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 Mister 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 consume 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 upwards. 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 tripod to its full length, tightening the rings so that the tool would not easily collapse. The tripod was roughly the same as a youth’s practice foil, but terribly balanced with the weight entirely towards 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 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 was 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, getting 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 on to all fours and breached the water like a walrus.
Conor’s breath came fast. Strike now, or the moment was past and he had his two shilling’s 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 step ladder and climbed on to 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 here 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 pipe’s blockage.