The Liberators Read Free

himself to turn to them.
    â€˜He’s awake!’ said one. A woman rushed over: it was his Aunt Lydia, he realised with a surge of relief. She was like a willow tree, thin, wavy, trailing scarves and necklaces, her fine-boned, delicate face surrounded by a mass of dark, silky hair. Her eyes focused into something like concern. Jago Moncrieff and Lydia Cathcart were his uncle and aunt, and Ivo was to stay with them for the whole of the Christmas holidays.
    â€˜Dear boy – dear Ivo – how are you feeling?’ Lydia asked. She stood by the side of his bed, her scarves trailing around her, her hands held together in front of her, almost like a nun praying.
    â€˜All right,’ said Ivo, though it was a lie.
    â€˜You passed out, darling, and Jago got you from Edgware Road.’
    â€˜Poor chap.’ It was his uncle’s voice. ‘A woman answered your phone and told me where you were. Clean out, you were. You were lucky, old horse.’
    â€˜The doctor said there was nothing wrong, so he gave you something to make you sleep. You’ve slept all night. It’s morning now,’ said Lydia.
    â€˜What . . . what happened?’ asked Ivo.
    Lydia looked across the room to Jago, who came across and sat down on Ivo’s bed. While Ivo’s father looked like a cheerful sort of robin, Jago looked like a hawk. Jago was the elder of the two brothers. Everything on his face was finely drawn; it always amazed Ivo that someone with such cruel features – those of a dissolute Roman or a Renaissance poisoner – should be so nice.
    â€˜Awful business, it was. Evening papers had a field day. They don’t know who to pin it on – terrorists haven’t claimed it. Only one dead, they say. Seems a little odd, don’t you think?’ Jago stood up. A purring sounded, and Ivo felt a heavy, warm object land on his bed. He reached out a hand and felt soft fur.
    â€˜This is Juniper,’ said Lydia. ‘She likes your bed. I’d be careful of her though, she’s pregnant.’ As if listening, the cat hissed, and jumped heavily off again, slinking into a corner.
    A buzzing noise came from Jago’s pocket and he pulled out his Blackberry; this turned out not to be the source of the buzzing and he located a phone. ‘Oh dammit. I have to go. Global economic meltdown, you know the drill, only Jago can save the day. Even,’ he said sighing, ‘on a Saturday.’ He reached across and patted Ivo on the shoulder. ‘We’ll look after you. Shame it happened on the first day of the holidays though, eh?’
    Ivo sighed. It wasn’t as if he needed to be reminded. Jago marched out of the room, the door banging shut behind him.
    â€˜I’m fine, really,’ said Ivo to his aunt.
    â€˜You might think that, dear Ivo, but you’ve had a nasty shock and the doctor says you’re to stay in bed. All right? Now, I’ve got a client here, so do try to be quiet. I need to concentrate,’ said Lydia. ‘And then I’m going to be working on the guest list for my charity thing. It’s at the National Gallery.’ She went over to the window and pulled open the curtains, letting in the grey light of morning.
    â€˜OK,’ said Ivo, and snuggled under the sheets.
    â€˜If you need anything, call down to the kitchen – the phone’s here, the number’s 21 . . . or is it 22? – it’s written here, anyway. Christine will help you with anything you need. There’s a pile of DVDs over here, and some books, and things.’ Lydia was shimmering out as she said this, her thoughts already miles away, in colour, shade, angles and light. ‘We’ll all have a lovely supper this evening.’
    Ivo nodded, and as she left he turned over and curled up. Juniper mewed in the corner, and skittered back to the bed. ‘You’re all right, really, aren’t you?’ said Ivo to the cat as she tried to get up on to