The Liberators by Philip Womack Page B

large yellow teapot, and Strawbones inclined his head in thanks, making a gesture of mock servility, which made Ivo laugh. He couldn’t tell how old he was – he could be sixteen, he could be twenty-five.
    Lydia came over. ‘Now, Strawbones, darling, I have to go up and phone your brother about the menus. Will you give me a few minutes and then come up to the studio?’
    â€˜Of course, Lydia, of course,’ said Strawbones, smiling. ‘I’ll keep Ivo company, if he doesn’t mind?’
    â€˜No, not at all,’ said Ivo. Strawbones settled into his chair, and picked up his mug, sipping quietly at it. ‘So how are you finding London?’
    â€˜Oh – good, I suppose,’ said Ivo, unable to keep his disappointment out of his voice.
    â€˜Not been having much fun, then?’ Strawbones looked at him sympathetically.
    â€˜Well – I haven’t been here very long, and I guess . . .’ He stopped, unsure what to say.
    â€˜Jago tells me you had a pretty nasty time on the tube?’ His voice was low, empathetic, inviting confidence. Ivo nodded.
    â€˜Yeah,’ he replied. ‘It was nasty . I saw . . .’ He looked at Strawbones, and then looked away. ‘I saw . . . that man’s hand. They’d torn it off. I mean, who would do something like that?’ He looked up into Strawbones’s eyes; he was looking at him evenly, with an expression of quiet sadness.
    â€˜Look, Ivo,’ said Strawbones, ‘you’ve had a tough time. But hey – what do you say that I take you out? Lydia said you might need someone to show you round a bit. We can go and see a film, get some food or something. Might take your mind off things.’
    Ivo looked up at him. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That would be great.’
    Strawbones looked up at the kitchen clock. ‘I think it’s time for me to go up there,’ he said, pointing to the stairs. ‘See you later, OK?’ Ivo nodded.
    Standing up, Strawbones stretched, and emitted a groan which was half-yawn, half-cry; and Ivo was sure he saw, poking out of Strawbones’s coat pocket, the head of a snake. It peeked out just a little, hissed, and flickered its forked tongue; Ivo was about to say something, but Strawbones turned and left. What’s happening to me? thought Ivo. Now I’m imagining snakes. He shook his head violently, and drained the last of his drink, plonking the mug down with a bang that caused Christine to turn and look at him.
    â€˜How goes it, my little one?’ she asked, and Ivo shrugged. Christine’s English was almost faultless, and it was only occasionally that she made a mistake; she did however sometimes sound like a schoolbook. He got up from the table, pulled his dressing gown around him, thanked Christine for breakfast, and pottered slowly upstairs. He’d arranged to meet Felix and Miranda at eleven o’clock. He reached his room and got dressed, trying to shut out the image of the snake in Strawbones’s pocket, then checked his emails to see if there was anything from his parents (there was – a shortish note telling him about their latest camp); there were a couple of messages from his schoolfriends, which he replied to, and then he called up a search engine, and tapped in the word ‘Koptor’. No useful leads appeared. He tried ‘FIN’, and various combinations of both, together with Blackwood’s name, but each time, frustratingly, he came up with nothing. He spent the next couple of hours listlessly playing a computer game, and then at ten to eleven he bounded down the stairs to go to Miranda and Felix’s house.
    He crossed the square, and rang on the doorbell, which was answered, Ivo found with a shock, by Perkins, grim-faced and wearing a black woolly jumper, who glared at him. Ivo was unable to say anything.
    â€˜Ivo Moncrieff?’
    Ivo nodded, once, avoiding contact with his eyes. ‘They’re