The Liberators

by Philip Womack

  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.

  .

  THE HOOF OF THE HORSE OF

  VLADIMIR OF THE BULGARS.

  SLAIN BY DRAGAN, 1321

  .

  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.

  There was a large mantelpiece, and on it was a box, long, thin, made of highly polished rosewood. It was chained to the fireplace, and there was a shining padlock upon it. The opulence of the box made Ivo almost dizzy with excitement. It was studded round with emeralds and amethysts, shimmering and flashing, catching the light that came from the tall windows. Inscribed upon the lid was a word, in Greek letters:

  .

  ELEUTHEROI

  The Thyrsos must be in it: the godlike staff that contained the brothers’ powers. He was here, and he was going to break it. Ivo touched the box, barely, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. He took out the Koptor once more; the blade extended, and with one swift movement he sliced through the chains that bound the box to the mantelpiece. He pulled it off, as quickly as he could. It was remarkably heavy and he nearly dropped it, staggering under the weight. It was heavier than his school trunk. He let it down on to the carpeted floor quickly. It squatted innocently amid the blue and red swirls of the carpet. He knelt. It seemed appropriate.

  The box had a clasp made of gold. Ivo’s breath was now coming a little faster, he felt it, and, tinkering with the Koptor, he unfastened it easily, and then, without thinking, he flung back the lid.

  Beautiful black silk lined the box, and it was studded with jewels the names of which Ivo did not know but which flashed and burned like stars reflected in water.

  There it was – a staff, no longer than Ivo’s arm, unadorned, clean and smooth. It did not look as if it were made of wood, but more like something carved out of granite, or even out of some substance found deep in the earth’s crust, from some darker world, far distant.

  Looking at it, Ivo began to feel the savage elation of the hysteria which preceded the murder and the riot, which possessed those who had been Liberated. How pleasant it was, how wonderful to feel so free, to feel so distant from life.

  The Koptor’s blade was shining, deadly. Ivo was moving very slowly now, as if he had been hypnotised, or as if his actions were being programmed by somebody else. He felt part of a current, a wave which was beyond his control, some mysterious sweeping tide in the universe that went ever on, bearing him along with it to this end.

  A vision of his potential Liberated self flashed through his mind, wild-eyed, tearing through the streets, bloodied, maddened, but so wonderfully free.

  Dreamlike, as if moving through water, he drew back his arm as though he were about to split open a log with an axe. The Thyrsos, the mystical object that held such godlike powers. All he had to do now was to cut it in half, and Julius and Strawbones would lose their powers, become human, frail, as vulnerable and mortal as any one of the people they had killed. Ivo felt as if he were the centre of everything, as if time itself flowed from him. There was no sound, and if there had been, he wouldn’t have heard it, entranced as he was. And then he brought the Koptor down, swiftly, and missed.

  He picked up the Thyrsos now. It was heavy. It was so smoothly cut, it almost had no edges, seeming instead to blur into the air around it. It oozed power, enticing, alluring. It was as if a veil had been lifted, and Ivo was more than human.

  How funny and puny people were, he thought, scuttling around with their boring little lives . . . what was the point of it all? Why did they bother, rushing around, getting on trains, sitting at desks all day? Wouldn’t it be better just to be free, to be allowed to have anything that you wanted, to do anything that you could do, to push yourself to the furthest limit of human experience.

  He saw the world as an anthill, and all the people as ants, crazily rushing around, picking up leaves and putting them down again, dragging useless bits of paper, treading mindlessly over their fellow creatures, and he had a sudden desire to crush everything, and everyone.

  ‘No!’ came a voice in his head. It was his own self, pulling him back. ‘You have to break it!’ He thought of long-limbed Felix, putting his collar up and lifting his chin, of Miranda with her beautiful hands, tying a band around her long hair; he thought of hawk-like Uncle Jago, and vague but lovely Lydia; his schoolfriends, his teachers, and, finally, his parents, all passed before his eyes. How could he destroy the bonds that he had with these people? He had to break the Thyrsos.

  He drew back the Koptor, enjoying its weighty feel. He imagined himself as a hero, some helmeted warrior fresh from spattering his enemies’ blood over the unforgiving stones of Troy. How everybody would worship him, his tale told over and over . . . He was ready to strike.

  OK, he thought. One . . . two . . . He aimed the Koptor at the staff. ‘I will break you,’ he said, and swung back.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ said a voice, soft, cold, recognisable.

  He turned quickly, to see his Uncle Jago standing not three metres away from him. Ivo was so startled that he dropped the Koptor, and Jago picked it up. ‘This looks like a very valuable sort of antique. Not the sort of thing that Julius would be pleased to know you’d been playing with.’ He doesn’t know what the Koptor is, thought Ivo. But did he know about Julius and Strawbones? He said, very politely, ‘Uncle Jago, I was just looking at it – could you give it back to me and I’ll put it back where I found it?’

  Jago looked down its length. ‘Looks rather nice. Very strange though. Can’t think what period it’s from. But Ivo, old boy,’ he said, suddenly changing tack, and swinging the Koptor, ‘you’re an intelligent chap, aren’t you? You’ve got both your parents’ brains.’ His eyes were shimmering. The sharp cut of his lapels, his carefully pressed trousers, his neat cuffs, all seemed familiar, normal, but his eyes were filmed and luminescent. ‘There are many more things which we should be discussing, things which touch our immediate futures.’

  ‘Like what?’ said Ivo.

  ‘I wish you would stop playing the innocent. Haven’t you guessed yet?’

  ‘Guessed what?’ said Ivo.

  ‘Why do you think I’m here?’

  Ivo kept silent. Maybe, he thought, if he didn’t give away too much, he could get out of here.

  ‘I’m helping the Liberators,’ said Jago casually.

  When he said that, it was as if Ivo were a tall poppy, and the words a scythe that sliced through the stem, scattering the scarlet petals on the ground.

  Ivo brought his hands to his mouth involuntarily.

  ‘I’ve been so bored, Ivo. You have no idea . . . all those hours sitting in front of a computer screen, looking at rows and rows of figures . . . it can drive you mad . . . Julius and Strawbones. I m
et them at a party, and told them about what I did. I think they noticed I was bored. They just make everything so exciting! The markets are crashing, Ivo, and we’ve been behind it all . . . Financial chaos, global chaos – now is the time when the real heroes will be made.’ He stopped. ‘Now, would you like to explain what you’re doing here?’

  His voice was measured, slow, almost too slow, thought Ivo. ‘Aren’t you meant to be with the Rocksavages in Scotland?’

  ‘They had to come back quickly today,’ said Ivo, thinking very fast. ‘We got a plane down, we’ve only just arrived, and Olivia sent me here with a message for Julius – some plans that she wanted him to look at for decorating his . . . bathroom.’

  ‘Oh really. What were you doing with this then?’ he said, casually holding out the Koptor. Ivo said nothing, letting it hang in the air between them, almost joining them with its sighing, fatal length.

  ‘Really, Jago, I was just playing with it . . . I found this on the mantlepiece,’ he said, pointing at the box, ‘I’ll put it back.’ He inched towards it, and, trembling, shut it, almost staggering under the weight of the Thyrsos as he lifted it back up. ‘Just don’t . . . just don’t tell Julius that I was here, please, Jago.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Jago seemed to be considering this, looking very carefully at the Koptor, and he seemed to be about to hand it back to Ivo, when the blade retracted. Jago dropped it in astonishment, and Ivo quickly caught it as it fell.

  ‘What is it?’ said Jago, suddenly alert.

  ‘I don’t know!’ said Ivo. Jago came closer to him, and held Ivo by the shoulders.

  ‘Ivo – what is going on here? You must tell me!’

  With a quick movement, he elbowed his uncle in the stomach, causing Jago to release him, and Ivo moved away whilst Jago collected himself.

  ‘There, you see, I told you.’

  Ivo spun round, and what he saw made his throat tighten and his legs tremble. Coming through the door was Perkins.

  What is this? thought Ivo.

  Perkins advanced into the room and stood beside Jago. For a moment they stared at each other, and then Perkins smiled. ‘This boy here is trying to sabotage everything we have been working for,’ he said, looking directly at Ivo. ‘And you must make him pay for it!’ yelled Perkins. Jago glanced from Ivo to Perkins, and looked as if he was about to say something, but Perkins moved towards Ivo, and Ivo felt the Koptor in his hand, and extended its long, thin blade.

  ‘Stay back!’ he commanded.

  ‘Get it from him!’ yelled Perkins, mouth opening wide and ugly, spittle spraying from his lips. Jago stood still. Perkins sprang, but Ivo was too quick for him. He swung the Koptor in his direction, not caring if he slashed him.

  ‘You were never on my side,’ said Ivo, advancing towards Perkins – vile, maniacal Perkins. ‘You brought me here to make Jago kill me! How could you be so . . . Did they know all the time? The Liberators – did they know about your little game? Is that why they left the Thyrsos undefended?’

  ‘What . . . to make me kill him?’ Jago said. Perkins ignored him.

  ‘It was never “undefended”, little Ivo. Acolytes!’ screamed Perkins. There was a thundering noise, of many boots upon the stairs, and the door burst open and in came four armed men.

  ‘Where are you going to go now, Ivo?’ sneered Perkins. ‘No escape for you. Can’t go to Mummy and Daddy. Can’t go to Uncle and Auntie. You have to stay here and meet your fate.’

  Ivo glanced around. He was on the first floor. There was a window behind him, but it was too high. How could he reach it? He had to jump out of it. It was the only way. But how to distract them? He roared so loud it made the glass shiver. Then he threw himself behind a cabinet and pushed it over; he took advantage of the moment of confusion and jumped on top of it. From here he could reach the catch. He scrabbled at it, opening the window. He looked out and saw the cold pavement below. He turned round. The Acolytes were advancing. He had no choice. He tried to remember how to fall properly, took a deep breath and sprang out.

  He fell so quickly he barely noticed it. He landed on all fours, and rolled over, and then he began to run. His wrists were aching.

  Perkins appeared at the window. ‘Ivo! Ivo! Damn you, Ivo!’ but Ivo was not listening to his curses, as he was running as fast as he could.

  His legs almost a blur, he sprinted down the road, not knowing in which direction to go; as he crossed a road a car swerved to avoid him, he knocked into a passer-by, spilling her handbag. She shouted after him, but he kept on running, running, until he saw a church ahead of him, and memories of peace and goodness stirred him inside.

  He clattered into the dark interior, and slipped into a pew, collapsing, kneeling, satisfied that there was no pursuit. There was a large piano in front of the altar where a girl was practising; an elderly lady was praying in the front pew. Ivo’s heart was pounding, his limbs painful, sweating.

  The music was soft and rippling, the pianist playing a phrase two or three times, then launching into a piece that was bright and pure. It made Ivo calm, and he sat up, looking around.

  Now he had to consider his options. He couldn’t go back to his house. Nor could he go to the Rocksavages’. Every avenue was closed, every door shut, and he was a stag at bay, waiting for the dogs to advance and tear into his flesh.

  .

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hunter. He could use the Koptor to call her. He wondered if it would be too much for her to bear. She had looked so ill after they had last done it. But this was an emergency, if ever there was. So he held the black phone-like Koptor in his palm, squeezed it hard and concentrated as deeply as he could on the figure of Alice Hunter. The pianist stopped playing and gathered up her music; the old lady in the front pew pattered down the nave. And then, as if she had been there always, Hunter was sitting next to him. She was wearing a black sequinned dress that billowed around her, and a feather boa, which she flung around her neck. But she looked old and ill and tired, thought Ivo.

  ‘Ready for the party? I was worried. Thought I should be ready for anything. Got into my gear this morning. Party’s tonight,’ she said grimly. ‘Where have you been?’ Her voice echoed in the church around them; a priest, coming in from the vestry, didn’t seem to notice them. Hunter shifted. ‘How are you, dear boy?’ she continued. ‘But look at you – what’s happened? You’re freezing! And you’ve . . . who did this to you?’

  Ivo explained. Hunter stood up majestically. ‘This has gone far enough,’ she said. ‘But Perkins . . . he said he was a member of FIN?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ivo.

  ‘He was lying,’ she said with decision. ‘He was lying to trick you, so that he could make Jago kill you for the Liberators. It’s all part of their twisted games.’ She shuddered, and not from the cold. The light streaming in from the windows was grey. Dust motes filled the beams. The church was empty.

  Ivo told Hunter about Felix and Miranda, and she tapped her fingers on the pew in front of her.

  ‘Hmmm. It sounds like we should rescue them. We need their help. And your Uncle Jago . . . The first thing to do is go to get your friends. And then – well, I think you know what you will have to do.’ Ivo nodded slowly. Butterfly to caterpillar, thought Ivo, that’s what I am. I have to throw away my inhibitions. I have to become like the Liberators. He had felt the release of violence surging through him when he confronted Perkins, and was allowing it to course through him. He sensed its depth and power, and knew how the Liberators might feel.

  They took a taxi to Charmsford Square. It was just before twelve. Hunter was visibly agitated, constantly looking out of the window. ‘We don’t know what we’ll find when we get there,’ she said. ‘It sounds as if Perkins got to them somehow. You say they wouldn’t look at you?’

  ‘No, or answer their phones.’

  They pulled up outside t
he Rocksavages’ house and paid the driver. Hunter tottered up the stairs in front of Ivo and banged on the doorknocker. To Ivo’s mild surprise, after a few seconds, the door opened a few inches. Hunter had her foot in the gap in a second and was inside; all Ivo could hear were some horrible-sounding choking noises, and then there was nothing. Hunter released whoever it was she was holding, patted down her dress, said, ‘Well, there we are,’ and they went into the house. Hunter stepped delicately over the prone, unconscious body of one of the Acolytes and, humming, went on into the hall, followed by Ivo, who glanced back at the Acolyte. A big, burly, man, Hunter had seemingly taken him out with one move. His muscles bulged from of his clothes, but he lay there like a sleeping lamb.

  It was very quiet, which was unusual as Miranda and Felix, whenever they had any free time out of lessons, would usually be watching TV or listening to music. Hunter put her finger to her lips, and Ivo went first, heading up to where the bedrooms were. He climbed to the top of the stairs – and then stopped in his tracks. There was a man standing in front of Miranda’s door. An Acolyte, thought Ivo. Hunter pushed straight past Ivo. The man looked up, startled. He reached for his pocket and pulled out a small pistol – but Hunter was on him already, and with a deft chop to his wrist disarmed him. They scuffled, and Hunter knocked him to the ground, pinning his arms back. She beat the man’s head against the floor. Soon the man was insensible. Hunter did all this without even grunting. She quickly got up, dusted her hands and her dress, straightened herself, flung the boa around her neck and said, ‘Well then.’