Novel - Airman (13 page)

Malarkey was effectively helpless. Wallowing in the shallow water, blinded by pain and salt. An infant with a mean disposition could have killed him. Conor leaned back against the bell curve, panting. His hatred for Malarkey had disappeared as quickly as it had flared up. And yet, this issue of a bounty must be solved today. Was Linus Wynter right? Must he kill this man?

Malarkey rolled onto his back and lay there sobbing, his face inches above the surface, wavelets from his own thrashings slopping water down his gullet.

Conor placed a soldier’s boot on the man’s neck, contemptuously knocking aside Malarkey’s weak grabs. “You see now what I can do?” he hissed, surprised at the venom in his own voice.

Malarkey could not answer. Even if there had not been a boot at his throat, he was beyond words.

Stop talking. Kill him!
Conor jammed the trident deep into the folds of flesh beneath Malarkey’s chin. One more push, and the tines would pierce the skin and sever an artery. “This is no lucky accident. I can kill you easy as a Sunday chicken.”

Malarkey’s eyes suddenly focused. The thought of visiting the afterlife helps to concentrate the mind.

“Do you understand that, Mister Battering Ram? I could kill you.”
Do it. Stop your jabbering.
Conor tightened his grip on the fork; the muscles along his arm tensed. Three drops of blood pooled around the trident heads. One last push and his tormentor would torment him no more.

“Please,” said Malarkey, the word gurgling in his throat.

A bead of sweat trickled into Conor’s eye. Water lapped at the bell curve, humming gently.

“Please, spare me,” said the mighty Battering Ram.

I can’t do it. I have no wish to kill this man.
Conor realized that he was not a killer, and this realization filled him with warm relief, because it showed that he had not lost himself entirely, in spite of all he had endured. He hadn’t been raised to gain the upper hand through murder, not if there were other avenues.

There must be another way. A more intelligent way.

Conor chewed on his problem without relieving the fork’s pressure on Malarkey’s neck. The Battering Ram must be made an ally. This struggle could not go on day after day. He quickly cobbled together a possible way out, for both of them.

“Listen to me, sheep,” said Conor, twisting the trident. “I am going to float out of this bell, just like yesterday.”

Otto Malarkey’s brow creased. “But I—”

“Quiet!” shouted Conor, with an authority he hadn’t known he possessed. “Listen to me, now. We are hatching a plan, you and I. We will come down here every day, and you will supposedly give me my two shillings’ worth. That way, you can still be king of the sheep. The big ram. In reality, we will have ourselves a quiet talk, and you can help me to survive in here.”

Concentration was not easy for Malarkey in his distressed state, but he did think of something. “What about my foot? I can’t walk.”

A problem, true. Water dripped from the bell curve, spattering them both with indoor rain. Conor racked his brain for a solution.

“After I leave, wait an hour, perhaps two, then make a great commotion on climbing out of the bell. Thrash around underwater and say the bell trapped you. Blame your ankle injury on
Flora
. It is a painful wound, but not serious. I missed the Achilles tendon, luckily for you. Strap it tight and stay off it for a few hours. You will be solid as an oak tomorrow.”

Malarkey was growing brave again, Conor could see it in the squint of his eye. He had his breath now, and fancied his chances. Any moment he would make a lunge for his young tormentor, and then Conor could be forced to kill him. This newfound courage must be nipped in the bud. Conor lashed him once on each forearm, temporarily deadening the nerves.

“Is it more stripes you want? Are you too mutton-headed for life? Accept my proposition, sheep, and you can live with your honor intact. If not, you can suffer defeat at the hands of a boy.”

It seemed as though the prospect of defeat was worse than the idea of death. Malarkey gritted his teeth, nodding, unable to meet Conor’s eye.

“I have your word?” Victor had once told him that the city gang members had developed a curious sense of honor, almost echoing that of the samurai
bushido
code.

“Yes, blast you, my word on it.”

Conor grinned coldly, a mechanism he would come to rely on in desperate situations. “I will trust you on it. No need for a handshake.” It was a cruel joke. Malarkey’s arms were dead at his side like two slabs of butchered beef. “Very well then, sheep. We have an agreement. Be warned: if you try trickery tomorrow, I will not be so merciful, or silent.”

Conor twisted the rings on his trident, collapsing it. “No need to get up, I’ll see myself out.”

Conor was surprised at his own comment. A second malicious joke in as many minutes. It was not like him to sneer at someone, whatever the circumstances; but perhaps Little Saltee was molding him into a different person. The kind that might possibly survive.

Conor filled his lungs to slide under the rim. Before salt water clouded his vision, he saw a final frustration dropped upon Malarkey: the wadded diamond pouch fell from the air hole, plopping directly onto the man’s face.

Malarkey cursed long and filthy, but his words were muffled by the sopping bag. A bag that he was unable to reach up and brush away.

CHAPTER 8: CONOR FINN

Billtoe and Pike carried Conor back to his cell on a plank, and they were careless in their work. Conor endured several bumps and jolts, which almost made up for Malarkey’s neglected two shillings’ worth.

Thinking him unconscious, they chattered on about the state of the islands.

“Bonvilain will strip this place of anything within a million years of becoming a diamond,” said Pike. “I’d feel a tot of pity for the Salts, if they weren’t lower than barnacles.”

“Barnacles,” agreed Billtoe. “But at least barnacles don’t give you lip. And you don’t put yourself in for a visit to the warden’s office if you happen to stamp on a barnacle.” They two-stepped the plank around an awkward corner, scraping Conor’s elbow along the wall.

“I’d say you could stamp on all the prisoners you like, now that Good King Nick is knocking at the pearlies. Bonvilain never minded before.”

“True for you, Pikey.” Billtoe laughed, following it with a regurgitating hurk. “Good times are here—that is, until Isabella comes of age. Possibly she’s one for the people, like her father. I hear worrying good things about her.”

“Ah yes, Princess Isabella,” said Pike. “I wouldn’t be concerning yourself on that score. She won’t wear the crown till her seventeenth birthday, and that’s two years away. I would bet my Sunday boots that something tragic will happen to our little princess after that if she starts queering things for the marshall.”

It took all Conor’s resolve not to grab Billtoe’s weapon and make a bid for freedom right then, but Conor Finn dying on a cold prison floor would do little to help Isabella. He needed to bide his time and wait for an opportunity.

The guards reached Conor’s cell and simply raised one end of the plank, sliding him through the doorway. He tumbled to the wall and lay there, limbs splayed, moaning. The moans were real.

Pike and Billtoe stood framed by the doorway. “You know something, Pikey?” said Billtoe, scratching an itch on his collarbone. “Maybe I’m getting old and soft, but I’ve taken a liking to young Conor Finn.”

Pike was more than surprised. Liking prisoners was not Billtoe’s form. “Really?”

“No,” said Billtoe, shutting the cell door. “Not really.”

Conor lay still until the guards’ footsteps faded, first to echoes, then silence. Another minute for safety, then he crawled upon his bunk, hiding his face with a forearm, though he was alone in the cell. The shaking began suddenly, racking his entire body from toe to crown, as though he had grasped a wire of the electric, like a laborer he had seen working in Coronation Square, all those years ago. On another island, in another life.

There was simply too much to think about. Father, Mother, King Nicholas, Isabella. His own plight in this prison. Bonvilain, the Battering Rams, Billtoe and Pike. Images of these friends and foes passed through his mind, branding him with more pain than a Little Saltee kiss.

Mother and Father taking him to Hook Head to fly his paper kite. King Nicholas’s stories of the American Civil War and why he fought in it. Bonvilain’s face, features set in a permanent sneer. Otto Malarkey, fear of death in his dark eyes.

Too much. Too much.

Conor gritted his teeth and imagined himself flying until the shaking stopped.

Pike booted Linus Wynter back into the cell some hours later, just as Conor was finishing his first meal of the day. “I put yours on the flat stone by the window,” he said to the gangly American. “It’s the warmest spot in here. You sit, I’ll get it.”

Wynter tutted, heading straight for the flat stone. “No need. I know where the griddle is. I have been here almost a year, young Conor.” He bent down and tickled the air with two fingers until he found the bowl. “But thank you, that was very thoughtful.”

Wynter perched on his bed and selected a lump of gristle dripping with grease. “Oh lord, it’s hardly the Savoy, is it? I spent a night there in ’eighty-nine. Fabulous. Full electric lighting, a bath in every suite. And the water closets, I dream of the water closets.”

“We’ve had electric lighting since ’eighty-seven on Great Saltee,” said Conor. “King Nicholas says that we have to embrace change.” Conor’s face fell. “King Nicholas
said
that.”

Wynter did not comment, chewing the fatty lump in his mouth thoroughly lest it choke him on the way down. “So, young Finn, are we going to swap water closet stories all evening, or are you going to tell me of your adventures in the bell?”

“I let Malarkey live,” said Conor. “But I thrashed him soundly, and he knows I can do it again. Next time I won’t keep quiet about it, and we’ll see how long he survives as head ram after that.”

Wynter froze, a dripping gobbet of meat halfway to his mouth. “Hell’s bells, boy. If I could look at you admiringly, I would. Nick was right about you.”

“Nick? King Nicholas? You knew the king?”

“We met in Missouri. He was in the balloon corps. Actually, he
was
the balloon corps. He towed two raggedy hot-air rigs around to various battle sites. Our paths crossed at Petersburg in ’sixty-five. I wasn’t much use to anyone back then, having had my eyes poked out by the teenage Jesse James. And Nick was just about tolerated by the generals; so we struck up a friendship. He taught me how to tie knots and fill ballast bags. Even took me up a few times. I had no idea that he was royalty—of course, neither did he.”

Conor had always been a fast thinker. “It can’t be coincidence that you’re here.”

Wynter cocked his head to one side, listening carefully. “No, Conor, it’s no coincidence. Nick sent me here to spy for him.”

“You’re a spy? You shouldn’t tell me this. I could be anyone. Another spy sent in to find you out.”

“You could be, but you’re not. I have heard of you before from Victor Vigny. He visited me here days ago and took my news to the king. The pretext was that I had stolen from him. Such cloak-and-dagger.” Wynter reached out long fingers until he found Conor’s shoulder. “King Nicholas thought of you as a son. Victor said you were his greatest hope for the future. You’re no spy.”

Conor felt a twinge of sadness. He had thought of the king almost as a second father.

An awful truth struck him. “But now, Mister Wynter, you are truly imprisoned here with the rest of us.”

Wynter sighed. “It would seem so. I can hardly tell Mr. Billtoe that I am actually a professional spy posing as a vagrant musician.”

“I suppose not,” Conor agreed. “Who were you spying on?”

Again, Linus Wynter listened before replying. “Marshall Bonvilain. Nicholas had come to suspect Bonvilain of treason in many areas, but especially on Little Saltee. Bonvilain was running it like his own personal slave camp. Prison reforms were implemented only when Nicholas or his envoys came to visit. The king needed a man on the inside, and who better to spy on a music-loving warden than a blind musician? Nobody would suspect a man who cannot spy anything of
being
a spy.”

“I see,” said Conor.

Wynter grinned. “Do you really? What’s it like?”

Conor smiled, his first in days. The smile was a twinkle in the gloom and did not last long. “I don’t think I can make it through this, Mister Wynter. I am not strong enough.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Wynter. “You showed courage today, and ingenuity. Anyone who can thrash that brute Malarkey can certainly find the strength to survive Little Saltee.”

Conor nodded. There were people in worse straits than he. At least he had youth and strength on his side. “Tell me, Mister Wynter, how do you go about your business?”

“What business is that?” said Wynter innocently.

“The business of being a spy, of course.”

Wynter pulled a convincing horrified face. “Spying? Me? But, you foolish boy, I am blind, which is the same as brainless and only slightly better than dead. Why, you could plant me at the piano in the warden’s office, and he would go about his business exactly as though I weren’t even there.”

“But now there is no one to report to?”

“Precisely. A while back, Nicholas requested my temporary release to play in his orchestra. I gave him my first report then. There was another due tomorrow. I would surmise that I shan’t be delivering that report, or any more.”

Conor felt a sudden kinship for this tall American. “We are together, then.”

“Until one of us is released. And when I say released, I mean it in the Little Saltee sense. Occasionally an inmate disappears and the guards tell us he has been released.”

“Dead, then.”

“I would guess. Murder is the most expeditious way to prevent overcrowding. I pray that we fortunate two are never released.”

Conor was surprised. “Fortunate? A curious choice of words.”

Wynter wagged a reedlike, knuckle-knobbed finger. “Not at all. We are two like-minded, civilized men. Just think who we might have drawn as cellmates.”

Conor’s memory flashed on Malarkey’s features, shaped by the violence of his life. “You are right, Mister Wynter. We are indeed fortunate.”

Wynter raised an imaginary glass of Champagne. “Your health,” he said.

“Your health,” rejoined Conor, and then: “Clink.”

The cell itself was a study in the Spartan, not much more than a hole in the island. There was one window high in the wall, of letterbox size. The light admitted by this portal was weak and watery, without the strength to cut through more than a few feet of shadow.

The walls themselves were expertly hewn with barely a need for mortar, which was just as well, as the surface mortar had long since crumbled, allowing various fungi to spread themselves across the joins. Conor estimated the dimensions to be twelve feet by fourteen. Hardly enough for two tall men to spend their confinement in comfort. Then again, comfort was hardly the issue.

As he lay on his hard cot that evening, Conor dreamed of his family. Eventually his thoughts grew so painful that a small, pathetic cry crept through his lips.

Linus Wynter did not comment; he merely shifted in his bed to show that he had heard and was awake for conversation if needed.

“You said that you would instruct me,” whispered Conor. “Tell me how to survive in this place.”

Wynter turned on his back, clasped his hands on his chest, and sighed.

“What you must do, what we both must do now, is so terribly difficult that it is close to impossible. Only the most determined can achieve it.”

Conor felt that he could indeed do the close to impossible, if it meant that he would survive Little Saltee. “What, Mister Wynter? Tell me. I need some relief.”

“Very well, Conor. There are two parts to this scheme. The first has the sound of an easy task, but believe me, it is not. You must forget your old life. It is dead and gone. Dreaming of family and friends will plunge you into a dark hell of despair. So build a wall around your memories and become a new person.”

“I don’t know if I can . . .” began Conor.

“You are Conor Finn now!” hissed Wynter. “You must believe it. You are Conor Finn, seventeen-year-old army corporal, smuggler, and swordsman. Conor Finn will survive Little Saltee. Conor Broekhart’s body may survive, but his spirit will be crushed as surely as though Bonvilain clamped it in a vise.”

“Conor Finn,” said Conor haltingly. “I am Conor Finn.”

“You are a killer. You are young and slim, true, but ruthless with your blade, arm as strong as a steel band. You prefer your own company, and will brook no insult. Not so much as a dirty look. You have killed before. Your first when you were fifteen, a grog head who dipped your pocket. This is all the truth.”

“It’s true,” murmured Conor. “All true.”

“You have no family,” continued Wynter. “No one to love, or to love you.”

“No one . . .” said Conor, but the words were hard to utter. “No one loves me.”

Wynter paused, tilting his head, hearing Conor’s distress. “This is the way it must be. In here, love will rot your brain. I know this to be true. I had a wife once, lovely Aishwarya. Dreams of her fueled my days during my five years in a Bengal prison. This was enough to sustain me for a while, but then my love turned to suspicion. And finally to hate. When I heard that she had died of typhoid, the guilt nearly killed me. I would have died if they hadn’t kicked me out.” Wynter was quiet for as long as it took him to relive those horrible times. “Love must die in here, Conor, it is the only way. Once you open your heart . . .”

“Love must die,” said Conor, storing images of his parents in a padlocked chest at the back of his mind.

“But something must take its place,” said Wynter in a stronger voice. “An obsession to fire your enthusiasm. A reason to live, if you like. I myself have music. I keep an opera on the broiler inside my head and in other places. Amadeus himself would weep. My music is never far from my thoughts. It is my fondest wish to have it performed in Salzburg. One day, young Conor. One day. My opera keeps me alive, you see.” Wynter slipped two fingers under his eye bandage, massaging his ruined sockets. “I see music like you see colors. Each instrument is a stroke of the brush. The gold of the strings. The deep blue of the bassoon. Even as I trot out pompous marches for the warden on his rickety piano, the sound board not even spruce, I am dreaming of my opera.”