The Liberators

by Philip Womack

  Ivo tried the door to the room; they could hear noises on the other side of it. ‘Felix? Miranda?’ he called through the door.

  They heard a muffled yell, and then saw the doorhandle being tried violently. ‘Right, Ivo, you take over here,’ said Hunter. Ivo nodded. He took the Koptor out of his pocket and felt along it, searching for the hidden switch, willing it to become a blade; the long sharpness of it extended into the air. Ivo tensed.

  ‘Stand back!’ he yelled, and with the tip of the Koptor made a circle around the lock. It cut through it easily, as if it were a loaf of bread. He looked at Hunter and then he kicked the door open, and they went in to find Miranda huddled on her sofa at one end of the room, and Felix at the other looking very angry. Ivo stood, unsure. He’d been expecting them to greet him with relief. But Felix looked as though he might fly at Ivo, who had the presence of mind to hold the Koptor out in front of him. Felix held his hands up and moved backwards slowly. Miranda turned her face away from him. Sobbing, with her face averted, she said, ‘If it wasn’t for you this would never have happened.’

  ‘We haven’t much time,’ said Hunter, hitching up her dress. ‘What on earth is going on?’

  Ivo went closer to Miranda, and sheathed the Koptor, confusion and fear clouding his mind. ‘What’s the matter?’ He reached out a hand to comfort her.

  ‘Stay away from my sister!’ yelled Felix. Hunter moved in between Ivo and Felix; Ivo reached the sofa and knelt down. Miranda’s sobs grew louder.

  ‘What is it, Miranda? Come on! We’ve got to hurry, the party’s tonight!’

  ‘I know,’ said Miranda, through her sobs. ‘And they’ve . . . they’ve got our parents!’

  This pierced Ivo like a sword. He sat down slowly, next to Miranda.

  Miranda’s shoulders heaved. ‘They came . . . after they got Felix and me, after you came to see us – we saw you through the window but we couldn’t say anything, Perkins was there, there was an Acolyte in the corridor with a gun. They locked us in here and took our parents. They said . . .’ she rubbed her eyes, and said, clearly now, ‘they said that if we tried to escape, or tried to get help, then they would kill them.’

  ‘You see?’ said Felix. ‘You see what happened? If we’d only joined them, we wouldn’t be in this mess.’ He was screwed up into a ball of fury, tight lines on his forehead, hands taut.

  ‘Joined them?’ shouted Ivo, standing up quickly, his face reddening. ‘You think . . . you think it’s fun, what they’re doing? You think it’s, it’s . . .’ His anger overwhelmed him, making the words jumble and jostle in his mouth.

  ‘Stop it!’ Hunter interjected forcefully, and turned to Felix. ‘We haven’t got time for this. Come here, all of you.’

  To Ivo’s surprise, Miranda and Felix meekly came towards Hunter. ‘Koptor, please,’ she said. Ivo handed it to her. She continued, ‘The Koptor has the power of Apollo in it – the power of reason. That’s why it can negate the Thyrsos. But what was the other power of Apollo?’

  Felix said gruffly, ‘Prophecy.’

  ‘Correct. Now hold it. You too, Miranda, Ivo.’

  Ivo reached out to touch the Koptor in Hunter’s hand. Ivo could not avoid touching the others, but Miranda resolutely turned her eyes away, whilst Felix glared at him with deep fury.

  ‘There now,’ said Hunter. ‘Now relax . . .’ Her voice was very soothing.

  They were no longer in the Rocksavages’ house. Ivo looked around him. They were standing in a peaceful town square – it could have been anywhere – a stone cross in the middle of it, teenagers sitting around on benches, mothers pushing toddlers, families wandering, looking into the bright windows of the shops, walking, eating, living. It was, in short, a normal afternoon. But it wasn’t, thought Ivo. When he tried to move his hand, it didn’t move normally. He looked at Hunter. There was no expression on her face. Miranda had stopped crying. Felix was protectively close to his sister. They watched the crowds, fearful.

  There was a subtle shift in the activities of the people in the square, in the geometry of their movements. First it seemed as if they were grouping together, randomly, dropping their bags, abandoning their children. It looked as if there was an enormous spontaneous party sparking off. Bottles of wine and champagne appeared, and crates of beer. Cars drew up side on in the street and their drivers got out, turning their radios on, dancing on their roofs. People were dancing, singing, laughing, hugging each other. Ivo could feel the collective joy, and he could see again that Felix was enjoying it. His eyes were wide open and he was murmuring something. Miranda was more cautious. She understands, thought Ivo. She can see underneath the surface. He braced himself for what might come next.

  The blissfully smiling faces began to be distorted by jealousy and anger. People squabbled over bottles and food. Disorder broke out, fights began between groups; a woman with a bleeding face ran, screaming, so close to them that Ivo flinched; three men were arguing and started punching each other, the fight rapidly became a brawl; there was looting, smashing of windows, fires sprang up; the square was a riot, an uproar of noise and violence.

  Their movements speeded up, and Ivo realised that the scene was being fastforwarded in time: shadows lengthened and shortened, white clouds scudded, turned grey, burst; the buildings of the town square became dilapidated; hordes of people roamed, screaming, yelling, dancing; weeks and years went by and the town was a ruin, the haunt of rats, packs of wild cats, and mad-eyed groups of marauders dressed in stolen rags and chewing on plundered food; and through them all, collected, calm, shining, walked two figures, tall, bright and inhuman, the forms of Julius and Strawbones Luther-Ross.

  Ivo saw himself limping, his clothes rent, long scars across his face, and in his eyes he saw nothing but the thoughts and feelings of an animal. He saw Felix with gore around his mouth, and Miranda with her lips bared and face snarled up in cruelty. He watched in helpless horror as his future self bore down upon a group of children, he waved a stick at them . . .

  ‘Stop! Make it stop! Please! Stop it!’ It was Miranda’s voice, although the sound came from miles and years away.

  The vision faded, leaving the three of them gasping for breath.

  ‘What was that? That wasn’t me, I would never do that – how could you show us that? – it’s madness, it’s awful, it’s . . .’ Miranda stopped, unable to convey her feelings.

  ‘That is what you will become,’ said Hunter. ‘Whether your parents die or not, if the Liberators go through with their plans tonight, you will become like that – an animal, senseless, mindless, wallowing in your own sordid violence. That is what they want. That is what they call freedom.’ Her voice, usually that of a kindly aunt, had taken on a stern, steely quality.

  Ivo looked at his friends. Felix’s lips were trembling, whether with desire or sadness Ivo could not tell.

  Felix said quietly, ‘How do we know you’re not lying to us?’

  Hunter looked shocked, and then said, in a voice that filled the room, as if the god himself were speaking through her, ‘Apollo never lies.’

  Felix sighed deeply, and sat down on the sofa, a hand across his forehead. Miranda turned to Ivo. ‘Ivo,’ she said, ‘what’re we going to do? Our parents . . .’ They stood in silence, with Hunter looking over them, her face calm; and then Felix brought his hand down, and there was an expression in his face that Ivo had never seen before. It was determined and resolute.

  ‘We have to help you,’ he said. He looked Ivo straight in the eyes.

  Ivo separated himself from Miranda and looked at him in shock. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘We do. We’ll find a way. We have to. It’s not . . . that’s not what I want.’ His face contorted briefly, and it looked as if he were holding back tears. With a great effort, he controlled himself. ‘I thought . . . I thought they promised real freedom. I hate this stupid world, I really do. I hate ha
ving to go to school, and doing things all the time. I just want to be left alone. But . . . I didn’t think it would be like that. I thought, I dunno, I thought it would be like a utopia or something.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘You know, with everyone being happy and nice to each other. Not . . . not that.’ He stopped. Ivo realised the immense effort Felix must have put into resisting his impulses and he felt the warmth of friendship rise up within him. But he said nothing, only smiled at Felix, and when Felix smiled back, he knew that he was telling the truth. Felix coughed, and put his fist to his mouth, and then said, briskly, ‘Miranda?’

  And Miranda, who feared the Liberators more than anything she had ever met, who loved order, reason and light, said softly, ‘We have to. We’ll help you, Ivo.’

  Hunter nodded, but kept back. She looked discreetly at her watch, and inclined her head towards Ivo.

  ‘Good,’ said Ivo. ‘Then I think I’ve got an idea.’

  And suddenly the three friends were hugging each other.

  ‘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 wil
d, 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.