Eoin Colfer - Airman

Conor mumbled his reply. ‘She’s a diving bell.’

‘No, turf head. She’s a…’ Billtoe was frustrated to have his information stolen. He poked Conor in the chest with a rigid finger. ‘Yes, she is a diving bell. And because you know all about it you can be first into her. Flora has been out of service for several years, but I’m sure all is well with her fittings.’

Conor forced himself to study the bell, though all he wanted to do was clasp his knees in a quiet corner and cry for the bad luck that had cursed him. The bell seemed sound enough, though deeply gouged by stone in several places. She was suspended by a network of chains that hitched to an iron hoop dangling over its prow. The hoop in turn fed half a dozen more chains to the scaffolding above. The chains seemed as ancient as the bell, with several rust-dappled links shedding flakes as they swung. A cracked rubber hose poked from the top of the bell, snaking upwards to a hand-cranked bellows affair, which Conor presumed to be an ancient air pump. The pump was being cranked by two inmates. One was racked with consumptive coughing fits and the other paused regularly to spit tobacco phlegm on to the rocks. Not the ideal pair for the job. Conor would not rely on either to supply enough oxygen to fuel the lungs of a small dog.

Billtoe stepped well back and called out his command to a guard above.

‘Lower her down. Do not break the hose or the warden will tan all our hides.’

The diving bell descended in fits, according to the strength of the inmates bearing the strain and the clumsy coiling of chains on the previous use. Some of the links had fused in tangled knots and now popped free sending the diving bell lurching and swinging. The cavern walls resounded with irregular clangs and bongs, causing anyone with free hands to cover their ears.

‘Hell’s bells, man!’ Billtoe called up to his comrade. ‘It sounds like drunk day in Saint Christopher’s in here.’

Saint Christopher had been adopted by the Trudeaus as the Saltees’ patron saint. The church on Great Saltee bore his name.

‘It ain’t my fault, Billtoe,’ retorted the guard. ‘She’s coming, ain’t she. Mind I don’t land her on your head.’

It was said only in jest, but Billtoe stepped aside smartish just the same. Flora swung lower, like a skittish baby monkey on a rope, until eventually she splashed into the black water, sending wave rings rushing to the rocks.

‘Every day,’ sighed Billtoe, mopping his brow with a kerchief. ‘We have to go through this blasted rigmarole every day from this out.’ He turned his attention and annoyance to the prisoners at the pumps.

‘Crank! You apron-tugging, turnip-brained scatterfools.’

‘Yes, boss,’ they mumbled, and set to pumping the bellows, sending air through the rubber hose and into the bell itself. The hose wriggled and flipped as the air inflated it slightly.

The bell sank slowly into the sea, emitting a curious shivering hum as the water caressed its surface.

Billtoe elbowed Conor. ‘You hear that, soldier boy? We call that the siren’s song . Because it’s the last sound many of you Salts hear. Lord, I had forgotten how soothing it was.’

A band of glass with rubber seals was set into the diving bell’s dome. The window was covered with a scree of algae and filth that made it impossible to see through.

Billtoe followed Conor’s gaze. ‘Yes, pity about that port. Filthy as a beggar’s britches. We won’t be seeing much of what goes on in there today. I do hope and pray there are no unfortunate accidents.’

Conor had little doubt that whatever was coming would be unfortunate for him, but it would be no accident. Billtoe meant to break him in the bell. This whole affair was becoming nightmarish. He recoiled from the guard as he would from a brandished torch.

‘What are you twitching for, boy?’ asked Billtoe. ‘Crazed so soon? You’d best be keeping your wits about you in the bell.’

Surprisingly, these were bordering on words of wisdom from the prison guard. They were meant as a warning and Conor took them as one. Whatever his problems, he’d best forget them until he was safe in his cell. Linus Wynter would help him to survive this hellhole, but only if he lived long enough to see him again. While Conor did not believe that the traitor Bonvilain wished him dead, perhaps there was a kind of sheep that did not follow orders so well.

‘What do I need to do?’ he asked Billtoe, best to be as prepared as possible.

Billtoe was happy to deliver a lecture. ‘We lower Flora on to the pipe, then you goes down with your partner and chip off diamonds. Simple as bread pudding.’ He barked at an inmate loitering at the waterline. ‘You, fish bait. Give him your belt.’

The man placed a protective hand on his belt. ‘But, boss. I been polishing these tools for years. Got ’em from my dad.’

Billtoe tapped his head, as though there was water lodged in his ears.

‘What’s this chattering? I hear the chattering of a dead man. Must be leaking through his punctured neck.’

Two seconds later, the leather belt was in Conor’s hands. Billtoe ran through the tools.

‘You got your pick hammer for breaking down the rock. Hammer the rock, then pick out the diamonds, which will resembled nothing more than glassy marbles. Don’t worry about breaking the diamonds, you won’t be able to, because they’re the…’

‘Hardest substance in nature,’ said Conor automatically.

‘Hardest substance in nature,’ continued Billtoe, then scowled. He reached over and cuffed Conor on the temple. ‘Don’t be supplying me with information that I am supplying to you. That is a very annoying trait, which I would relish beating out of you.’

Conor nodded, ignoring the pain in his head, just as he was ignoring the other pains.

‘This here,’ said Billtoe proudly, pointing to a little trident tool, ‘is a Devil’s Fork. Invented on this very island by one Arthur Billtoe over twenty years ago. Got me a job for life, this little beauty did. Plus Marshall Bonvilain himself granted me a house on Great Saltee. It’s tele… tele…’

‘Telescopic,’ said Conor, thinking that if Billtoe could not even pronounce the word telescopic, it was unlikely that he had invented a telescopic tool. More likely he had stolen the idea from an inmate.

‘Exactly, telescopic. On the tip of me tongue, it was.’

Billtoe slipped the fork from its holder and twisted a few rings, extending the tool from eight inches to three feet.

‘Now, yer can wriggle this little beauty into cracks and spear any stones what has fallen down there. Amazing, eh?’

Conor knew enough to nod, though an extendable fork was hardly amazing in anyone’s book. It was practical though, and canny, and proved that Bonvilain knew a good idea when he saw one.

‘So all you have to do, Salt, is swim down there into the bell and dig out as many diamonds as you can until your swing is over. Stash them in your net and bring them back up. Simple as bread pudding. Naturally we search all the divers, and if we find any stones outside of that net, then I find the biggest bull of a guard on the island and have him flog the thievery out of you. Straight enough for you, little soldier?’

Conor nodded, wondering how close the pipe was to open sea.

Once more, Billtoe displayed a disturbing ability to anticipate Conor’s very thoughts.

‘Of course, you may decide to swim for it. The lure of freedom may be too strong for you. Feel free to give it your best. You may even make it – mind you, you’d be the first, and bigger men than you have tried. We still get bodies washing up in the cave, decades after they went in. And do you know something? They all look the same way. Dead.’