Novel - Airman (15 page)

Billtoe spoke through a shrinking slice of light between door and frame. “Wynter? That cheeky blind beggar? Why, he’s been released. Solitary for you from here on out, the marshall’s orders.”

Conor felt his weight pulling him to the floor, and was on his knees before he could stop himself.
Murder is the most expeditious way to prevent overcrowding,
Linus had said.
I pray that we fortunate two are never released.

“You’ve killed him,” breathed Conor. But he was talking to a closed door.

CHAPTER 9: LIGHT AT THE END

This latest disaster had Conor huddled at the back of the cell, sobbing like a baby. He was alone now. Friendship could have brightened time spent even here. But now there was no one. He crawled as far back as he could into the room, and was dully surprised to find the room extended deeper into the rock than he had believed. Behind Wynter’s cot was a deep alcove with roughly the dimensions of four stacked coffins. This he could tell by touch alone, as not a glimmer of light extended to the black hole.

He lay there for hours, feeling his determination sliding away like water sluiced from a slipway. The new identity he had created for himself dissolved, bringing poor, desperate Conor Broekhart to the surface.

So he stayed, wrapped in nothing but self-pity, all night long wallowing in dreams of family. Useless, futile, dreams. Conor could well have perished in the next few days, dead from a broken heart, if not for one little ray of light.

In the early hours, Conor woke to see a red line flickering on the opposite wall. For a long, sleepy moment, this line puzzled him, resembling nothing more than a ghostly number one, wavering gently. Was this a message of some kind? Could his cell be haunted? Then he awakened fully and realized that the line was, of course, a shaft of sunlight. But from where?

For distraction’s sake, Conor decided to investigate. It took no more than a moment for him to realize that a narrow fissure along the seam between two blocks extended to the outside world and was allowing weakened light to filter through. Conor tapped the left block with a fingernail and was surprised to find that it budged, scraping against its neighbors. He prodded more forcefully, and the block wobbled on its base, dislodging caked muck. The block itself cracked, for it was not a true block, merely a husk of dried mud. Conor wiggled one finger along the side of the false block and popped it from its hole. A wedge of sunlight blasted him in the eyes, blinding him for several seconds. Not that it was light of any great brightness, but it was the first direct light Conor had seen in many hours.

Conor closed his eyes, but did not turn away. The heat on his face was wonderful, like a gift straight from the hand of God. He thumped at adjoining blocks, checking for more counterfeits. But there were none. The rest of the wall was solid as a mountain. One hole only, the size of his two fists.

He squatted there for a while, feeling the light warm his skin, watching it trace the veins in his eyelids, until at last he felt prepared enough to open his eyes. He was not disappointed with what he saw, because he had not allowed himself to feel any hope. This hole was a devilish small one, and deep, too, encased by four feet of solid rock, with barely a napkin’s-worth of sky at its end. Only a rat could escape through this tunnel; perhaps a largish one would struggle. And even if by some miracle he managed to mimic Dr. Redmond, the famous escape artist, and wiggle through this narrow pipe, where would he go? The ocean would swallow him up quicker than a whale swallowing a minnow. If he managed to steal a boat, the sharpshooters on the walls would pick him off for sport. No one had ever escaped from Little Saltee. Not one single person in hundreds of years.

So, accept this light as a small secret gift and nothing more, Conor told himself. Allow it to heat your face and wipe your mind clean of pain, if even for a moment.

Conor sagged back against the compartment wall, relishing the meager warmth. Who had made this fake block? he wondered. And what had caused the hole? There were any number of answers to both questions, and no way of confirming one of them.

The prison walls had possibly sagged an inch, concentrating vectors of force at this point, pulverizing the block. Or perhaps successive generations of inmates had scraped away with primitive tools. Saltwater erosion, or rainwater. Though that was unlikely in less than a millennium. A combination of all these factors, most likely, and a dozen more besides.

Conor studied the clay block that had hidden this treasure of light. It was chipped but intact. It would certainly serve to hide the hole for his tenancy. But he would not hide the opening just yet. Billtoe would not arrive for a short time. Until then, he would enjoy the dawn like scores of convicts before him. The devil take his troubles.
Water. A mug of water would be nice.

Conor closed his eyes, but images of his parents tormented him so he opened them again, and for a long moment thought he was dreaming or insane. What was happening, should not, could not be happening. The wall of this hidden alcove was lit, and not just with sunlight, with a strange ghostly green glow. Not the entire wall, just lines and dots. Familiar characters. Conor realized that he was staring at music. The walls and roof of this tiny alcove were covered in music.

Mr. Wynter had said: “I keep an opera on the broiler inside my head and in other places.” The other place was back here in a secret alcove. He would have shared that fact, had they not killed him.

Conor ran his fingers along a series of notes: up and down they went like a mountain range. What was this glow? How was it possible? Victor’s ghost tormented him.
Come on, dimwit. We studied this. Basic geology. And you call yourself a man for the new century.

Of course. It was luminous coral. It only grew in certain specific conditions, which must have been freakishly mimicked by this damp, close environment. Conor scraped away a thin layer of mud to reveal the rough plates of luminous coral below. This part of the cell was living coral, fed by the constant drip of salt water. It must have grown up through the rock over the centuries and was activated by the sunlight. What a marvel. He had not expected to find marvels here.

There were other marks too, fainter than the musical notes, in older hands and quainter language. Conor found the diary of Zachary Cord, a confessed poisoner. And also a rambling curse scratched by one Tom Burly, damning the seventeenth-century warden as a hater of justice. Conor had no trouble accepting that as truth.

So this was how Linus had kept himself sane during his hours of solitude. He had recorded his music on the only surface available to him: a mud-covered crypt, without ever knowing his parchment was luminous. It brought tears to Conor’s eyes when he reached the final notes and the word
Fin
, engraved with considerable flourish. Linus Wynter had managed to finish his life’s work before being “released.”

It was a noble tradition, this recording, and one that Conor suddenly knew he intended to continue. He would commit his own ideas to the walls of this tiny alcove. In fact, the mere notion set his heart beating faster. To have a canvas on which to diagram his designs was more than he had hoped for.

He scrabbled around Linus Wynter’s bunk until he found what he had known must be there. His most recent stylus. It was hidden under a leg of his cot. The chicken bone Billtoe had tossed earlier, one end ground to a point. Perfect.

Conor scrambled into the alcove, lying flat on his back. He would begin on the ceiling, and he would sketch only until the cannon fired.

With confident strokes, Conor Finn etched his first model into the damp mud, allowing the luminous green coral to shine through a moment later. It was something he had been working on with Victor. A glider with a rudder and adjustable wings for lateral balance.

On the wall the diagram was static, but in Conor’s mind it soared like a bird.
A free bird.

CHAPTER 10: UNLUCKY 14th

Arthur Billtoe took one last chew on a wad of tobacco, then spat a mouthful of juice toward the hole in the floor. The stringy wad missed its target, landing square on the toe of his own boot.

“Sorry,” said the guard; then realizing he had apologized only to himself, cast an eye around in the hope that no one had overheard, or they might think him simple and lock him away with the scatterfools. No one
had
overheard except Pike, and that hardly mattered, as Pike was only a half step removed from idiocy himself. In any case, Billtoe decided to cover up his blurted apology. “Sorry,” he repeated, but louder this time. “It’s sorry I am for the poor lunatic Salts inside
Flora
this night.”

The prison guards stood in the subterranean pantry overlooking the dive hole. Below them,
Flora
was submerged ten fathoms in dark Saltee waters. The seas outside were rough, and the tunnel to open water had become something of a blowhole, rattling the diving bell with each bellow of bubbles from its spout. With every impact, a flurry of peals rose through the chamber. “Sorry, indeed,” continued Billtoe. “They’d best move sharpish, or
Flora
will remove a limb or two.”

Pike did not believe for a second that Billtoe was actually concerned for a prisoner, any more than he would be concerned for a blade of grass. But it didn’t do to contradict Arthur Billtoe if you were farther down the prison ladder than he was, or he would set you working Christmas Eve on the mad wing. “Don’t you waste your legendary compassion, Arthur,” said Pike, rubbing his hairless head.

Billtoe glanced sharply at his comrade. Was that wit? No, surely not from a man who thought that electricity was a gift from the fairies.

“No, worry not. It’s Finn and Malarkey on the night shift.”

Billtoe nodded. Finn and Malarkey. Those two were the best pair of miners ever to work the bell. Young Finn was the brains of the pair, no doubt; but whatever he pointed to, Malarkey would dig up with the strength of a giant. And to think, two years ago when Conor Finn had arrived on Little Saltee, he’d been little more than a scrap of a boy destined for a stitched-up canvas bag and a burial at sea. Now he was a force in the Battering Rams and one of the main sources of income for Billtoe himself.

Billtoe cleared his throat. “I’ll be searching Finn and Malarkey myself, Pike.”

Pike winked slyly. “As is your habit, Arthur.”

Billtoe ignored the insolence. It wouldn’t do to get into an argument about private diamond stashes, but he silently resolved to mark Pike down for supervision of the sewage works. It was bad enough that Pike’s comments were bordering on insolent, but Billtoe had also heard whispers that Pike was selling information to the Kilmore arm of the Battering Rams without cutting in his old friend Arthur Billtoe.

Billtoe leaned over the edge, peering down into the lamplit abyss. The bell glowed and shimmered in the dark waters, humming with every stroke of the current. Through the filthy porthole he could see vague movements and shadows. Finn and Malarkey mining, he presumed.
Best of luck, Salts. Bring back a goose egg for Uncle Arthur.

Billtoe spat a second wad of chewed tobacco, and this time it sailed into the hole, landing on the bell’s rubber air hose. “Hmmm,” he grunted proudly, winking at Pike. Then he strode to the ladder, trying to project an air of incorruptibility. He wanted to be on the rocks when Finn and Malarkey surfaced.

“Here, Arthur,” Pike called after him. “You’re walking funny. Was it that herring?”

Billtoe scowled. He would have to do something about Pike. “No, you hunchbacked, hairless son of a circus oddity. I am being incorruptible.”

“That would have been my second guess,” said Pike, who, like many dullards, had a streak of sharp wit in him. ***

Conor Finn and Otto Malarkey fought like demons inside the diving bell. Their makeshift swords sang as they cut the air and sparked along each other’s shafts. Both men perspired freely, breathing so deeply that the water level rose at their feet. They were sucking in air faster than the pump could supply it.

“Your Balestra is clumsy,” panted Conor. “More grace, Otto. You are not a hog in a pen.” Malarkey smiled tightly. “Hogs are dangerous animals, Conor. If you are not careful, they can run you through.”

And with that, he abandoned the rules of fencing, dropping his blade and charging his opponent, arms spread.

Conor reacted quickly, falling to his stomach and rolling underwater, knocking Malarkey’s legs from under him. The big man went down heavily, clanging his temple against the bell curve on his way down. By the time he recovered his bearings, Conor had his trident jammed under his chins. “Your hair looks well,” said Conor. “A healthy shine.”

Malarkey preened. “You’re not the only one to notice. I’ve been eating the oily fish, as you suggested. It’s costing me a fortune in bribes and I hate the stuff, but with results like this I will suffer the taste.”

Conor helped Malarkey to his feet. “You need to practice the Balestra. It is a dancer’s leap, not a drunken stumble. But apart from that, your progress is good.”

Malarkey rubbed his head. “Yours, too. That was a neat little roll just then. The king of the tinkers couldn’t have done it sweeter. I have never seen a fighter like you, Conor. There’s the swordplay, which is mostly Spanish, but with some French. Then the proper pugilism, which I would class as English. But there’s the chopping and kicking too, which I have a notion is Oriental. I saw a fellow once in the West End, gave a demonstration of that chopping and kicking. Broke a plank with his foot. At the time I thought it was trickery, but now I am glad I didn’t call him on it.”

An image of Victor flashed behind Conor’s eyes. He snuffed it out brutally. “I have picked up a few things in my travels,” he said.

Malarkey huffed. “Typical Conor Finn. Most people in here are desperate for someone to listen to their story. Telling it to the walls, they are. Not Conor Finn. Two years you’ve been instructing me, and I have learned no more than a dozen useless facts about you in that time. The most obvious being that your beard is multicolored.”

Conor bent at the knees, examining his burgeoning beard in the water. As far as he could tell, there were strands of blond, red, and even a few gray in the sparse growth. Surely gray was unusual in the beard of a sixteen-year-old boy. No matter. It gave him the appearance of someone perhaps five years older.

He had changed utterly in the past two years. Gone was the gangly, skinny youth who had sobbed his way through his first night of imprisonment, and in his place was a tall, muscled, flinty young man who commanded respect from inmates and guards alike. People might not like him, or seek his company, but neither would they toss insults his way or interfere with his business.

“You should shave that beard,” commented Malarkey. “All your lovely hair, then that ratty beard. People only notice the beard, you know.”

Conor straightened. His blond hair was pulled back with a thong so that it did not interfere with his work. It had darkened a few shades since he last walked in the sunlight. “I am not as concerned with grooming as you, Otto. I
am
concerned with business. Tell me, how is our hoard?”

“It grows,” said Malarkey. “Seven bags buried, we have now. All in the salsa beds.”

Conor smiled, satisfied. Billtoe had ordered the Suaeda salsa beds planted on Conor’s own advice. The plants grew like weeds, were saline resistant, and provided cheap meals for the convicts. This meant a few pounds a month for Billtoe to steal from the food funds. Of course, prisoners had to be allowed to tend the beds, which was when Malarkey and his Rams buried their stolen diamonds.

“Not that they do us much good in the earth,” continued Malarkey. “Unless a diamond bush sprouts, and even then Billtoe would strip it bare.”

“Trust me, Otto,” said Conor. “I don’t intend being here forever. Somehow I will get our stones and send your share to your brother, Zeb. I promise you that, my friend.”

Otto clasped his shoulders. “The Rams have certain funds, but with riches on that scale, my brother could bribe my way out of here. I could be a free man. I could stroll through Hyde Park with my magnificent hair.”

“I will succeed, my friend. Or die in the attempt. If you are not free in a year, it is because I am dead.”

Malarkey did not waste his breath asking Conor for details of his plan. Conor Finn laid out his cards sparingly. Another subject then: “Badger Byrne has not paid his due yet,” he said. “How’s about I issue a few taps?”

“No more violence, remember. Anyway, Badger has been laid up with shingles, I hear. Let him rest awhile.”

Otto Malarkey pursed his lips in frustration. “Rest, Conor? Rest? Always the same response with you. I haven’t dished out a beating since you took the ink.”

Conor rubbed the Battering Ram tattoo on his upper arm. “That’s hardly true, Otto. You near drove MacKenna into open water.”

“True,” admitted Malarkey, grinning. “But he’s a guard. And English too.”

“All great strategists know when to use force and when to use reason. Alexander of Macedonia, Napoleon. . . .”

Malarkey laughed outright. “Oh aye, little Boney was a great one for the reason. Just ask anyone that was at Waterloo.”

“The point is that we have seven bags now, where we had none before. Seven bags. A tidy fortune.”

“It might as well be seven bags of clay,” scoffed Malarkey. “Until your plan succeeds. I don’t know how you’re going to do it. Even the guards have not managed to smuggle diamonds from Little Saltee. A man would need wings.”

Conor glanced sharply at Malarkey. Could he know something? No, he realized. It was just a turn of phrase. “Yes,” he said. “A man would indeed need wings.”

* * *

Billtoe was waiting for them at the shoreline, up to his ankles in water just in case another guard would beat him to the search. “Right, you two lemon-sucking, scurvy dodgers. Stand away from each other and raise your arms.”

Conor fought the urge to strike this pathetic grafter. To assault Billtoe would surely be satisfying briefly; but it would just as surely lead to a beating that would leave him near dead and incapacitated. He could not afford to be incapacitated now, not when things were going so well with the design. Not with the coronation so close.

Billtoe began his search, making a great show of being thorough. “You’ll get nothing past me, Finn. Not so much as a bubble of seaweed. No, sir. Arthur Billtoe knows all your tricks.” The man was as good as advertising his intentions. Protesting too much.

Presently, he happened across the small stone in the leg of Conor’s much-repaired army breeches. Without a word, he flicked the diamond up his own sleeve. This was his payment for a lax search. “Any news?” Conor asked, while Billtoe moved on to Malarkey.

Billtoe laughed. “You Salts are devils for news, aren’t you. The most mud-boring happening is like a golden nugget to you.”

“More like a diamond,” said Conor.

Billtoe’s hands froze on Malarkey’s shoulders. “Is that insolence, soldier boy? Did I hear insolence?”

Conor hung his head. “No, sir, Mister Billtoe. I was trying to be humorous. Friendly, like. I misjudged the moment, I think now.”

“I think that too,” said Billtoe, frowning, but his expression improved when he came across the stone in Otto’s shirt pocket. “Then again, nothing wrong with a bit of humor. We’re all men, after all. Wouldn’t want you to think that we guards didn’t have hearts in our chests.”

“Yes, Mister Billtoe. I will work on my delivery, perhaps.”

“You do that,” said Billtoe. “Now let me deliver some news.” He paused. “Did you see that? You said
delivery
, then I repeated it in
my
sentence. Now, that’s delivery. Pay attention, Finn, you could learn something.”

Only in prison, thought Conor, could such a bore be tolerated. “I shall keep my ears open and my mouth closed, Mister Billtoe.”

“Good man, Finn. You’re learning, if slowly.” A year ago, Billtoe would have punctuated this lesson with a dig from his rifle butt, but he hesitated these days before striking Finn. It did not do to unnecessarily antagonize the Battering Rams, and Conor Finn himself was not a young man you wanted snapping on you. He cut a fearsome figure, except for the beard, which could have done with some foliage.

“Anyway. My nugget of news. Queen Victoria of Great Britain has declared a wish to attend Princess Isabella’s coronation. She will not come on the fourteenth, because she believes the number to be unlucky, having lost a grandson on that date. So the coronation has been moved forward two weeks to the first of the month, though Isabella will be still sixteen. We will see your balloons then. Or should I say,
my
balloons.”

Conor’s practiced composure almost slipped away from him, to reveal internal turmoil.
The first. He was not ready. Everything was not in place.
“The first?” he blurted. “The first, you say, Mister Billtoe.”

Billtoe cackled and spat. “Yes, the first, Finn. Did you not receive your invitation? I keep mine with me at all times, tucked into my velvet cummerbund.” Billtoe’s tasteless chuckles died in his throat, as he noticed Conor’s expression.
Fearsome
was the best word to describe it. And while the prisoner made no aggressive move, Billtoe decided that it was best not to prod him anymore. He made a silent decision that Conor Finn would have to spend a few days in his cell alone, to learn some humility, Ram or no Ram.