Eoin Colfer - Airman

Billtoe had called him Airman. That will be a short-lived title.

The glider lay on the planks, its wings folded awkwardly like those of a broken bird.

No matter. It is over now. The mysterious Airman will fly no more.

The Martello tower was visible on the Irish coastline, a lantern burning in an upstairs window. A beacon to guide him home.

Conor smiled.

Linus has forgiven me , he thought.

And then.

I hope there is hot chocolate.

Two hours later, Arthur Billtoe sat on a fruit box in Marshall Bonvilain’s office trying to hold the flaps of his wound together. His trousers were soaked and small gouts of blood pumped between his fingers in time with his heartbeat.

Marshall Bonvilain entered the room, and the gouts pumped faster.

‘Sorry about the fruit box, Arthur,’ said Hugo Bonvilain, sitting behind his desk. ‘But the brocade on my chairs is worth more to me than your life, you understand.’

‘O-of course, Marshall,’ stammered Billtoe. ‘I am bleeding, sir. It is quite serious, I think.’

Bonvilain waved this information away. ‘Yes, we will come to that later. For now, I wish to talk about this creature.’

He took a notepad from his desk drawer and spun it across the desk towards Billtoe. It was Pike’s notebook, open to a dynamic sketch of the Airman.

‘They are calling him the Airman and he can fly apparently.’

In cases like this, Billtoe had learned that it was always best to plead ignorance.

‘We was taking a walk, and he sprung himself on us. Amazed I am.’

‘Hmm. So it was all a coincidence? You just happened to be at Sebber Bridge making yourselves a target for the Wall watch, when this Airman descended from the heavens?’

Billtoe nodded eagerly. ‘That’s it exactly. You have gone straight to the nub of the matter, as usual.’

‘And did Mister Pike do his sketching before or after he was shot? I don’t see how he could have done it at either time.’ Bonvilain leaned forward, his bulk casting a shadow on Billtoe. ‘Could it be that you are lying to me, Arthur Billtoe?’

Blood pulsed between the guard’s fingers. ‘No, sir, Marshall, never.’

Bonvilain sighed, obviously enjoying his game of cat and mouse.

‘You are weaving yourself a tangled web. I think it’s best if I tell you what I think you’ve been up to, and then when I am finished speaking, you colour in any details I might have missed. How about that, Arthur?’

Billtoe nodded, as if he really had a say in proceedings.

‘So, firstly, there’s you giving me ideas for flying and salsa beds. Then there are reports of a flying man digging up things in the salsa beds. Things which Pike tells me are diamonds.’

‘Pike is raving,’ objected Billtoe. ‘Bullet fever.’

Bonvilain raised a finger. ‘No time for lies, Arthur. You’re bleeding, remember? And I have not finished speaking.’

‘Sorry,’ mumbled Billtoe.

‘Now, you are far too ignorant and short-sighted to have thought up this diamond scheme yourself…’

‘Exactly,’ said Billtoe, relieved. ‘Ignorant and shortsighted, that’s me.’

‘So you must have been manipulated by whoever supplied these ideas. Now I know of only one person on Little Saltee with a fascination for flying.’ And here Bonvilain’s easy manner was replaced by cold, hard danger. ‘Be careful what you say here, Billtoe, because if your answer displeases me, you will not live long enough to die of that leg wound… Were these ideas Conor Broekhart’s?’

‘Who?’ asked Billtoe, genuine confusion writ large on his features.

‘Finn. Conor Finn.’

Whatever blood was left in Billtoe’s face drained from it. He had always known this moment would come. Only one card left to play.

‘Yes, Marshall,’ he said, shamefacedly. ‘He sold his ideas for blankets and such. It seemed a harmless deception.’

Bonvilain grunted. ‘Until he escaped on that coronation balloon. With your help, I’ll warrant.’

‘No, sir,’ said Billtoe, squeezing the flaps of his wound together. ‘Finn is locked up in the mad wing, just as you ordered. No escaping for Conor Finn.’ Billtoe paused guiltily. ‘Though he may look a tad different than he did last time you saw him. The years have been hard on the poor lad. What with the bell work and the beatings that you ordered. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t even recognize young Conor Finn.’

Bonvilain laced his fingers, squeezing them until the tips were white, then rolling the knuckles along his forehead. He knew what had happened, of course he knew. It was his own fault.

Conor Broekhart should have been tossed out of the window years ago, not kept alive on the off chance he would be needed to control his father. What tangled webs we weave…

Bonvilain admitted to himself that he had liked the idea of having a witness to his genius. How much more agonizing must Conor Broekhart’s imprisonment have been, knowing his father believed him to be a murderer.

The marshall smiled tightly. No, it had been a good plan. Incredible circumstances had scuppered it. An Airman, if you please. How could a man prepare for eventualities that had not yet been invented.

Conor Broekhart may be a genius, but Hugo Bonvilain was ingenious. This situation was a test of his mettle. It would involve some quick thinking, but already the germ of a new plan was sprouting roots in the marshall’s mind. There would be murder involved, but that was not really an issue, except it could very well be murder at a high level, and when indulging in such murders one must seem completely blameless. European royal families did not approve of commoners disposing of their monarchs. And royal disapproval generally took the form of approaching warships and annexation. Hugo Bonvilain did not intend to share his diamonds or his seat of power with anybody, especially not with Isabella’s close friend, Queen Victoria of the British Empire.

The Bonvilains had been striving for too many centuries to reach the very position that he was in now for him to pack his satchel at the first sign of worthy opposition.

Bonvilain remembered the night his father died. He had been raving from the leprosy that he had picked up on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and much of what he had said was gibberish but there were moments when his eyes were as clear as they had ever been.

‘We have been pruning,’ he’d said to the young Bonvilain. ‘Do you know what I’m saying to you, Hugo? For centuries we have been pruning the Trudeaus. They breed like rabbits, God blast them, but we have set the crown on the right head, keeping the Saltee Islands independent. You must finish the job. You are the last in the line of servants, and the first in a line of Bonvilain masters. Promise me, Hugo. Promise me.’

And the dying man had clutched at his son’s forearm with bandaged hands.

‘I promise,’ Bonvilain had said, unable to look at the wasted remains of his father’s face.

It occurred to Bonvilain that he had been rocking in his seat, knuckles to forehead for several moments now, which may appear strange. He leaned back, tugging straight the red-crossed, white Templar stole over his navy suit.

‘That’s my thinking position, Arthur. Any objections?’

‘No, Marshall. Not a one.’

‘Glad to hear it. Anything else you care to tell me about our Airman?’

Billtoe fished inside his head for some pertinence that the marshall would appreciate.

‘Um… erm… Oh! He speaks French, calls a body mish-yoor.’

Bonvilain slammed the desk with both fists, bouncing his writing set into the air.

French. That clinched it. He had in a moment of miscalculation revealed his Francophobia to Conor Broekhart. It seemed as though the boy had a sense of humour. Best to dispose of him as soon as possible. The last thing he needed was a vindictive Airman flying around stealing his diamonds and undermining his plans.