Novel - Airman by Eoin Colfer Page B

name out of the investigation, Declan Broekhart will owe me his reputation—and so you have made him loyal to me. For that, I thank you.” Bonvilain leaned closer, his face stretched in pantomime sadness. “But I have to tell you that he hates you now, and so will Isabella when I tell her my version of tonight’s events. Your father, I would go so far as to say, would kill you himself if I would allow it. But that’s family business and none of mine. I should let him tell you himself.”
    And with that, Bonvilain hooked up the lunatic box’s bridle and threaded the manacle chain through a ring on the wall. He stood, his knees cracking; his huge frame filling the cell; his broad, scarred brow suddenly thoughtful.
    “You would think I suffer, with all the people I have killed, the hundreds of lives I have destroyed. Should not demons visit me at night? Should I not be tormented by guilt? Sometimes I lie still in my bed and wait for judgment, but it never arrives.”
    Bonvilain shrugged. “Then again, why should it? Perhaps I am a good man. After all, Socrates said: ‘There is only one good, knowledge; and one evil, ignorance.’ So, as I am not ignorant, I must be good.” He winked. “Do you think that argument will fool Saint Peter?”
    Conor realized at that moment that Bonvilain was, in a very dangerous way, completely mad.
    Bonvilain came back to the present. “Anyway, let us continue the philosophical discussion some other time. Why don’t I fetch your father? I fancy he has a few words for his errant son.” Bonvilain strode jauntily from the cell, whistling a Strauss waltz, conducting with an index finger.
    Conor was left on the floor, neck aching from the weight of his cage. But in spite of the pain, there was now a spark of hope. His father would see through this charade, surely. Declan Broekhart was nobody’s fool, and would not leave his son to wallow in a filthy cell. In minutes, Conor felt certain, he would be free to expose Bonvilain as a murderer.
    Bonvilain had not even bothered to close the cell door. A moment later, he shepherded Declan Broekhart into the room. Conor had never seen his father so distressed. Declan’s back, usually ramrod straight, was hunched and shuddering and he held on to Bonvilain like an old man leaning on his nurse. The face was the worst thing. It was dragged down by grief: eyes, mouth, and wrinkles running like candle wax.
    “Here he is,” said Bonvilain softly, with great compassion. “This is he. Just a few seconds.”
    Conor inched along the wall, straightening himself. Father , he tried to say. Father, help me. But all that emerged from between his swollen, hampered lips were thin groans.
    Declan Broekhart loomed over him, tears dripping from his chin. “Because of you,” he whispered. “Because of you . . .” Then he lunged at Conor, reaching not to embrace but to kill. Bonvilain was ready for it. He restrained Declan Broekhart with strong arms.
    “Now, Declan. Be strong. For Catherine. And for young Isabella. We all need you. The Saltees need you.” As he said this, Hugo Bonvilain peered over Broekhart’s shoulder and winked merrily. This combination of grief and lunacy were like physical blows to young Conor. He recoiled from his father, drawing his knees to his chin. What was happening? Was the world mad?
    Declan Broekhart gathered himself, dragging a sleeve across his brow.
    “Very well, Hugo,” he said haltingly. “I am composed now. You were right. That wretch is nothing to me. Nothing. His death would not restore anything. Little Saltee can deal with him. Let us leave here; my wife needs me.”
    Wretch? His father was calling him a wretch.
    “Of course, Captain Broekhart, Declan. Of course.” And so Bonvilain led him out. Two soldiers together, comrades in grief.
    What? What was this? Declan? Little Saltee? Conor used the last of his strength to moan around his mouth strap, calling his father back. And his father did turn back, if only for a