One of the diamond pouches slipped from inside the harness, clinking on the shale. To Conor, the sound seemed louder than a gunshot. He squatted low in the skiff’s shadow, then gathered the bag to his chest like a babe, scanning the Wall for movement. There was none, but the liquid shimmer of lamplight.
Take care, airman. One mistake could see you on the ferry back to Little Saltee.
He stowed the pouches under the aft bench and laid his collapsed glider gently on the deck. Then something happened that made him smile.
Conor stood straight, raising his palm to feel the breeze.
The wind has changed. I can sail directly to Kilmore.
He slid the skiff along the shale to the lapping waterline.
Still waters and a fair wind. Good omens.
Conor felt the water raise the skiff, and hopped on board, the deck shuddering under his weight. With one hand he untied the sail, shaking it loose of the mast, with the other he grasped the extended tiller, setting a course wide around the west coast of Little Saltee.
Home in an hour, he thought. Perhaps Linus would play something. Music is a tonic for the soul.
Conor’s sail caught the breeze, pulling the small skiff across the waves.
A good boat. She skips along.
He sailed for his new home, forcing himself not to look back. Nothing behind but heartache.
From high in the rocks, Arthur Billtoe watched the strange airman depart. And though a sharp rock pressed into the guard’s stomach, he would not so much as twitch until the man he had believed to be a demon had disappeared completely round the bend of Little Saltee’s coastline.
Pike did not have the necessary concentration span for such caution; he had relieved himself and was skipping stones into the surf before Billtoe joined him at the groove sliced by the skiff’s keel in the shale.
‘Dunno why they call it Sebber Bridge,’ muttered Pike. ‘It’s not a bridge is it? Just a spit of stones going out into the current.’
‘It used to be a bridge, thousands of years ago,’ said Billtoe, the words rattling nervously out of him. ‘Before the sea washed it away. Went from here to Little Saltee, then from there on to Saint Patrick’s Bridge on the mainland.’
‘That airman really turns your backbone soft, don’t he, Arthur?’ said Pike, changing the subject.
‘He had a sword at my neck. A ruddy big sword, none of your fencing namby-pamby pinprickers. This thing could take the top off an oak tree.’
‘He’s a man, though, Arthur. You seen it yourself. Those wings of his are some sort of kite. That’s all.’
‘That’s all!’ said Billtoe incredulously. ‘You idiot! Don’t you realize what we have just witnessed?’
‘Idiot? Arthur, idiot?’ said Pike, injured. ‘I took away your devil, didn’t I? You can sleep again because of my gift. Idiot seems a bit harsh.’
‘Not harsh enough,’ snapped Billtoe, who was fast forgetting his fear. ‘That man has a flying device. Have you any idea how much the Battering Rams would pay for that? They could just drop into whatever port they pleased, and hang Customs. A device like that would change smuggling forever.’
Pike cleared his throat. ‘As it happens, I knows a few gents who might have ties to the Rams. Possibly.’
Billtoe clamped a hand over Pike’s mouth, as though the gents in question could somehow hear. ‘No. No. We don’t involve the Rams until we have those wings locked up safe somewhere. Otherwise those treacherous coves would nab the wings themselves and feed us to the sharks. What we want is to get ourselves into a strong bargaining position.’
Pike shrugged off Billtoe’s hand, which stank of sweat and worse. It was clear to him that they were friends no more. It was business as usual for Arthur Billtoe, which meant that Pike was back to being a lackey to be abused.
‘Whatever you say, Arthur.’
‘That’s-’
‘I know, that’s Mister Billtoe to me.’
He turned to the sea, skipping one of the stones in his hand across the surface.
Typical Arthur Billtoe. I took away his devil, and he forgets it with the first sniff of a payoff. I thought it was Pikey and Billtoe to the end. How wrong I was.
Throwing the stones calmed him, each successful skip reminding him of his childhood. He was reaching back for a big throw when Billtoe grabbed his arm, then wrestled the stone from his fingers.
‘Where did you get this?’ he demanded, excitement reddening his cheeks.
Pike wondered was this one of those questions that weren’t really questions, and if he answered it, would he look stupid?
‘It’s a stone, Arthur… Mister Billtoe. I just picked it up.’
Billtoe dropped to his knees, scrabbling in the shale until he found half a dozen more stones that pleased him. He held them in his cupped palms, like a tramp guarding his egg breakfast.
‘Arthur. Are you feeling ill? Would you like me to collect a few more stones for you? I saw a nice piece of wood further along.’
Billtoe was too happy to be annoyed. ‘These are not just stones, Pikey. These are rough diamonds. That’s why our airman was stopping off on Little Saltee. He’s a diamond smuggler.’
He rubbed his hands together, clinking the diamonds like voodoo bones.
‘Are you trying to tell the future with those things?’ joked Pike, the naked greed in Billtoe’s eyes making him nervous.
‘I know the future,’ said Billtoe. ‘We round up a few of the boys, we ambush this airman, sell his wings and steal his diamonds.’
‘What about the airman? We let him go free I suppose.’
Billtoe elbowed him good-naturedly. ‘Nice one, Pikey. Let him go free. No, we kill him, cut him into little pieces and then burn the pieces. As far as the world is concerned, this airman never existed.’
Pike swallowed. All this talk of blood made him nervous. He resolved there and then never to invent anything useful, or Billtoe might orchestrate a gruesome end for him too.
CHAPTER 15: HOME
There was almost perfect peace as Conor sailed the skiff north-north-east between the Jackeen and Murrock Rocks in the Saltee Straits. These rocks spent most of their lives submerged, but sometimes a trough dipped low, exposing their flattened peaks. When the five-year-old Conor had first seen these gnarled oblong shapes one evening on the patrol boat with his father, he was convinced they were crocodiles and would not be calm until Declan agreed to fire a warning shot. Sure enough, the crack of gunfire did the trick and the two crocodiles sank below the waters.
This little story had become one for the fireside, and it was dusted off whenever a friend visited for brandy or lemonade. It had always made Conor scowl, but now it near drove him to tears.
I cannot endure this. They are too close.
His mother’s face seemed to hover before him, calling him home, and he could ignore her no longer. No doubt she suffered as much as he did, perhaps more. He needed to know.
If I could just see them. Look on their faces once more before I leave, to make sure they endure.
Conor nudged the tiller with his knee, and tightened the sail for a south-west tack. He was going home.
From a distance, Saltee Harbour seemed much as Conor remembered it. A grand tiara, points shining silver and orange. Inside the pincers of the sea walls, it was clear that some of the tiara’s lustre had faded over the past few years. Sea slime crawled along the granite and the dock was clogged with haphazardly berthed boats, trussed together like tangled tops. The new outer-wall project had been abandoned, and the half-built structure trailed off into the sea like an eroded sand fort. The planned beacon tower was only half built and stood askew, a crumbling reminder of a past era, rather than the proud symbol of a new one. King Nicholas’s loss was being keenly felt, even here on the waterfront.