Eoin Colfer: Artemis Fowl and the Atlantis Complex

Butler winced. “There isn’t a mark on him. Not on the outside.”

Butler swore he could hear Angeline Fowl fuming. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you turning metaphorical in your dotage, man? Is Artemis hurt or not?”

Butler would have much preferred to be facing down a SWAT team than delivering this news, so he chose his words carefully. “Artemis has developed a condition, a mental condition. It’s a little like OCD.”

“Oh no,” said Angeline, and for a moment Butler thought she had dropped the phone, then he heard her breathing, fast and shallow.

“It can be controled,” he said. “We’re taking him to a clinic right now. The best clinic the fairies have. He is in absolutely no danger.”

“I want to see him.”

“You will. They’re sending someone for you.” This wasn’t actually the case, but Butler vowed that it would be, seconds after he hung up the phone. “What about the twins?”

“The nanny can sleep over. Artemis’s father is in São Paolo at a summit. I’ll have to tell him everything.”

“No,” said Butler quickly. “Don’t make that decision now. Talk to Artemis first.”

“W-will he know me?”

“Of course he will,” Butler replied.

“Very well, Butler. I’m going to pack a bag now. Tell the fairies to call when they’re ten minutes away.”

“I will do.”

“And, Butler?”

“Yes, Mrs. Fowl?”

“Look after my boy until I get there. Family is everything, you know that.”

“I do, Mrs. Fowl. I will.”

The connection was severed, and Angeline Fowl’s picture disappeared from the little screen.

Family is everything, thought Butler. If you’re lucky.

Mulch stuck his head around the door, beard dripping with some congealing liquid that seemed to have whole turnips trapped in it. His forehead was covered in bright blue burn gel.

“Hey, bodyguard. You better get down to the gymnasium. This jumbo pixie guy is killing your sister.”

“Really?” said Butler, unconvinced.

“Really. Juliet just does not seem to be herself. She can’t put two moves together. It’s pathetic, really. Everyone is betting against her.”

“I see,” said Butler, straightening as much as he could in the cramped surroundings.

Mulch held the door. “It’s going to make things really interesting when you show up to help.”

Butler grinned. “I’m not coming to help. I just want to be there when she stops faking.”

“Ah,” said Mulch, comprehension dawning on his face. “So I should switch my bet to Juliet?”

“You certainly should,” said Butler, and lumbered down the corridor, stepping around a pool of turnip soup.