them, and then Strawbones shifted around.
‘I’m sorry, guv’nor,’ he said in a Cockney accent. ‘I couldn’t ’elp it.’
Julius, when he spoke, measured his words carefully. ‘You are really the limit.’ He moved his face further into the light, suddenly, and Strawbones drew back. ‘I have laid my plans – our plans – so carefully these last few years. The tunnels, the National Gallery – everything is in place now. And you –’ he moved forwards, as swiftly as a hare, and pulled his brother close to him, so close that Strawbones could feel Julius’s spittle on his face – ‘you cause a riot in Oxford Circus!’
‘It was fun, brother,’ said Strawbones, in a composed voice. ‘Nobody knows it was us.’
‘Still,’
said Julius, releasing him, ‘I want you to stay quiet. It’s not long now. A riot!’ he smiled at his brother. ‘There will be time enough for that soon. Time enough.’
.
Chapter Fourteen
Ivo heard the dial tone go. Immediately he rang Miranda’s phone back, but received no reply; he rang Felix, and nothing; he rang the house phone, but nobody answered, and he hung up before it reached the answerphone.
Ivo’s stomach was swirling with fear. He was sitting on the end of his bed. He put down his phone slowly, and then suddenly kicked it away, as if it were something distasteful. A sickening thought had come into his head, and he could not shake it from his mind: that the Acolytes had got Felix and Miranda, and that they had already killed them. He thought, I’ll wait. I’ll wait for an hour and see what happens.
At the end of the hour, he decided to go over, risking being seen himself. Without stopping to put on a jumper, he made his way down the stairs quickly and quietly, and then turning a corner, backed up in terror as he saw Julius coming out of the studio with Lydia.
He heard them laughing, and Julius muttering thanks. ‘It’s really wonderful, Lydia, my brother will, I’m sure, absolutely love it.’ Lydia murmured some self-deprecatory phrase, and then waved Julius off down the stairs, before going back into her studio.
Ivo crept past her door and paused at the top of the last flight, and watched Julius slide out of the house. Ivo’s heart was thumping. He went down into the hall, jumping the last four steps, and was just about to reach the front door, when Jago stepped out of the drawing room.
‘Ah, Ivo, how are you, old horse? Haven’t seen you in a while. Come in here.’
Ignoring Ivo’s protests, Jago dragged him into the sitting room for backgammon. The radio was on, a gas fire threw shapes on the walls with its dancing flames. Ivo felt in his pockets and realised he’d left his phone upstairs. He swore softly. Jago, flexing his thick fingers, opened the wooden backgammon board, which shone in the soft light. They played. Ivo lost every time. Jago regarded him with his hawk-like eyes.
The Liberators Page 13