‘Don’t you waste your legendary compassion, Arthur,’ said Pike, rubbing his hairless head.
Billtoe glanced sharply at his comrade. Was that wit? No, surely not from a man who thought that electricity was a gift from the fairies.
‘No, worry not. It’s Finn and Malarkey on the night shift.’
Billtoe nodded. Finn and Malarkey. Those two were the best pair of miners ever to work the bell. Young Finn was the brains of the pair no doubt, but whatever he pointed to, Malarkey would dig up with the strength of a giant.
And to think, two years ago when Conor Finn arrived on Little Saltee, he’d been little more than a scrap of a boy destined for a stitched-up canvas bag and a burial at sea. Now he was a force in the Battering Rams and one of the main sources of income for Billtoe himself.
Billtoe cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be searching Finn and Malarkey myself, Pike.’
Pike winked slyly. ‘As is your habit, Arthur.’
Billtoe ignored the insolence. It wouldn’t do to get into an argument about private diamond stashes, but he silently resolved to mark Pike down for supervision of the sewage works. It was bad enough that Pike’s comments were bordering on insolent, but Billtoe had also heard whispers that Pike was selling information to the Kilmore arm of the Battering Rams without cutting in his old friend Arthur Billtoe.
Billtoe leaned over the edge, peering down into the lamplit abyss. The bell glowed and shimmered in the dark waters, humming with every stroke of the current. Through the filthy porthole he could see vague movements and shadows. Finn and Malarkey mining, he presumed.
Best of luck, Salts. Bring back a goose egg for Uncle Arthur.
Billtoe spat a second wad of chewed tobacco, and this time it sailed into the hole, landing on the bell’s rubber air hose.
‘Hmmm,’ he grunted proudly, winking at Pike. Then he strode to the ladder, trying to project an air of incorruptibility. He wanted to be on the rocks when Finn and Malarkey surfaced.
‘Here, Arthur,’ Pike called after him. ‘You’re walking funny. Was it that herring?’
Billtoe scowled. He would have to do something about Pike. ‘No, you hunchbacked, hairless son of a circus oddity. I am being incorruptible.’
‘That would have been my second guess,’ said Pike, who like many dullards had a streak of sharp wit in him.
Conor Finn and Otto Malarkey fought like demons inside the diving bell. Their makeshift swords sang as they cut the air and sparked along each other’s shafts. Both men perspired freely, breathing so deeply that the water level rose at their feet. They were sucking in air faster than the pump could supply it.
‘Your balestra is clumsy,’ panted Conor. ‘More grace, Otto. You are not a hog in a pen.’
Malarkey smiled tightly. ‘Hogs are dangerous animals, Conor. If you are not careful, they can run you through.’
And with that, he abandoned the rules of fencing, dropping his blade and charging his opponent, arms spread.
Conor reacted quickly, dropping to his stomach and rolling underwater, knocking Malarkey’s legs from under him. The big man went down heavily, clanging his temple against the bell curve on his way down. By the time he recovered his bearings, Conor had his trident jammed under his chins.
‘Your hair looks well,’ said Conor. ‘A healthy shine.’
Malarkey preened. ‘You’re not the only one to notice. I’ve been eating the oily fish, as you suggested. It’s costing me a fortune in bribes and I hate the stuff, but with results like this I will suffer the taste.’
Conor helped Malarkey to his feet. ‘You need to practise the balestra. It is a dancer’s leap, not a drunken stumble. But, apart from that, your progress is good.’
Malarkey rubbed his head. ‘Yours too. That was a neat little roll just then. The king of the tinkers couldn’t have done it sweeter. I have never seen a fighter like you, Conor. There’s the sword which is mostly Spanish, but with some French. Then the proper pugilism that I would class as English. But there’s the chopping and kicking too, which I have a notion is Oriental. I saw a fellow once in the West End, gave a demonstration of that chopping and kicking. Broke a plank with his foot. At the time I thought it was trickery, but now I am glad I didn’t call him on it.’
An image of Victor flashed behind Conor’s eyes. He snuffed it out brutally.
‘I have picked up a few things in my travels,’ he said.
Malarkey huffed. ‘Typical Conor Finn. Most people in here are desperate for someone to listen to their story. Telling it to the walls they are. Not Conor Finn. Two years you’ve been instructing me, and I have learned no more than a dozen useless facts about you in that time. The most obvious being that your beard is multicoloured.’
Conor bent at the knees, examining his burgeoning beard in the water. As far as he could tell, there were strands of blond, red and even a few greys in the sparse growth. Surely grey was unusual in the beard of a sixteen-year-old boy. No matter. It gave him the appearance of someone perhaps five years older.
He had changed utterly in the past two years. Gone was the gangly skinny youth who sobbed his way through his first night of imprisonment, and in his place was a tall, muscled, flinty young man who commanded respect from inmates and guards alike. People may not like him, or seek his company, but neither would they toss insults his way or interfere with his business.
‘You should shave that beard,’ commented Malarkey. ‘All your lovely hair, then that ratty beard. People only notice the beard, you know.’
Conor straightened. His blond hair was pulled back with a thong, so that it did not interfere with his work. It had darkened a few shades since he last walked in the sunlight.
‘I am not as concerned with grooming as you, Otto. I am concerned with business. Tell me, how is our hoard?’
‘It grows,’ said Malarkey. ‘Seven bags buried we have now. All in the salsa beds.’
Conor smiled, satisfied. Billtoe had ordered the Suaeda salsa beds planted on Conor’s own advice. The plants grew like weeds, were saline resistant and provided cheap meals for the convicts. This meant a few pounds a month for Billtoe to steal from the food funds. Of course, prisoners had to be allowed to tend the beds, which was when Malarkey and his Rams buried their stolen diamonds.
‘Not that they do us much good in the earth,’ continued Malarkey. ‘Unless a diamond bush sprouts, and even then Billtoe would strip it bare.’
‘Trust me, Otto,’ said Conor. ‘I don’t intend being here forever. Somehow I will get our stones and send your share to your brother, Zeb. I promise you that, my friend.’
Otto clasped his shoulders. ‘The Rams have certain funds, but with riches on that scale my brother could bribe my way out of here. I could be a free man. I could stroll through Hyde Park with my magnificent hair.’
‘I will succeed, my friend. Or die in the attempt. If you are not free in a year, it is because I am dead.’
Malarkey did not waste his breath asking Conor for details of his plan. Conor Finn laid out his cards sparingly. Another subject then: ‘Badger Byrne has not paid his due yet,’ he said. ‘How’s about I issue a few taps?’
‘No more violence, remember. Anyway, Badger has been laid up with shingles, I hear. Let him rest a while.’
Otto Malarkey pursed his lips in frustration. ‘Rest, Conor? Rest? Always the same response with you. I haven’t dished out a beating since you took the ink.’
Conor rubbed the Battering Ram tattoo on his upper arm. ‘That’s hardly true, Otto. You near drove MacKenna into open water.’
‘True,’ admitted Malarkey, grinning. ‘But he’s a guard. And English too.’
‘All great strategists know when to use force and when to use reason. Alexander of Macedonia, Napoleon.’