The Liberators (9 page)

‘But what does it mean?' asked Ivo. ‘I've only done a bit of Greek.'

Felix stared at it for a while. ‘I think,' he said, ‘that the second word is a noun – it's got a noun ending. And the first word is a verb. I think it's from the verb
kopto
. That means “I cut” or “I break”. And
kopte
means “cut” or “break” – it's an order, a command, like when you're telling somebody to do something. And a
thyrson
– or
thyrsos
it would be called, you know the endings change in Greek? – it's a kind of, stick I guess, that the maenads carried.'

‘What are maenads?' asked Miranda.

‘Followers of the god Bacchus,' replied her brother, ‘idiot. Women who went into frenzies in his honour. They tore things apart – animals, even humans. Did you not know?'

‘Break
thyrsos
,' said Miranda, ignoring him. ‘It sounds even more confusing in English. Well done though, old brother of mine, you've done well there.' She patted him somewhat condescendingly on the head.

‘Cool. So the Koptor . . . that would mean, something that breaks things?'

Felix nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess so. It doesn't sound proper Greek, but it could be a kind of slang or shorthand or something – maybe a nickname for something that breaks.' They were reaching Park Lane, the bus was crowded. Music blared from somebody's headphones, and some schoolchildren pushed their way down the stairs.

‘Break the staff?' said Ivo. ‘But what on earth does that mean?'

Felix shrugged. ‘I just don't know,' he said, and turned to look out of the window.

.

Chapter Eight

They parted at Charmsford Square, arranging to meet the next day to go to Hunter's house in Kensal Rise, and Ivo made his way back to his aunt's, where he managed to sneak in without being seen. He spent the rest of the afternoon lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, twisting what he now knew to be the Koptor around in his hands. Wind rustled leaves outside in swirls of black and brown. The sun that day had tinged the clouds with an edge of crimson, as if the sky itself had been pierced. Koptor . . . koptay thurson. His spirits were heavy and his brain slow. His dreams had been haunted by the images from the tube playing like a stuck video; now they were endless, shifting, formless masses. Later, he shambled along the corridors and asked Lydia for a sleeping pill; she gave him one, reluctantly, and soon Ivo had fallen gratefully into oblivion.

When he eventually loomed out of sleep the next morning, it was nearly twelve o'clock. He noticed a pattering at the window, steady, cold and relentless; he had forgotten to close the curtains, and grudgingly he got out of bed and pulled them together, then managed to get himself down to the kitchen.

Ivo was wondering how people coped in war zones. How could you deal with seeing somebody torn apart? The human brain wasn't equipped for that sort of thing, he thought. Although it must have been once; in early times, when men crawled out of caves and hunted ferociously and ruthlessly, then we must have been programmed for blood, he thought. Maybe what they had seen on the video was what everyone wanted – to be liberated from themselves. He could see that it was a seductive thought and shuddered.

As Ivo made his way down to the kitchen, his thoughts turned to his peaceful first term at school, so safe, so untouched, hidden in its fortified turrets, ancient and calm, like a benevolent giant. It perched in the middle of a valley, near to a river, and cast a glow over all the surrounding countryside. But now his memories seemed unreal, as if he had dreamed them, and he had a sudden longing for his tiny cubicle with its posters and books and music. He remembered Ballard, the boy who had the room next to his, and how he'd played cricket in the corridors, and all the slow, comfortable ritual he'd grown used to.

Ivo found Lydia in the breakfast room in a state of some excitement. She was standing – she never seemed to sit these days – with her mobile pressed to one ear, a landline held dangling from the other; her laptop, humming along on its wireless connection, displayed several open emails, whilst roosting next to it was a pile of important – and rather boring-looking – correspondence.

‘Hold on,' she said into the mobile, and gestured at Ivo, pointing with her elbow to a large envelope on the table. ‘When you've eaten something, dear Ivo, take that to Julius, will you? It's the proof of the menu. I want to make sure he likes it. He lives on South Audley Street, or is it South Molton Street? You can walk there, I think, or there might be a bus or something, don't you think?'

Ivo nodded, and Lydia resumed her conversation into both telephones and began tapping at the laptop. Ivo remembered Olivia Rocksavage's message about the party, and wrote it down on a piece of paper, putting it on top of Lydia's pile of correspondence, and then he pondered. Deliver something to Julius – Ivo wasn't sure if he wanted to come into contact with that man again, who seemed to have such power – real, tangible power. It seemed as if reality was, somehow, affected by Julius, in a way that was not entirely pleasant, and Ivo felt that he would be afraid to be alone with him. He plucked up the courage to speak.

‘Do I have to?' he said when Lydia was between calls, his voice a little more dejected than usual. He knew that he was bound, whilst he stayed with his aunt and uncle, to be as polite as possible to them; but Lydia directed a glance past him which showed that she was pretending she had not heard what he'd said and dialled another number.

Christine came in with tea and toast, and put it down in front of Ivo. He consumed it swiftly, allowing Lydia's chatter to buzz around him. ‘Do we want the nymphs to pour drinks? . . . What about the living statues? . . . How much security will we have? . . . Do we have Charles and Camilla? . . . Our guests will want a little freedom, after all . . . Well you know, darling, I've found all this so
liberating
, I mean I love the studio, but it's so
limiting
, don't you think, and dear Julius has given me such a new slant on things . . .'

Ivo looked at Christine, who was taking away some plates.

‘Are you all right?' he asked quietly.

She half turned to him. She looked as if she hadn't slept, and her eyes were puffy and red.

‘Yes . . . yes, I am. Do not worry about me. It was a shock, that is all. It was horrible . . . a madman . . . Who could have done such a thing?' She trembled and the plates shook; Ivo leaped up, offering to help, but she shook her head, eyes downcast, and left the room.

Lydia glanced at Ivo in a disapproving manner, which he took to mean that she wanted him to clear off, so he got up grudgingly, found an
A–Z
, and set out in the rain. Luckily the envelope was inscribed with Julius's address, and he found it on the map without any difficulty.

It wasn't so bad, and he enjoyed feeling the coolness of drizzle on his skin. He sent a text message to Felix, and walked slowly down towards Oxford Street. Julius lived on the other side of it, on South Audley Street, and it didn't take Ivo long to get there, dodging as he did through the dawdling tourists and the frantic Christmas shoppers on their lunch hours. He sought gaps, sliding past women with shopping bags and on to the relative calm of Julius's street.

When he arrived at the address, he saw a flight of stone steps leading up to a huge double door, which was painted black. The doorknocker was in the shape of a lion, and there was a shoe-scraper set into the wall by the side of the doorstep. Ivy grew up around the door, and there were hanging baskets spilling over with abundant greenery. Hesitantly, he buzzed the bell, and it was a few seconds, as Ivo stood uncomfortably, head bent into the speaker, before its strange crackle announced a voice, which said simply, ‘Who?'

‘Er . . . Ivo . . . Ivo Moncrieff,' said Ivo. ‘For Julius,' he added, as an afterthought.

There was no reply, and for a moment Ivo thought that he wouldn't be admitted; a police car rushed past, some raucous teenage girls sashayed by; then the door clicked and swung inwards at his touch.

He was in a large entrance hall, which had a sofa in it and a semicircular table next to the wall, on which stood an imposing vase of flowers. There were plants everywhere, so many that it looked as if they were growing out of the ground. A great marble staircase was directly ahead of him.

Ivo set foot on the bottom stair and cautiously climbed up, holding the banisters for support. Wreaths of ivy leaves grew up and around. It was unpleasant to the touch, so he took his hand off and continued to walk unaided.

At the top of the staircase there was a door which opened straight on to the top stairs. As he came nearer, it was flung open to reveal in the frame Julius – so still, so like a mannequin, his hewn features set in that civilised face; he looked to Ivo like some god who'd taken the wrong turning and appeared in the wrong century. He was encased in a three-piece suit, his hair artfully disarranged, his eyes – those changing, liquid eyes – seeming purple, almost as if they were not a part of Julius, but some remnant from the wild and savage past.

Ivo was transfixed, and unable to speak; when Julius opened the door wider and made the slightest of gestures to allow him in, Ivo scampered past like a frightened goat.

Standing in the middle of the room, Ivo could not prevent himself making a sound of appreciation. Hearing the door shut behind him, he turned to see Julius, immobile, arms folded.

‘Well, what did you expect?' said Julius.

The room was huge, cave-like, almost domed; large windows at either side let in the grey light, which seemed, upon entering, to take on a different, more magical hue; this was a room of shadows, of gold, of hidden wonders and luxuriant riches.

Carpets of Persian design caressed the polished wooden floors, their muted colours playing like a kaleidoscope. Furniture crowded and jostled, each piece holding some object – a horse's hoof mounted, some horrifying long-nosed Venetian masks, a statue of a woman, frozen in mid-flight, invitation cards, some gilded little jewelled boxes that whispered ‘Open me', vases made of china so thin it was almost translucent; there were books bound in every colour conceivable, paintings, exquisite clocks, jars of pickled embryos, a tiny, winged skeleton, of no species that Ivo had ever seen or heard of.

‘So, Ivo Moncrieff,' said Julius, very carefully, and Ivo started, for he was at his elbow, ‘what brings you to the house of Julius Luther-Ross?' Ivo thought, for a moment, that he had heard an edge of the foreign in Julius's voice, but when he spoke again, it had gone.

Ivo thought about Strawbones and the snake. I proved myself to him, he thought. I can do the same with Julius. He tensed his back and raised his chin, saying stiffly, ‘Lydia sent me.' He held out the envelope. Julius took it without saying thank you, without even looking at it, and tossed it so that it landed on a desk beside some writing things. Julius walked behind Ivo, and towards a set of shelves, on which the horse's hoof stood. He made no noise when he moved.

‘I saw you looking at this. What do you think it is?'

Ivo shook his head.

‘I suppose you think it's rather beautiful.'

Ivo nodded.

‘It is, isn't it?'

It
was
beautiful – it had been mounted on a gold plinth, and seemed still to look as glossy as when it had been alive.

‘Any guesses?' said Julius.

‘Maybe . . . it was a favourite horse of yours and you cut off its hoof when it died as a memento?'

‘There speaks the country boy,' said Julius, allowing his lips to curve slightly. ‘It is touching, that you would ascribe such charming motives to what is such a ghastly object.' He moved closer to Ivo, so close that Ivo sensed his hot breath on his cheek. Julius was oddly free of any smell – no hint of sweat, or food, and certainly no cologne. ‘Can't you
feel
the violence?'

Ivo shook his head. What on earth was he talking about? he wondered. He wanted to leave the room.

‘Look around you,' Julius said expansively. ‘Look at all these
exquisite
, ancient objects. That painting –' he pointed to a picture of a girl being led up to an altar – ‘that's Iphigenia at Aulis. And we all know what's about to happen to her, don't we? She's going to be sacrificed. By her father. So that the ships can sail to Troy. They lied to her, said she was going to marry Achilles. She was only young.

‘Sacrificed, for selfish motives. Or, sacrified for the greater good of Greece. What do you think? A wonderful father Agamemnon was.' Julius laughed, loudly this time, the sound pealing like a bell into the corners of the room, filling Ivo with a curious desire to join in.

‘Look at all these things! Such beauty, such craftsmanship, and what do they all have in common? What is it that these paintings all share?' His voice now fell, and he whispered one word: ‘Violence.' He continued, looking very closely at Ivo, ‘What is it that man glorifies above all else? Has anything ever been achieved, Ivo, without sacrifice? Violence, Ivo! Think of Alexander the Great, think of Caesar, Napoleon, Churchill – every single one of them bathed in blood. Man would be nothing without it! We would be nothing without excess. Every day we carry on with our little lives, being nice to people, giving up our seats, chatting, endlessly, pointlessly. And we make these scribblings, these works of
art
, and what lies behind it?
Darkness
. Fear. Violence. We must embrace the darkness in ourselves, we must acknowledge it. We must release it.'

There was silence in the room, and Ivo was afraid to break it. He wanted to go, but felt that moving would somehow disturb the balance, that Julius might fly at him, hurt him, maybe even kill him. The only way out was the door, and Julius was between him and it. He shifted his eyes to the left, seeking escape, and saw a window, but it was too high up for him to reach. The only safe thing to do was to move away from Julius, and so he stepped backwards.

‘You seem frightened, Ivo,' said Julius, saying his name with peculiar emphasis.

‘No,' Ivo replied, in a way which would have suggested to even the least perceptive observer that he was.

‘It is good to be frightened,' said Julius. ‘There is a lot to be frightened of.'

A door in the far vastness of the room opened, and a figure walked in; Ivo saw, with some relief, that it was Strawbones. Julius's younger brother came loping forwards, a grin on his face. He was holding a bottle of wine, and had three glasses, held between his fingers carelessly. He approached without saying anything, set the glasses on a table and filled them; with a faintly supercilious gesture he held one out to Ivo and bowed, indicating to him that he should sit down.

When Ivo had sat in a tapestried armchair, both brothers sat too, on either side of the fireplace, facing Ivo. He took the opportunity to study them. How different they were, he thought: Julius with his studied calm, and Strawbones with his crazy charm. Both were smiling now, but still Ivo did not feel quite safe. He looked around the room. As well as the paintings filled with classical and biblical images, there were several portraits, hung high up on the walls. He saw one, nearest to him, of a man in an Elizabethan ruff, an earring hanging from his ear. The face was pale, the eyes prominent. He wanted to ask who it was, but his thoughts were interrupted by Julius leaning forwards and saying quietly, ‘Do you ever feel constrained, Ivo?' Julius took a sip of wine, and placed it back carefully on the table, and then put his arms behind his head. Strawbones shifted a little and crossed his legs.