Novel - Airman (14 page)

Wynter’s lips murmured phrases of his beloved music. “And what about you, Conor?” he asked after several bars. “Do you have a dream? Something that fills your dreams with hope but never pain?”

The answer came quickly to Conor.
I want to fly.
“Yes,” he said. “I have a dream.”

The night arrived, though it made little difference to the light in Conor’s cell. There was a slight thickening of the dirty darkness, but that was all. They were trapped in a limbo of gloom, with only food and work to instruct them as to the time of day. Conor lay on his cot, wrestling with thoughts of his family, which he was not supposed to be thinking. Shrugging off one’s old self was not as simple as discarding a dirty shirt. Memories popped up unbidden, clamoring to be examined. Mr. Wynter was right, this
was
the most difficult thing he had ever had to do. Conor could feel the sweat coating his face like a wet flannel, and the voice of his mother seemed as real to him as the cell walls.
How could you do it, my son? How could you betray us all?

Conor bit his knuckle until the voice faded. He needed distraction, and proof that this new life strategy was effective. “Mister Wynter,” he whispered. “Are you asleep?”

Cloth rustled on the other cot, then Linus answered. “No, Conor Finn, I am awake. Sometimes I think that I never truly sleep. One eye on the real world, so to speak. The legacy of a lifetime’s spying. Are you having trouble burying Conor Broekhart?”

Conor laughed bitterly. “Trouble? It is impossible, Mister Wynter.”

“No, not impossible, but devilish hard. It took me months to forget my real self. To become this rakish, devil-may-care playboy. Even talking to you about this is opening a chink in the door to my previous self.”

“Sorry,” said Conor. “Tell me of your dream, then. The opera.”

Wynter sat up. “Really? You would like to hear my music?”

“Yes. Perhaps your music will give me enthusiasm for my own project.”

Wynter was suddenly stuttering. “V-very well, Conor. But you are the first person ever . . . That is, we are hardly in the correct environment. The acoustics in here are of the worst kind—even the human voice will be mangled by these close quarters.”

Conor smiled in the dark. “I am a kind audience, Mister Wynter. My only request is that your music be to a higher standard than your spying.”

“Ahh,” said Wynter, beating his breast with a fist. “A critic. Of all the cellmates I could have chosen . . .” But the joke had calmed him, and he began his performance in confident tones.

“Our story is entitled
The Soldier’s Return
. Imagine, if you will, the great state of New York. The war has ended, and the men of the 137th Infantry have returned to their homes in Binghamton. It is a time of mixed emotions, great joy, and deep sorrow. For these men and their families, nothing can ever be the same again. . . .”

And following this sparsest of introductions, Linus Wynter launched into his overture. It was a grand number, but not pretentious, switching between moods, from delirious joy and relief to unfathomable sorrow. It could have been comical. A blind man playing all the parts of an orchestra for a frightened boy. But somehow it was not. Conor felt himself lost in the music, and the story sprang up around him as he listened.

It was a sad yet triumphant story, with fine arias and soaring marches, and Conor clung to it for a while; but by and by, the story faded, leaving the music alone. But music must have pictures to go with it, and in Conor’s mind the pictures were of a flying machine. Heavier than air, yet soaring among the clouds, with Conor himself guiding the rudder. It could be done, and he would be the one to do it.

I will do it, he thought. I will fly, and Conor Finn will survive Little Saltee.

The third day. Billtoe arrived after the cannon, looking as though he had been dragged to work through the sewers. This, Conor was beginning to realize, was his standard appearance.

Wynter sniffed the air on hearing the hinges. “Ah, Guard Billtoe. Right on time.”

Billtoe flicked a chicken bone he had been sucking at the blind prisoner. “Here, Wynter, boil yourself some soup. And you, Conor Finn, look lively. The Pipe waits. Maybe today we’ll get some work out of you, if you’re not too occupied with the unconscious floating.”

Conor sat in his bed, feeling the itch of salt and dirt on his back. “On my way, Mister Billtoe.” He trudged to the door, searching his heart for a spark of enthusiasm for anything. Linus Wynter provided it with a farewell and a tilt of the head that served as a wink.

“Until this evening then, Conor Finn.”

Conor could not help but smile. Being part of a secret is a great source of strength. “Until this evening, when the soldier returns.”

Wynter’s face broke into a broad smile, wrinkles stretching the scars that ringed each eye like rays from the sun. “I await
The Soldier’s Return
then.”

Billtoe scowled, uncomfortable with anything more than abject depression from the convicts. “Quit with the conversation and out the door with you, Finn.”

Conor Finn left the dank cell, leaving Conor Broekhart farther behind with every step.

Malarkey was already in the bell when Conor swam under. The huge convict was squeezing water from his long hair like a washerwoman wringing towels. “Salt makes the hair brittle,” he explained, glancing at Conor from under the crook of a raised elbow. “If a man favors the long styles, he has to get as much out as he can. Sometimes I think it’s wasted work, as no one on this blinking rock gives my hair a second glance.”

Conor was not sure how to react to this genial gent who had replaced yesterday’s hired brute. “Ah . . . my mother recommends oil for brittle hair.”

Malarkey sighed. “Yes, oil. Where to get it, though; there’s the puzzle I have wrestled with for a decade.”

The man was serious, Conor realized. This was important to him. “Billtoe seems to have a ready supply. The man’s head is as greased as a wrestling pole.”

“Billtoe!” spat Malarkey. “That snake. I wouldn’t please him with a plea.”

Conor had a thought. “Well then, I have noticed that our daily stew is loaded with some form of cooking oil. A small pool collects in the bowl. I daresay it would do you more good on your head than in your stomach.”

Malarkey was thunderstruck. “God almighty, you are correct, soldier boy. There it was every day, three times a day, staring me in the mush, and me looking for oil. That’s good advice.”

“And free,” Conor added. “Though you may smell like stew.”

“What matter?” said Malarkey. “My hair will shine bright enough for a Piccadilly stroll.”

Conor shook the water from his own hair. He must, he thought, with the shaking and the caked dirt, bear more than a passing resemblance to a vagabond mutt. It was time to look to his appearance. Perhaps Otto Malarkey was the man to quiz on hygiene.

Malarkey finished with his hair and threw his head back. “Now,” he said in a more serious tone, “we have unfinished business.”

Conor tensed. Was it time for another row? Some students needed more than one pass at a lesson before the information took hold. He placed a hand on the butt of the Devil’s Fork in his belt. “What business is that? More paid beatings?”

“No, soldier boy, no!” said Malarkey hurriedly. “Your solution to that affair is a sound one. We fake the entire thing for a fortnight. You keep mum, and that is that. Saves my knuckles and your head, best all ’round. A pity I didn’t think of it before now. I could have saved myself the pain of arthritis. Between the aching joints and brittle hair, this place will be the death of me.”

Conor relaxed somewhat, but left his hand on the fork. “I knew a cook on Great Saltee who suffered from arthritis. She always swore that willow bark is good for joint pain, if you can get it.”

Malarkey nodded. “Willow bark?”

“Grind it into your stew, or simply suck on a piece. Though it is hard on the stomach.”

“No worries on that score. I could digest a live bear with barely a twinge.”

Conor frowned. “So then, what is this
business
?”

“I talked to Pike,” said Malarkey, hiking a thumb at the bell porthole. “We decided that it would be best to do a little work before I knock you senseless. So, I thought we might dig around a bit, find a few stones, then take our ease for a while. Following that, I drag you on out of here, and no one is any the wiser. How does that sound for a plan?”

Conor was about to agree, but then thought on his new identity. Conor Finn was a young devil, and would not be satisfied without profit. “It’s a passable plan. Most of the elements are there, but what of the three pounds you were paid to beat me?”

Malarkey was ready for this line. “One for you, two for me.”

“I prefer the other way around.”

“I have a proposition,” said Malarkey. “We go straight down the middle, if you teach me how to use that fork the way you do. Proper fencing is a powerful tool. I could earn some real money, nail me a few officers.” It was clear in Malarkey’s face that he was eager for this arrangement.

“And can you keep the Battering Rams from slipping a blade between my ribs?” asked Conor.

Otto Malarkey shrugged back his long hair. “There’s only one way to guarantee that.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing the horned ram tattoo. “You must take the ink. Only members of the brotherhood are safe. I’ll stand for you, if you teach me fencing. I could say you took the beatings and have Irish blood in you, though your accent is well-bred Saltee. A Kilmore mum, maybe? I think that you’re below army age, but that don’t matter to the Battering Rams. If you’re big enough to hold a pistol, you’re big enough to fire one.”

Joining the Rams was a sticking point. Conor Broekhart would never take up with a criminal gang; but then again, Conor Finn would. “I’ll take your ink, but I won’t pay any dues nor swear an oath.”

Malarkey laughed. “Oath! The only oaths we have in the Rams are foul ones. As for dues, the fencing lessons will do enough.”

Conor rubbed his bicep where the tattoo would sit. “Very well, Otto Malarkey: we have an agreement. I expect the money tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow,” said Malarkey. “From now on, you will be searched every day. Wait until you carry the ram on your arm, then certain guards have hazy allegiances. Their search will be less thorough, for the right price, of course.”

Already Malarkey was proving useful. It could well be that the man’s idle chatter would be a fair trade for a few fencing lessons. “Very well, Malarkey, after the tattoo is dry. Until then, we fence and dig. First fencing, while the mind is sharp.” Conor extended his trident, flicking his left arm up behind him.

Malarkey mimicked the stance. “So, Conor Finn, you’ll teach me everything you know?”

“Not everything,” said Conor, smiling tightly. “If I did that, then
you
could kill
me
.”

Billtoe waited until Conor supposedly regained consciousness before leading him back to his cell through the subterranean hallways of Little Saltee. For the first time since his arrival, Conor took careful account of his surroundings, counting each step, noting each door and window.

This section of the prison had a bowed look, as if the entire wing had dropped a floor since its construction. Walls leaned in overhead, and the floor sank like a drain. Stone arches had lost their soffits or keystones and stood crookedly like the efforts of a child’s building blocks. The walls were dotted with pitch patches where water had wormed its way through the cracks. Dozens more rivulets had yet to be filled. A gurgling saltwater stream ran down the center of the collapsed floor.

“Pretty, ain’t it,” said Billtoe, taking note of Conor’s roving eye. “This place could flood at any second, they say. Of course, they have been saying that since long before I put on the uniform. If I was you, I’d try to escape this hellhole. That’s always good for a giggle. You should see what desperate men are willing to try. Jumping off the wall is a favorite. The crabs never go hungry on Little Saltee. Tunneling is another one. Tunneling! I ask you. Where does these turf heads think they are? The middle of a meadow? We got barely a spoonful of clay on this island, and yet we have these gaol-crazed prisoners spending every waking minute sniffing out a vein. I tell you straight, little soldier, if you
do
find some earth on Little Saltee, then you should plant yourself some vegetables.”

Conor knew not to interrupt. After all, in a previous existence he had learned that information saved lives, and there was a wealth of information to be gathered about this place. Luckily, Guard Billtoe seemed eager to dish it out just as fast as he could get it out of his flapping mouth.

He pushed Conor down a corridor, a full step lower than the rest. The floor ran off at a gentle gradient, water actually flowing under some of the doors.

“Home again, fiddle dee dee,” sang Billtoe. “The lunatic wing. We got all sorts here. Deaf, dumb, blind. One-legged, one-armed. Fellas what have got a bump on the noggin. Every class of lunatic you care to mention. We got one fellow who doesn’t do words. Just numbers. All bloomin’ day, numbers. Tens and hundreds, thousands even. Like a bloomin’ banker he is. Don’t even know his name, so we call him Numbers— clever, eh?”

Conor stored that nugget. A numbers man could be useful if his counting meant something. There were calculations in any plan.

They arrived at Conor’s cell door. Conor noticed the steel hinges and heavy locks. Billtoe turned a key in the lock. “Big door, ain’t it? These doors are about the only thing we keep repaired around here.” He winked at Conor. “Couldn’t have you simpletons running around during the night, spooking each other with your crying for Mummy and counting and such. I like it better when you stay in your cell and howl.” Billtoe wiped an imaginary tear from his cheek. “It sounds like a choir of angels. Helps me sleep during my time on the island.”

The man was an animal. Base and foul. In a just world he would be the prisoner and Conor a free man. The door swung open, helped along by the slant of the wall. “In you go, Salt. Enjoy being on your lonesome.”

Conor was halfway down the ramped floor before the words registered. He turned, but the door was already closing. “On my lonesome? Where is Mr. Wynter?”