The Liberators by Philip Womack Page A

which told him it was a Monday morning. The basement kitchen was warm, and Ivo was huddled in his dressing gown. He’d spent all of Sunday in a kind of trance, pootling around his room, watching films, and resting, and he still didn’t feel quite right. He hadn’t spoken to Felix or Miranda, or received any communication from them, and he desperately wanted to see them.
    â€˜ Apocalypse now! ’ said the headline.
    â€˜A little over-dramatic,’ said Jago, ‘but quite close to the mark. The economy is in serious trouble. There’ll be worse headlines soon, you can bet.’ He sounded, to Ivo, almost pleased, as if he were relishing the situation. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you know sometimes I wonder what the point of it all is.’ He stood up, immaculate in his suit, his hair slicked back, only the bags under his eyes hinting at any stress he might be under. He patted Ivo on the shoulder. ‘See you soon, old thing, OK?’ he said, and left the room.
    Ivo nodded and took the newspaper. He scanned it for new information about Blackwood’s death, but the credit crunch had forced the murder into the obscurity of the middle pages now, and there was only one small notice about it, which said that as yet nobody had been arrested or charged. Interestingly, it also said that the people who’d been in the carriage itself had all experienced some kind of amnesia. Ivo cast aside the newspaper, and continued to eat his toast.
    Lydia came wafting into the kitchen at this point, followed by Christine. Christine had worked for Lydia and Jago for ten years, and was very thin and wore very long dresses of varying shades from purple to green. She lived in the basement flat, into which nobody was allowed, and from this sanctuary directed the households of the Moncrieffs in London and in the country. She cooked beautifully and always wore a black apron over her dresses (which never looked like the sort of dress that had been made to cook in).
‘Yes, dear Christine, I think stew for lunch will be marvellous, that’s a wonderful idea, of course we will have Strawbones with us then.’
    â€˜Well, you’ve got him now,’ came a voice, and a man walked into the room. He was about six foot one, Ivo noticed, and he had the longest, blondest hair that he had ever seen on a man. It was glossy and shook and shimmered as he moved. He was very slim, and moved in a boneless way, his limbs seeming almost to be made of putty. His smile was radiant, lighting up his clear blue eyes, his red lips curving back to reveal rows of white teeth, with two elongated canines. He was wearing a dark blue shirt, faded jeans and a thick black overcoat.
    â€˜Darling,’ said Lydia, kissing him absently on both cheeks, ‘I am glad you’ve come early. I feel we’re getting to a very important stage with the painting. Now, where are we, yes, this is my nephew Ivo, who’s staying with us for the holidays.’ Strawbones moved first to Christine, taking her hand and kissing it in a remarkably old-fashioned manner, and then he turned to Ivo and, straightening, held out his hand. Ivo stood up, holding his toast, and muttered through a mouthful, ‘Hello.’ He dropped crumbs on to his dressing gown and brushed them off, embarrassed.
    Strawbones fixed him with his blue eyes and smiled. ‘How lovely to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
    â€˜Have you?’ said Ivo, surprised. He couldn’t imagine Lydia talking about him to anyone.
    â€˜Of course! Your uncle and aunt have told me all about you, and about your family. They’re away, aren’t they, in Mongolia?’ Ivo nodded and rubbed his eyes. He remained standing, and Strawbones, with fluid grace, motioned to him to sit down, and then, when Ivo had settled himself, sat in a chair opposite him. Christine and Lydia murmurmed together. Ivo poured Strawbones some tea from the