Conor knotted the skiff’s stern line to a mussel boat, and tossed the anchor into the half tide. It fizzed, bubbled, then sank quickly, bearing with it three securely fastened satchels of diamonds. Conor skipped across the prows of half a dozen bobbing fishing boats, before hauling himself to the quayside flagstones with the aid of a brass hitching ring.
He strolled nonchalantly along the quay, flicking his eyes upwards to the Wall guards. Whatever else grew slack and haphazard, Declan Broekhart would not allow his sharpshooters to lower their standards. Four guards stood atop the Wall, their wind capes fluttering around them. Conor saw the glint of a barrel and he knew that at the first sign of belligerence a warning shot would kick up sparks and slivers at his feet, at the second sign he would be dead before his body hit the water. He moved slow and easy with both hands in plain sight.
The quayside walkway curled the length of the outer wall to a cobbled market area, which would be bustling with stalls during the day. Merchants, innkeepers and housewives converged on the market each morning to fill their baskets with mackerel, cod, pollock, mussels, lobster, crab, crayfish and salmon. Boats arrived empty from Kilmore and left full or vice versa, depending on which crew had the run of the waters that day.
By evening, the air was tangy with smells of turning fish and salt. Scrubbers pumped water from the harbour, hosing the blood and guts into the sea. Most young lads on the Saltees had done their time as scrubbers, armed with stout bristled brushes and the energy of youth, they scrubbed the grime from the flagstones, only for them to be splattered crimson once more the following day.
Conor walked beneath the Wall arch, past a Customs booth.
‘Anything?’ asked the guard.
Conor raised his empty palms. ‘Just a raging thirst, sir, and a rendezvous with my sweetheart.’
The guard smiled. ‘Ah, the beer and Bessies. Two good reasons to visit the Saltees. It’s not your first time inside the Wall, then?’
Ahead, on the hill, the palace turrets poked into the night, blotting out patches of stars.
‘No, sir. I’ve been here before.’
As a boy, Conor had not spent every minute lost in his studies. He’d passed his share of time up to his armpits in mud and seaweed. He’d climbed cliffs, built dams and on occasion stolen eggs from the puffins that waddled along the flat rocks like clockwork toys.
These manly endeavours sometimes caused him to miss his curfew, and when this happened Conor would spy through the windows of the Broekhart apartments to see whether or not his father was home or even what kind of mood his parents were in.
He occupied the same spot now, straddling a gargoyle drain, ten feet off the ground across the square from the Broekhart house. Water from the salt spray trickled from the gargoyle’s mouth, painting white streaks on its twisted stone lips. Even climbing the wall brought pangs of longing for home.
My feet find the footholds in the stone. I climb this wall as though I had done it only yesterday.
The Broekhart home was quiet and dark, but for a single candle in the kitchen window. There was no sign of his parents.
It is late, I suppose.
Conor was greatly disappointed, but relieved too. The knot of nerves in his stomach was tighter now than it had been during his balloon flight from prison. He knew that if he had seen his parents in abject misery, it would have been almost impossible not to venture inside and reveal the truth.
They hate me now, Mother and Father both, but it is a false hate. Manufactured. Underneath there will still be love.
Inside the Broekhart dwelling, a shadow drifted into the kitchen. Conor felt his pulse throb in his forehead.
Perhaps my mother cannot sleep; nightmares haunt her, as they do me.
It was his mother. Catherine Broekhart drifted past the window, her hair sleep dishevelled. Her eyes were half closed, and both hands waved the air, until her eyes adjusted to the sudden light.
Mother. Oh, Mother.
The simple sight of her tore down the barriers Conor had erected round his heart. It was time to end Bonvilain’s cruel charade. The consequences were on the marshall’s head, not Conor’s.
He shifted his weight, to dismount the gargoyle, then froze. His father had entered the kitchen and he was not alone. There was a child in his arms, tousled toddler, lower lip jutted with bad temper.
A child. My brother.
His father was not the broken man he imagined. Declan Broekhart wore a familiar smile as he coddled the little boy, wrapping him in the sleeve of his robe. He spoke, and through the open window Conor recognized his tone even if he couldn’t quite make out the words.
My father is happy.
Catherine poured a mug of water for the little boy, and they fussed over him together, sitting by the fireplace while he had his drink. Gradually the child’s temper softened, as the memory of his nightmare was replaced by the sight of two loving parents.
Outside on the gargoyle, Conor felt scalped, as though the final remnants of Conor Broekhart had been cut away.
A child. A brother.
Things were not as he had imagined them. It seemed as though he was the only one suffering. His parents had rediscovered happiness with their new son.
The cold of the stone gargoyle spread through his thighs, creeping up into his chest. Salty spray fell in sheets over the Wall drenching his jacket, the chill soaking through to his shoulders.
They have a good life, thought Conor. They are happy again.
Conor knew that he could not reveal himself, or the truth.
Bonvilain would kill them without a second’s hesitation. It would be my fault.
Conor turned his face away from the window and swung himself down from the gargoyle.
I am Conor Finn, he told himself, taking quick determined steps towards the harbour.
The airman flies one more time. Two bags of diamonds and then America.
Forlorn Point
Linus Wynter was busy when Conor reached the tower. He had completely rearranged the sleeping chamber to his personal preference. There was hot chocolate on the stove, along with a pot of bacon and potatoes and he was stitching a seam on the sleeve of his dress coat.
‘It’s the middle of the night,’ said Conor, climbing through the elevated door.
Linus tapped his temple. ‘It’s always night for me, boy. I sleep when I am tired.’
Conor peered down into the cellar. ‘Why do you bother to move the furniture? We leave in a few days, I told you this.’
‘In a few days? Your precious flying machine is not finished.’
When Conor was not patching the wings on his glider, he spent every minute constructing the aeroplane he had designed in prison, complete with petrol engine and retractable landing gear.
‘It is almost complete. Anyway, if needs be, I can ship it to America.’
‘We’re not tethered to one another,’ said Linus, laying the needle against his finger to find the ripped seam. ‘Maybe I’ll stay behind and save your family myself.’
‘My family don’t need saving. They live in a palace with a new son.’
This gave Linus pause. He listened for Conor’s breathing, then walked carefully towards him, feeling for his shoulders.
‘You are so tall,’ he said, surprised. ‘Victor said you would be. Long bones, Frenchy always said. So you have yourself a little brother. That is wonderful news. Wouldn’t you like to meet him before you leave?’