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 Civil War has ended and the men of the One Hundred and Thirty-Seventh 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 tale, 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 further 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 under the crook of a raised elbow. ‘If a man favours 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 dare say 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?’