The Hangman's Revolution by Eoin Colfer Read Free Book Online Page B

everyday item.
    “Fools, cretins, idiots. Take yer pick.” The tattooist slapped his own forehead. “Listen to me. Yer pick. Take your pick. I have been undercover for so long…you have no idea. Sometimes I don’t know what day of the week it is.”
    Pooley was sneaking a knife from his boot, so Farley shot him in the heart, barely pausing to draw a bead.
    “No loss, that one,” said Farley. “No wailing outside Highgate for him.”
    The gunshot echoed to the rafter, fading with each balcony until it became a whisper of its former self, and Pooley was dead where he sat, life leaving him with the wisp of smoke that drifted from the hole in his chest.
    “A revolver,” said Malarkey, conversational in his surprise. “I never knew you were in possession of a revolver. American, is it?”
    Inhumane began to sob, fat tears collecting in his deep eye sockets before spilling down his cheeks. “I don’t understand.”
    For once, the giant imbecile was not alone in his state of mind. Only one person understood what was going on here, and he was the one with the bullets. Malarkey was struck to petrification, not on account of fear but from sheer disbelief. Otto Malarkey had been a war baby, born on the outskirts of the Balaclava battleground during the Crimean War. Gunfire and cannon shot were his lullaby. So it was not the thunderclap of Farley’s revolver that rooted Malarkey to his seat, it was the shock that the tattooist would first call him a fool and then shoot one of his soldiers.
    “Farley, man, what are you doing?”
    “What am I doing?” said Farley. “You’re dressed like Elton John in the court of Louis XV, and you’re asking me what I’m doing? You’ve got a powdered wig on, Otto.”
    Malarkey pawed the wig from his crown. “I had an inkling this was ridiculous. Why do none of you coves tell me true when I asks yer opinions? And what is an Elton John, in the name of God?”
    Farley ignored the question, instead speaking into his wrist as though a fairy were concealed within.
    “I have them, Colonel. All together, the entire inner circle. And the boy, as a bonus. We won’t get another opportunity like this, sir.”
    He waited a moment, cocking his head as though an unseen specter was whispering in his ear. And this attitude of speaking into his wrist and listening to the air rang a bell in Riley’s memory.
    I have seen this before, he realized. Or rather, I will see it in the future. Did not Chevie’s comrades in the FBI communicate in this fashion?
    Before he could fully untie the riddle-knot, Farley received his answer.
    “I know all that, sir. But I strongly suggest moving up our schedule. The FBI sent Savano, and they could send someone else. So either we move or we dismantle the wormhole landing plate in Half Moon Street.” He waited again, pacing in the aisle.
    “Thank you, sir,” he said, then sighed with a relief that seemed to wipe ten years off his age. “You won’t regret it, sir.”
    “Out of his noggin,” whispered Malarkey. “The man is talking to the air.”
    Riley tugged the fitted sheet from his head. Farley was not out of his noggin. Farley was not who he pretended to be. He was acting like a new man. Gone was his deferential demeanor, his air of quiet compassion. Shoulders that had been hunched from long hours of needlework were now ramrod straight. His eyes were bright with new purpose.
    No. Not new purpose—revealed purpose.
    “You have no idea, King Otto,” Farley said, leveling the weapon specifically at Malarkey, “how long I have waited for this. All these years I have been listening to your delusional claptrap. Rabbiting on like you were the Chosen One. Well, today, you get to meet your god and find out just how chosen you are.” Farley dropped his voice down to his boots in a reasonable impersonation of King Otto. “ ‘Update me price list—there’s a decent cove, Farley.’ ‘Fetch me a pie from Old Lady Numpty—there’s a nice monkey, Farley.’