dwarf spit was luminous and hardened when layered. And no one knew that a by-product of dwarf flatulence was a methane-producing bacterium called methanobre-vibacter smithь that prevented decompression sickness in deep-sea divers.
In fairness, dwarfs didn’t know this either. All they knew was that on the rare occasions when they found themselves accidentally burrowing into the open sea, the bends did not seem to affect them.
Mulch thought about it for a moment and realized that there was a way to combine all of his talents and get out of here. He had to put his ‘on the hoof plan into effect immediately before they went into the deep Atlantic trenches. Once the sub-shuttle went too deep, he would never make it.
The craft swung in a long arc until it was heading back the way it had come. The pilot would punch the engines as soon as they were outside Irish fishing waters. Mulch began to lick his palms, smoothing the spittle through his halo of wild hair.
Vishby laughed. ‘What are you doing, Diggums? Cleaning up for your cellmate?’
Mulch would have dearly loved to unhinge his jaw and take a bite out of Vishby, but the mouth ring prevented him from opening his mouth far enough to unhinge. He had to content himself with an insult.
‘I may be a prisoner, fishboy, but in ten years I’ll be free. You, on the other hand, will be an ugly bottom- feeder for the rest of your life.’
Vishby scratched his gill-rot furiously. ‘You just bought yourself six weeks in solitary, mister.’
Mulch slathered his fingers with spittle, spreading it around the crown of his head, reaching as far back as the manacles would allow. He could feel it hardening, clamping on to his head like a helmet. Exactly like a helmet. As he licked, Mulch drew great breaths of air through his nose, storing the air in his intestines. Each breath sucked air out of the pressurized space faster than the pumps could push it back in.
The marshals did not notice this unusual behaviour, and even if they had, the pair would doubtless have put it down to nerves. Deep breathing and grooming: classic nervous traits. Who could blame Mulch for being nervous — after all, he was heading back to the very place criminals had nightmares about.
Mulch licked and breathed, his chest blowing up like a bellows. He felt the pressure fluttering down below, anxious to be released.
Hold on, he told himself. You will need every bubble of that air.
The shell on his head crackled audibly now, and if the lights were dimmed, it would glow brightly. The air was growing thin, and Vishby’s gills noticed even if he didn’t. They rippled and flapped, boosting their oxygen intake. Mulch sucked again, a huge gulp of air. A bow plate clanged as the pressure differential grew.
The sprite noticed the change first. ‘Hey, fishboy.’
Vishby’s pained expression spoke of years enduring this nickname. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘OK, Vishby, keep your scales on. Is it getting hard to breathe in here? I can’t keep my wings up.’
Vishby touched his gills; they were flapping like bunting in the wind. ‘Wow. My gills are going crazy. What’s happening here?’ He pressed the cabin intercom panel.
‘Everything all right? Maybe we could boost the air pumps?’
The voice that came back was calm and professional, but with an anxious undertone that was unmistakable. ‘We’re losing pressure in the holding area. I’m trying to nail down the leak now.’
‘Leak?’ squeaked Vishby. ‘If we depressurize at this depth, the shuttle will crumple like a paper cup.’
Mulch took another huge breath.
‘Get everyone into the cockpit. Come through the airlock, right now.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Vishby. ‘We’re not supposed to untie the prisoner. He’s a slippery one.’
The slippery one took another breath. And this time a stern plate actually buckled with a crack like thunder.
‘OK, OK. We’re coming.’
Mulch held out his hands. ‘Hurry up, fishboy. We don’t all have gills.’
Vishby swiped his security card along the magnetic strip on Mulch’s manacles.
The manacles popped open. Mulch was free… as free as you can be in a prison sub with three thousand crushing metres of water overhead. He stood, taking one last gulp of air.
Vishby noticed the act.
‘Hey, convict, what are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Are you sucking in all the air?’
Mulch burped. ‘Who, me? That’s ridiculous.’
The sprite was equally suspicious. ‘He’s up to something. Look, his hair is all shiny. I bet this is one of those secret dwarf arts.’
Mulch tried to look sceptical. ‘What? Air sucking and shiny hair? I’m not surprised we kept it a secret.’
Vishby squinted at him. The marshal’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his speech was slurred from oxygen deprivation. ‘You’re up to something. Put out your hands.’
Getting shackled again now was not part of the plan. Mulch feigned weakness. ‘I can’t breathe,’ he said, leaning against the wall. ‘I hope I don’t die in your custody.’
This statement caused enough distraction for Mulch to heave one more mighty breath. The stern plate creased inwardly, a silver stress-line cracking through the paint.
All over the compartment red pressure lights flared on.
The pilot’s voice blared through the speaker. ‘Get in here!’ he shouted, all traces of composure gone. ‘She’s gonna fold.’
Vishby grabbed Mulch by the lapels. ‘What did you do, dwarf?’
Mulch sank to his knees, flicking open the bum-flap at the rear of his prison overalls. He gathered his legs together under him, ready to move.
‘Listen, Vishby,’ he said. ‘You’re a moron, but not a bad guy, so do like the pilot says and get in there.’
Vishby’s gills flapped weakly, searching for air. ‘You’ll be killed, Diggums.’
Mulch winked at him. ‘I’ve been dead before.’
Mulch could hold on to the gas no longer. His digestive tract was stretched like a magician’s animal balloon. He folded his arms across his chest, aimed the coated tip of his head at the weakened plate and let the gas loose.
The resultant emission shook the sub-shuttle to its very rivets, sending Mulch rocketing across the hold. He slammed into the stern plate, smack in the centre of the fault line, punching straight through. His speed popped him out into the ocean, perhaps half a second before the sudden change in pressure flooded the sub’s chamber. Half a second later, the rear chamber was crushed like a ball of used tinfoil. Vishby and his partner had escaped to the pilot’s cockpit just in time.
Mulch sped towards the surface, a stream of released gas bubbles clipping him along at a rate of several knots. His dwarf lungs fed on the trapped air in his digestive tract, and the luminous helmet of spittle sent out a corona of greenish light to illuminate his way.
Of course they came after him. Vishby and the water sprite were both amphibious Atlantis dwellers. As soon as they jettisoned the wreckage of the rear compartment, the marshals cleared the airlock, finning after their fugitive. But they never had a prayer. Mulch was gas-powered; they merely had wings and fins. Whatever pursuit equipment they’d had was at the bottom of the ocean, along with the rear compartment, and the cockpit’s back-up engines could barely outrun a crab.
The Atlantis marshals could only watch as their captive jetted towards the surface, mocking them with every bubble from his behind.
Butler’s mobile phone had been reduced to so many plastic chips and bits of weiring by the jump from the hotel window. This meant that Artemis could not call him if he needed immediate assistance. The bodyguard double-parked the Hummer outside the first Phonetix store he saw, and purchased a tri-band car-phone kit. Butler activated the phone on the way to the airport and punched in Artemis’s number. No good; the phone was switched off. Butler hung up and tried Fowl Manor. Nobody home, and no messages.
Butler breathed deeply, stayed calm and floored the accelerator. The drive to the airport took less than ten minutes. The giant bodyguard did not waste time returning the Hummer to the rental-agency car park, preferring to abandon it in the set-down area. It would be towed, and he would be fined, but he didn’t have time to worry about it now.
The next plane to Ireland was fully booked, so Butler paid a Polish businessman two thousand euro for his
