The Liberators Read Free Page A

his duvet; eventually she settled for a corner by the bedpost.
    Ivo was already plotting to escape. No way was he going to stay in bed all day. Besides, he wanted to find out more about what had happened on the tube. And now what his Uncle Jago had said was bait to him. This was what he’d wanted, after all. London, with all its excitement, lay in front of him.
    He also knew that if he didn’t go out and do something, he would brood. Whenever his thoughts drifted, a speeded-up slideshow flashed through his brain – the panicked, desperate look in Blackwood’s eyes, the shouts of the passengers, the bloody hand, the embroidered jacket, and the terrible coolness of the man who had been wearing it, walking slowly away in the opposite direction, and then oblivion.
    The sound of Aunt Lydia’s footsteps faded away. Ivo immediately jumped out of bed. The room was big – bigger by far than the tiny cubicle he had at school, which was just about large enough for a bunk bed and a desk. For a moment he found himself missing it – that small space which he had somehow managed to make his own, in fifteen long weeks. His room at school – his ‘bolter’ as it was called in the school slang – was cosy, and looked out on to a quadrangle that was never still, always full of students rushing backwards and forwards.
    He got up from the bed and went over to the window and looked out into the unappetising gloom of the morning. His room, he decided, was right at the top of the house. He could see the quiet square beneath him. There was a patch of green in the middle, surrounded by trees and railings. That, he thought, might be a good place to start exploring.
    Someone had unpacked for him and put all his things neatly away, and removed anything that needed washing. He noticed with a pang that a postcard from his parents had been placed on the mantelpiece, along with some money and an A–Z . There was also a key, which he assumed was for the front door.
    The room was dotted with lively pictures and shelves of old children’s books, spotted and brown with age, and Ivo felt glad to be there, the creamy wallpaper calming him somewhat. He dressed quickly, pulling on a jumper and his jeans. A thought struck him and he rummaged in his pockets.
    He found what he was looking for: the black object which Blackwood had given him. He considered it for a moment, holding it in the palm of his hand. It was made out of some sort of stone, he thought. Shrugging, he put it back in his pocket. There would be time to think about it later.
    He put his head round the door and looked out on to the landing. He was at the top of the house – a large skylight opened to the heavens, the grey December sky louring overhead. There were four other doors, all firmly closed. He edged towards the banisters and looked down. There was no sign of life. Good, he thought. Then he heard a sudden movement, saw a flash of colour.
    Just for a second, he was sure the man in the embroidered jacket was walking down the stairs. He felt an overwhelming horror and shook himself. Don’t be ridiculous, he thought, it’s a flashback, it’s not real. I’ll have loads more, probably. I’ll just have to get used to it. He breathed deeply, and poked his head back over the banisters. Of course there was nothing there. There never had been.
    He went down the staircase slowly. All along the walls were framed paintings – some, he assumed, were by Lydia. He recognised a couple of faces in portraits, cousins and so on. There were three noisily ticking clocks, two barometers (showing different readings), some maps of counties where the Moncrieffs held land (not as many as there used to be), family photographs, some posed, stiff in black and white, and others in relaxed, laughing colour, school certificates, a Venetian mask and an ‘amusing’ picture of some dogs dressed as humans relieving themselves on a street. Scarcely