Airman

by Eoin Colfer

  A band of glass with rubber seals was set into the diving bell’s dome. The window was covered with a scree of algae and filth that made it impossible to see through.

  Billtoe followed Conor’s gaze. ‘Yes, pity about that port. Filthy as a beggar’s britches. We won’t be seeing much of what goes on in there today. I do hope and pray there are no unfortunate accidents.’

  Conor had little doubt that whatever was coming would be unfortunate for him, but it would be no accident. Billtoe meant to break him in the bell. This whole affair was becoming nightmarish. He recoiled from the guard as he would from a brandished torch.

  ‘What are you twitching for, boy?’ asked Billtoe. ‘Crazed so soon? You’d best be keeping your wits about you in the bell.’

  Surprisingly, these were bordering on words of wisdom from the prison guard. They were meant as a warning and Conor took them as one. Whatever his problems, he’d best forget them until he was safe in his cell. Linus Wynter would help him to survive this hellhole, but only if he lived long enough to see him again. While Conor did not believe that the traitor Bonvilain wished him dead, perhaps there was a kind of sheep that did not follow orders so well.

  ‘What do I need to do?’ he asked Billtoe, best to be as prepared as possible.

  Billtoe was happy to deliver a lecture. ‘We lower Flora on to the pipe, then you goes down with your partner and chip off diamonds. Simple as bread pudding.’ He barked at an inmate loitering at the waterline. ‘You, fish bait. Give him your belt.’

  The man placed a protective hand on his belt. ‘But, boss. I been polishing these tools for years. Got ’em from my dad.’

  Billtoe tapped his head, as though there was water lodged in his ears.

  ‘What’s this chattering? I hear the chattering of a dead man. Must be leaking through his punctured neck.’

  Two seconds later, the leather belt was in Conor’s hands. Billtoe ran through the tools.

  ‘You got your pick hammer for breaking down the rock. Hammer the rock, then pick out the diamonds, which will resembled nothing more than glassy marbles. Don’t worry about breaking the diamonds, you won’t be able to, because they’re the…’

  ‘Hardest substance in nature,’ said Conor automatically.

  ‘Hardest substance in nature,’ continued Billtoe, then scowled. He reached over and cuffed Conor on the temple. ‘Don’t be supplying me with information that I am supplying to you. That is a very annoying trait, which I would relish beating out of you.’

  Conor nodded, ignoring the pain in his head, just as he was ignoring the other pains.

  ‘This here,’ said Billtoe proudly, pointing to a little trident tool, ‘is a Devil’s Fork. Invented on this very island by one Arthur Billtoe over twenty years ago. Got me a job for life, this little beauty did. Plus Marshall Bonvilain himself granted me a house on Great Saltee. It’s tele… tele…’

  ‘Telescopic,’ said Conor, thinking that if Billtoe could not even pronounce the word telescopic, it was unlikely that he had invented a telescopic tool. More likely he had stolen the idea from an inmate.

  ‘Exactly, telescopic. On the tip of me tongue, it was.’

  Billtoe slipped the fork from its holder and twisted a few rings, extending the tool from eight inches to three feet.

  ‘Now, yer can wriggle this little beauty into cracks and spear any stones what has fallen down there. Amazing, eh?’

  Conor knew enough to nod, though an extendable fork was hardly amazing in anyone’s book. It was practical though, and canny, and proved that Bonvilain knew a good idea when he saw one.

  ‘So all you have to do, Salt, is swim down there into the bell and dig out as many diamonds as you can until your swing is over. Stash them in your net and bring them back up. Simple as bread pudding. Naturally we search all the divers, and if we find any stones outside of that net, then I find the biggest bull of a guard on the island and have him flog the thievery out of you. Straight enough for you, little soldier?’

  Conor nodded, wondering how close the pipe was to open sea.

  Once more, Billtoe displayed a disturbing ability to anticipate Conor’s very thoughts.

  ‘Of course, you may decide to swim for it. The lure of freedom may be too strong for you. Feel free to give it your best. You may even make it – mind you, you’d be the first, and bigger men than you have tried. We still get bodies washing up in the cave, decades after they went in. And do you know something? They all look the same way. Dead.’

  Conor cinched the belt round his waist, drawing it tight to the last hole. He could figure no escape from this task. In Greek mythology when the heroes were faced with daunting trials, they went about them with stoic determination and emerged victorious. Conor could not muster an ounce of determination for this trial; all he felt was a weight of exhaustion. And even if he did emerge victorious, his only reward would be more of the same tomorrow, and the day after that.

  Billtoe encouraged him with a friendly wink and a jaunty tapping of his fingers upon the pistol stock at his waist. Conor set foot in the water and the cold gripped him in its icy fist, squeezing the life from his toes. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips, causing much laughter from the assembled men.

  Conor took a moment to become used to the water temperature, casting a quick eye around the cave, wondering if there were a single person who would come to his aid. Every gaze he crossed was hostile. These were rugged men in evil surroundings, with little time to waste on sympathy. Conor realized that were it not for their uniforms, it would be impossible to separate the guards from the inmates. He was alone in this endeavour. Fourteen and alone. This was one of the few occasions in Conor’s life when his father was not there to provide guidance. And if Declan Broekhart had been there, perhaps he would have laughed along with the rest of them. It was an unbearable thought.

  Though he was without doubt on his own, there was something in Conor Broekhart that would not allow him to give in. His mother’s brain and his father’s spirit were strong in his heart. He would endure somehow, and survive. If Conor could return to his cell still breathing, then the American, Linus Wynter, could teach him a lesson or two about Little Saltee.

  Push it all from your mind, he told himself. Forget your family, the king, Isabella. Forget them all. Just live to think on them another day.

  This was easier conceived than achieved, but Conor did the best he could, concentrating on the scene before him, shutting away his torment. He stepped off the rocky ledge, sinking fast into the cold, dark waters of Little Saltee.

  For a moment the cold was absolute and it seemed as though nothing could ever be any colder. Conor thrashed his limbs, not from fear but to generate some heat. He had often swum on the Saltee beaches before, but the waters he was in now had never been blessed with sun. There was nothing to raise the temperature a few degrees.

  Conor opened his eyes, peering through the liquid gloom. Below him, he spied a blob of orange, like a fading sun in the grip of black space.

  The bell.

  It is not so far down, he told himself. A chap would have to be a pretty poor swimmer not to make that distance. Ten kicks at most.

  Conor duck dived, cupping his hands to better scoop the water. He had always been a good swimmer and immediately the orange blob assumed its proper bell shape and he could make out the texture of its surface. This tiny success comforted him somewhat.

  I am not helpless. I can still do things.

  The bell swung gently two feet above the cave bed, air bubbles leaked like pearl strings from a dozen tiny breaches. Conor hooked his fingers under its curved rim and wriggled inside. His efforts were rewarded by air, not by any means sweet or fresh but air nonetheless. Conor filled his lungs to capacity, ignoring the rubbery smell and the oily film that instantly coated his nose and throat.

  The water rose six inches into the bell, and the surface below Conor’s feet was uneven, slick and treacherous. This was not an ideal working environment. The bell itself had a diameter of barely ten
feet, and swung in irregular arcs with the current, butting Conor in the shoulder and elbow. He hunched his shoulders as far as possible, protecting his head. The light was murky and wavering.

  Conor peered upwards through the porthole but could make out nothing more distinct than vague wavering silhouettes. Perhaps men? Perhaps rocks? It was impossible to tell. But then one of the silhouettes detached itself from the group.

  Conor watched with a dread colder than sea water as the figure leaped into the ocean, shattering its surface into a jigsaw of silver crescents. The sound of the splash carried through the bell’s air hole. Another sound carried too; laughter, wafting through the pipe like ghost mirth. Dark, vicious, threatening laughter.

  Conor choked down absolute terror.

  Survive. You can do things. Survive.

  Then something flashed past. A pale limb. Thick and muscled, swatting at the water. And on the forearm drawn with bold punctures, visible even through a sheen of scum, a tattoo of a horned ram.

  A sheep, thought Conor. Sheep are not for stewing here on Little Saltee.

  The figure disappeared from view, pulling itself down the bell curve. Hands slapped at the brass, setting off a cacophony of shuddering clangs inside the bell’s skirt. The clangs reverberated around the diving bell until Conor prayed for silence. Surely his ears were bleeding. Then four thick fingers curled under the bell’s rim, shimmering white in the water.

  Each finger was tattooed with a single letter. Even upside down it didn’t take a scholar to read what the letters promised.

  P. A. I. N.

  Conor didn’t doubt it for a second.

  A huge man dragged himself along the seabed, mindless of the sharp rocks scraping his flesh. When he stood inside the bell, a dozen red rivulets ran down his torso. It suddenly seemed to Conor that there was not enough air left to breath. He backed away until the diving bell’s cold metal moulded the curve of his spine.

  The man’s size was doubtless exaggerated by the confined space, but still he seemed a giant to Conor. He spread his arms wide, tinkling his fingers on the brass bell as though it were a grand piano. The sweet sound was hardly appropriate for the situation. Whatever this man intended to do, he seemed to be in no hurry to complete his mission. He stretched this way and that, cracking neck and knuckles all the while wearing an expression of serene contentment. Conor read many things into that half smile. A confidence in his brutish abilities, the memories of past violence and the anticipation of the job at hand.

  The man smiled, a yellow tobacco grimace, but then his expression drooped as he realized Conor’s age.

  ‘Hell’s bells, you’re nothing but a boy. What did you do? Lie about your age to get a ticket for the army? Are you that desperate to patrol a wall? There ain’t even a war on.’

  ‘You’re a sheep,’ said Conor numbly. ‘Sheep are not for stewing here on Little Saltee.’

  The man stroked his tattoo fondly. ‘There are those that call us sheep, but our name proper is the Battering Rams. That being our favourite method of doing the big job.’

  Conor understood the sheep references now. The Battering Rams were a notorious gang of London Irish who were involved in smuggling in ports from London to Boston and whose other main source of income was from hiring out thugs. It would seem that this particular ram had been gainfully employed.

  ‘Ah well,’ continued the man. ‘I’ve been paid now, and I don’t like to disappoint my employers, so you’ll have to take your licks, boy or not.’

  ‘Are you going to kill me?’ asked Conor. The man’s smell filled the bell, clogging the confined space. Sweat, blood, tobacco and stale breath.

  The man rolled his shirt open, revealing a list tattooed on his chest. ‘I could kill you, and my employer would still be in credit, because he paid me three pounds.’

  Conor read the words on the man’s pale flesh:

  Punching – 2 shillings

  Both eyes blacked – 4 shillings

  Nose and jaw broke – 10 shillings

  Jacked out (knocked out with a black jack) – 15 shillings

  Ear chewed off – same as previous

  Leg or arm broke – 19 shillings

  Shot in leg – 25 shillings

  Stab – Same as previous

  Doing the Big Job – 3 pounds and up

  The man buttoned his shirt.

  ‘He paid me the full three pounds, but said I was to spread it out. Keep punching on a daily basis until he was out of credit. That’s a fair whack of punching, but you being such a slip of a whelp, I reckon one belt a day should do it. Maybe, if the task is becoming tiresome after a few weeks, I may chew your ear off just to finish it.’

  Conor was finding it difficult to believe what he was hearing. The man had such a professional manner, as though he were a roofer quoting for a slate job.

  ‘What will you do if your prices go up?’

  The man frowned. ‘You mean the tattoo? I never thought of that. I suppose I’ll have to have it writ over. There’s a little Galway geezer what is good with the needles. Anyway, see yer tomorrow… ’

  ‘What?’ said Conor, but before his teeth had closed over the final consonant, the man’s huge fist had already begun its arc, swinging towards Conor’s head like a cannonball. The last things Conor saw were the letters P. A. I. N., but he remained conscious for long enough to hear the Battering Ram sing this savage ditty:

  ‘We stabs ’em,

  We fights ’em,

  Cripples ’em,

  Bites ’em.

  No rules for our mayhem.

  You pay us, we slays ’em.

  If you’re in a corner,

  With welshers or scams.

  Pay us a visit,

  The Battering Rams.’

  And then the whole world was wet and Conor gladly allowed himself to be tugged away by the currents.

  Maybe this time I won’t wake up, he thought. I need never wake up again.

  But wake up he did, many hours later with Linus Wynter bending over him, green paste dripping from his fingers.

  ‘More Plantago, I fear,’ he explained. ‘This is becoming a habit.’

  Conor closed his eyes again, fearful that he would cry. He kept himself still for long minutes, breathing quiet breaths through his nose. He could feel the cold muck on his temple, where the giant had struck him, and more on his hand where the brand still scalded.

  There must be an end to this? How long could a mind endure such torture and stay whole?

  ‘You have been asleep for nearly twelve hours. I saved your rations for you. Have some water at least.’

  Water. The very word had the power to awaken Conor fully. His throat felt flaked with thirst.

  Man’s primary instinct is to survive, Victor had once told him. And he will endure almost anything to follow his instincts.

  ‘Water,’ croaked the boy, raising his head, until the Plantago juice ran down his forehead.

  Wynter held a rough earthenware cup to Conor’s lips, dribbling water down his throat. To Conor, the drink tasted like life itself, and soon he felt strong enough to hold the cup. He sat slowly, sighing gratefully for the simple pleasure of slaking his thirst.

  ‘And now you should eat,’ said Wynter. ‘Keep your body strong. A fever in here could kill you.’

  Conor laughed, a feeble shuddering. As though fever would ever have the chance to kill him. The Battering Ram had almost three pounds’ worth of beatings to dole out, and it was hardly likely that Conor could survive those.

  Wynter pressed a shallow bowl into Conor’s hand.

  ‘Whatever happened to you, and whatever is going to happen, you will not have a prayer without strength in your limbs.’

  Conor relented, picking a chunk of cold meat from the bowl of stew. Even when hot, Conor doubted that the meal could ever have been called appetizing. The meat was tough, with a wide band of fat and hard burn ridges along each side. But meat was strength, and strength was what he would need to go back in the bell with a mad
ram.

  ‘Now,’ said Wynter, ‘tell me what happened today. They brought you back here on a plank. For a moment I couldn’t even find a heartbeat.’

  Conor chewed on a lump of meat. The fat was slick and rubbery between his teeth.

  ‘They put me in a diving bell with one of those Battering Rams.’

  ‘Describe him,’ instructed Wynter.

  ‘Big man. Enormous. Tattoos all over. P. A. I. N. on his knuckles and -’

  ‘A price list on his chest,’ completed Conor’s cellmate. ‘That’s Otto Malarkey. The top ram. That animal has beaten more men than he can count. And he can count well enough, especially when there’s coin involved.’

  ‘He’s been paid coin aplenty to keep handing out daily beatings. This is how they will break me.’

  ‘A simple but effective plan,’ admitted Wynter. ‘Set the big man beating the little man. That tactic worked on everyone, even Napoleon.’

  Conor took a drink of water. Now that his senses were returning, he could taste the saltpetre in it. ‘There must be something I can do.’

  Wynter thought on it, fixing the bandage across his eyes with long pianist’s fingers.

  ‘This problem is more important than all the daily vexations I had planned to educate you on this evening. Malarkey must be dealt with if you are to survive, young Conor.’

  ‘Yes, but how?’

  ‘You need to rest. Lie flat and think on your strengths. Draw on everything you have ever been taught. Tease out every violent daydream you have ever nursed in your darkest hours. You must have talents: you are a tall boy and strong.’

  ‘And if I do have talents, what then?’ insisted Conor.

  ‘Another simple plan,’ whispered Wynter. ‘Older even than the first. When you see Malarkey next, you must immediately kill him.’

  Kill him.

  ‘I can’t. I could never -’

  Wynter smiled kindly. ‘You are a good lad, Conor. Kind. Killing is hateful to you, and the thought that you could ever take a life is a terrible one.’