Novel - Airman (12 page)

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 breathe. He backed away until the diving bell’s cold metal molded the curve of his spine.

The man’s size was doubtless exaggerated by the confined space, but he still 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, 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 favorite 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 odor filled the bell, clogging the confined space with sweat, blood, tobacco, and stale breath.

The man rolled open his shirt, 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 chawed 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 toward Conor’s head like a cannonball. The last things Conor saw were the letters P.A.I.N., but he remained conscious 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 any
thing 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. He doubted that the meal, even when hot, could ever have been called appetizing. The meat was tough, with a wide band of fat and hard burned ridges along each side. But meat was strength, and strength was what he would need to go back in the bell with a mad sheep.

“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 saltpeter 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.”

“Yes. I am not the kind of . . .”

Wynter raised a conductor’s finger. “We are
all
that kind of person. Survival is the most basic instinct. But you are sensitive, I can tell, so I will help you along the road to murder. Since my eyes were taken from me, I have become adept at re-creating images in my head. I can see the concert halls of my youth. Time and concentration fill the spaces until the picture is complete. Every velvet-covered chair, every footlight, every gilded cherub.” For a long moment, Wynter was lost in his own colorful past; then the sounds and smells of Little Saltee shattered his mental image. “What I need you to do is close your eyes and picture the man who sent you here, and use your hatred of him to awaken the killer instinct.”

Conor did not need to concentrate for long. Bonvilain’s face sprang into his mind, complete with hateful eyes and derisory sneer.

“And now, Conor, tell me, do you think you can kill?”

Conor considered everything Bonvilain had done to the Broekhart family. “Yes,” he said. “I can kill.”

Linus Wynter smiled sadly. “We all can,” he said. “God save our souls.”

CHAPTER 7: THE DEVIL’S FORK

In the door opposite Conor Broekhart’s bunk there was a small rectangular window. Perhaps three times in every hour a guard passed by, bearing a torch. Flickering orange light poured into the gloom of their cell, casting a vague dancing flame on Conor’s hand when he raised it to examine his Saltee kiss. There, already crusted in scab, a cursive
S.
He was branded now, forever a criminal.

A kind of peace had descended on Conor. Events were simply so monumental that he could not deal with them, and that brought a kind of freedom. There was nothing to do but concentrate on Otto Malarkey, the deadly Battering Ram who so cheerfully swatted his prey around the diving bell.
Must he be killed? Was there no other way?

There was not, he concluded. Sadly, it was either Otto Malarkey or himself. And though Conor had never been puffed by self-importance, he sincerely believed that he had more to offer the human race than the murderous Malarkey. At the very least, he would try to avoid killing any
more
of his fellow men.

But how to kill Malarkey? How?
What skills had he learned from Victor? The foil, of course, had always been his greatest success. He had the strength of a fencing master in his wrists, and the agility of a youth in his limbs. But how to combine the two?
I don’t even have a foil, or anything like one.

But then Conor remembered the tool belt that had been cinched about his waist. Perhaps that was not strictly true. Perhaps Arthur Billtoe had unwittingly come to his rescue.

The following day’s routine was the same as the previous one’s. Shortly after the single cannon-shot salute, Billtoe appeared at the cell door, a fresh slab of grease taming his curly locks. That morning he appeared to have shaved sections of his face, leaving the rest sprouting black, silver, and ginger bristle.

“Ready for round two with Malarkey?” he asked, rifle held before him in case Conor should prove resistant to the idea of being hammered around a diving bell by a Battering Ram.

Conor stood painfully, the stiffness of various mistreatments binding his bones. “I am not ready, Mister Billtoe, but I don’t suppose that makes a shadow of difference.”

Billtoe chortled, fishing the handcuffs from his belt. “You are right, lad. You have hit the badger on the nut. Not one shade of difference. Let’s be having you, and why not order a big pot of plantago stew from Mr. Wynter, if he could
see
his way clear to mixing it up.”

Linus did not react to the goading, just held his face in a grim aspect. Conor took this as a reminder of what had to be done. Today he became a killer, or else a corpse.

The route to the Pipe was the same, but on this morning there was a commotion behind the cell doors. Inmates roared taunts and slapped the wood with the flats of their hands.

“Moon madness,” explained Billtoe. “She was hanging in the sky last night like a silver shilling. Always gets the lunatics riled up.”

A nugget of information popped into Conor’s mind. “That’s what the word means. Moonstruck, from the Latin
lunaticus
.”

Billtoe propelled Conor along the corridor with a boot in the small of his back. “Don’t keep giving me information. It makes me feel stupid, and feeling stupid irritates me.”

“A familiar feeling, I’ll bet,” muttered Conor.

Billtoe could not be certain whether or not he was being insulted. He tapped Conor with his boot again, just to be on the safe side. “Talk clever to Malarkey. He loves a lippy mark; just adds to his enthusiasm.”

Malarkey’s name doused Conor’s wit, and his despair was clear on his face.

“That’s right,” cackled Billtoe. “Stick that in one of your lesson books. Go on, write it down. Not so generous with the information now, are you?”

The diving bell was already below water when they arrived at the Pipe, its tip poking through the surface. The blurred shapes of two inmates were visible through the porthole, hacking agitatedly at the rock below their feet. Guards chose pumpers from a gang of prisoners corralled into a wooden pen on the storeroom level, changing them often to keep the air flowing.

“The Pipe never sleeps,” said Billtoe. “Not now that Good King Nick is gone. All day, every day, pulling angel tears out of the earth. And do we see a penny? We do not.”

Conor noted the guard’s bitterness. It could prove to be useful information, if he remained on this earth long enough to make use of it.

“There are compensations, though. Sport like this, for example,” said Billtoe, unlocking Conor’s handcuffs. “Not that we can see what’s going on between prisoners inside
Flora
. Not clearly, you understand.”

So that was it. Nobody knew anything, because nobody could see anything.

Billtoe called to Pike, the gang boss. “Here, switch them up. Time for Malarkey to earn his few shillings.” He handed Conor a tool belt. “In case you are conscious for long enough to find a few stones.”

Pike pulled the cork bung from the bell’s air tube and hollered the order down. Moments later, two drenched convicts popped from the choppy water, to be briskly elbowed aside and frisked for concealed diamonds. It was a thorough searching that would have uncovered anything larger than a single blood drop.

Conor climbed down the ladder, eyeing the cave for Malarkey. The Battering Ram was easily spotted, reclining on a clump of rocks that bluntly resembled a throne. He threw a mock punch Conor’s way, no doubt expecting today’s performance to be a repeat of yesterday’s.

Not this time, sheep, thought Conor. This is the final show. The curtain comes down this morning.

Conor set both feet on the rock and headed directly for the shoreline. He did not wait for instruction from Pike. Conversation was the last thing he wanted now. Words would simply be a distraction. Before diving into the salty water, he patted the belt at his waist, to make sure the Devil’s Fork was in its holder. Without this simple tool, he would have little chance of overcoming Malarkey.

The water closed around him, and Conor’s fingers sought out handholds on the diving bell, pulling himself along its curve until he found the rim. Once inside, the bell’s terrible confined space nearly quashed his will, and Conor was forced to draw several deep breaths before he could even force himself to stand.
Follow your instinct,
he told himself.
Allow it to con
sume you.

From the air hole, he heard a splash followed by whoops and cheers. Malarkey was on the way. The Battering Rams spurred on their champion, though none were expecting much of a contest. Displaced water waves shook the bell, sending up a rich hum within its curves.

I must act quickly. Be ready.
Conor glanced upward. Malarkey had paused at the porthole to further torture his victim. He knocked the glass, grinning broadly; though his yellow teeth were lost in the porthole’s scum sheen.

The instant Malarkey’s face disappeared from view, Conor set to work. He quickly extended the mining trident to its full length, tightening the rings so that the tool would not easily collapse. The trident was roughly the same as a youth’s practice foil, but terribly balanced, with the weight entirely toward the tip. Still, a makeshift foil was infinitely better than nothing.

Conor filled his left hand with the wet diamond pouch from his belt, and scrunched it into a soggy sphere. He was as prepared now as he could be, and yet this entire sequence of events had a tinge of unreality about it. Unbelievable things were happening at a terrific rate.

Like many boys his age, Conor had often imagined going into combat. This was nothing like his daydreams. In Conor’s fantasies, heroic soldiers faced off against each other on windswept battlefields to the sounds of battle drums and bugles. There was nothing heroic about this reality. A cramped space, the stink of oil, sweat, and fear, and the sickness in the pit of his gullet at the thought of having to kill another human, however vile the man might be. It was as his father had always said: war is never noble.

A pale, water-wavering slab of arm crept under the bell rim. The temptation was strong to stab it with the trident, but that would be foolish. He would sacrifice the element of surprise for a gain of only a tiny wound. Malarkey would retreat, gather himself, then return with grim determination.

Conor held back, bending his knees, making ready to spring. Malarkey lurched under the rim, appearing in spurts, face up, his long strands of fine hair fanning about his head like seaweed. He was smiling still, streams of air bubbles leaking between his teeth. Once his feet had cleared the rim, Malarkey flipped carelessly onto all fours and breached the water like a walrus.

Conor’s breath came fast. Strike now, or the moment would be past and he’d have his two shillings’ worth coming. Malarkey began to rise, and while he was still bent almost double, Conor used the knobs of the big man’s spine as a stepladder and climbed onto his shoulders. It was a precarious position, and could last barely a moment. A moment was ample to stuff his wadded diamond pouch squarely into the air duct, stoppering it.

Malarkey shrugged him off, still smiling. He was bemused, in fact. “What yer trying to accomplish, soldier boy? Flight? Even an eagle would be bested by a ram in here.”

“I blocked the air,” said Conor coldly. “We have two minutes to escape.” This last fact was a barefaced lie, but not one that would be weighing on Conor’s conscience. There was air enough in the bell for half an hour at least, but with any luck, Malarkey would not know that.

For once luck ran Conor’s way, and the jaunty expression slid from Malarkey’s face like greased steak from a pan as he noticed the duct’s blockage. “You blasted numbskull,” he shouted, the bell vibrating sympathetically with his words. “Do yer want to kill us both?”

Conor held the makeshift foil behind his back. “No. Not both of us.”

Malarkey’s expression changed to the peeve of a kindly schoolmaster who has finally been exasperated beyond the limits of his patience. “I did you quick yesterday, soldier boy. A single punch, and that’s a talent. Today I’m going to be taking my sweet time, and not minding so much about bruises or bones.”

“That’s right, sheep,” said Conor. “Keep talking, waste the air.”

Malarkey reached out, grabbing Conor by the throat. “Now, you pop yourself back up on my shoulders and pull out that plug and I might strike you once, but charge for two.” It was obvious from his tone that Malarkey thought this a great kindness.

Conor pulled out the trident so quickly it whistled. “The plug is staying in,” he said, thrusting the tiny fork heads into Malarkey’s leg.

The Battering Ram dropped Conor, yelping like a kicked mutt. He reared back, striking his head a sound bong against the bell. The impact crossed his eyes and set his ears ringing. Conor used the moment to settle his stance; knees bent, makeshift foil extended, and left arm cocked behind him.
Attack now!
his good sense urged. No time for sportsmanship.

But this was not sportsmanship. Conor wanted Malarkey to realize what was happening to him. The hired thug must never be able to convince himself that Conor had triumphed through luck. And so he waited until Malarkey’s vision cleared, then spoke, two words only.
“En garde.”

Malarkey growled. “You think those words scare me?

You think I haven’t heard them from a score of prissy officer types what are now no more than bones in their uniforms?” Malarkey spread his arms wide, advancing through the water. “
En garde
it is then, soldier boy.”

Conor could almost hear Victor’s voice.
Wait for the move. Wait for him to commit.
The wait was not a long one. Malarkey swung in with the same haymaker that he had landed the day before. Conor found that it was not so lightning fast, when you were waiting for it. Conor used a simple
attaque au fer
, which sets up an offensive by deflecting the opponent’s blade, though in truth he was deflecting himself more than Malarkey’s arm, which he was addressing as a military-type broadsword.

Now. Facing Malarkey’s flank, he slashed down three times; the fork blurred with speed, like a golden fan. Three red stripes appeared on the band of flesh between Malarkey’s shirt and trouser band. These strikes were for pain.

Malarkey yelped once more, then howled lustily as the pain settled to a steady burn. Conor threw his shoulder into the man’s buttocks, not the most pleasant place to be even for a second, but it did have the effect of clanging Malarkey into the bell curve. His forehead collided with the brass, setting the bell ringing once more.

To the rear, Conor thrust deeply through the water and above Malarkey’s heel, feeling the tines puncture the tough flesh. This strike was for immobility.

Malarkey collapsed like a wall under cannon shot, filling the bell with spray. The Battering Ram continued to howl, demented with pain and anger. Conor felt his resolve falter.

“Kill you,” sobbed Malarkey. “I will skin the flesh from your frame.”

Conor’s resolve was firm once more. He laid several flat strikes around Malarkey’s back and shoulders, forcing him deeper into the sea. With his free hand he shoved straight fingered jabs into the man’s kidneys, causing him to reflexively inhale half a gallon of water—a trick adapted from karate.