King Rat

by James Clavell

  “I’m only saying, Grey—” Jones stopped. “Get out, Blakely. Wait outside.”

  Immediately Blakely turned for the door.

  “Stay where you are, Blakely,” Grey said. Then he glanced back at Jones, his manner deferential. “There’s no need for Blakely to go, is there, sir?”

  Jones studied him through the smoke, then said, “No. Walls don’t have ears. All right. You’ll get a pound of rice a week.”

  “Is that all?”

  “We’ll make it two pounds per week, and half a pound of dried fish. Once a week.”

  “No sugar? Or eggs?”

  “They both go to the hospital, you know that.”

  Jones waited and Grey waited and Blakely sobbed in the background. Then Grey began to leave, pocketing the weight.

  “Grey, just a minute.” Jones took two eggs and offered them to him. “Here, you’ll get one a week, along with the rest of the supplies. And some sugar.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Colonel. I’m going to go down to Colonel Smedly-Taylor and tell him what you said and I’m going to show him the weights—and if there’s a borehole party, and I pray there will be one, I’m going to be there and I’m going to shove you down, but not too fast, because I want to see you die. I want to hear you scream and see you die, for a long time. Both of you.”

  Then he went out of the hut into the sun, and the heat of the day hit him and the pain ripped through his insides. But he willed himself to walk and started slowly down the hill.

  Jones and Blakely at the door of the supply hut watched him go. And both were terrified.

  “Oh, Christ, sir, what’s going to happen?” Blakely whimpered. “They’ll string us up—”

  Jones jerked him back into the hut, slammed the door and backhanded him viciously. “Shut up!”

  Blakely was babbling on the floor and tears were streaming down his face, so Jones jerked him up and smashed him again.

  “Don’t hit me, you’ve no right to hit—”

  “Shut up and listen.” Jones shook him again. “Listen, damn you to hell. I’ve told you a thousand times to use the real weights on Grey’s inspection day, you bloody incompetent fool. Stop sniveling and listen. First, you’re to deny that anything was said. You understand? I made no offer to Grey, you understand?”

  “But sir—”

  “You’re to deny it, you understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. We’ll both deny it and if you stick to the story I’ll get us out of this mess.”

  “Can you? Can you, sir?”

  “I can if you deny it. Next. You know nothing about the weights and neither do I. You understand?”

  “But we’re the only ones—”

  “You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Next. Nothing took place here except that Grey discovered the false weights and you and I were just as astonished. You understand?”

  “But—”

  “Now tell me what happened. God damn you, tell me!” Jones bellowed, towering over him.

  “We—we were finishing the check, and then—then Grey fell against the weighing machine, and the weights got knocked over, and—and then we discovered the weights were false. Is that all right, sir?”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, sir.” Blakely thought a moment, then his face lit up. “Grey asked us about the weights, and I’d never seen that they were false, and you were just as surprised. Then Grey left.”

  Jones offered him some tobacco. “You’ve forgotten what Grey said. Don’t you remember? He said, ‘If you give me some extra rice, a pound a week, and an egg or two, I won’t report this.’ And then I told him to go to hell, that I would report the weights myself and would report him too, and I was beside myself with worry about the false weights. How did they get there? Who was the swine?”

  Blakely’s little eyes filled with admiration. “Yes, sir, I remember distinctly. He asked for a pound of rice and an egg or two. Just like you said.”

  “Then remember it, you stupid fool! If you’d used the right weights and held your tongue we wouldn’t be in this mess. Don’t you fail me again or I’ll put the blame on you. It’ll be your word against mine.”

  “I won’t fail, sir, I promise—”

  “It’s our word against Grey’s anyway. So don’t worry. If you keep your head and remember!”

  “I won’t forget, sir, I won’t.”

  “Good.” Jones locked the safe and the front door of the hut and left the area.

  Jones is a sharp man, Blakely persuaded himself, he’ll get us out of this. Now that the shock of being discovered had worn off he was feeling safer. Yes, and Jones’ll have to save his own neck to save yours. Yes, Blakely my man, you’re smart yourself, smart to make sure you’ve got the goods on him, just in case of a double-cross.

  Colonel Smedly-Taylor scrutinized the weight ponderously.

  “Astonishing!” he said. “I just can’t believe it.” He looked up keenly. “You seriously mean to tell me that Lieutenant Colonel Jones offered to bribe you? With camp provisions?”

  “Yes, sir. It was exactly like I told you.”

  Smedly-Taylor sat down on his bed in the little bungalow and wiped off the sweat, for it was hot and sultry. “I don’t believe it,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  “They were the only ones who had access to the weights—”

  “I know that. It’s not that I dispute your word, Grey, it’s just so, well, incredible.”

  Smedly-Taylor was quiet for a long time and Grey waited patiently.

  “Grey.” The colonel still examined the weight and the tiny hole as he continued. “I’ll think what to do about this. The whole—affair—is fraught with danger. You must not mention this to anyone, anyone, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My God, if it’s as you say, well, those men would be massacred.” Again Smedly-Taylor shook his head. “That two men—that Lieutenant Colonel Jones could—the camp rations! And every weight is false?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How much do you think they are light, all in all?”

  “I don’t know, but perhaps a pound in every four hundred pounds. I suppose they were getting away with three or four pounds of rice per day. Not counting the dried fish or the eggs. Perhaps there are others mixed up in this—there would have to be. They couldn’t cook rice and not have it noticed. Probably a cookhouse’s mixed up in it too.”

  “My God!” Smedly-Taylor got up and began pacing. “Thank you, Grey, you’ve done a fine job. I’ll see that it goes into your official report.” He put out his hand. “A good job, Grey.”

  Grey shook his hand firmly. “Thank you, sir. I’m only sorry I didn’t discover it before.”

  “Now, not a word to anyone. That’s an order!”

  “I understand.” He saluted and left, his feet hardly touching the ground.

  That Smedly-Taylor should say, “I’ll see that it goes into your official report”! Maybe they’d promote him, Grey thought with sudden hope. There had been a few camp promotions and he could certainly use the upped rank. Captain Grey—it had a nice ring to it. Captain Grey!

  The afternoon was dragging now. Without work, it was difficult for Peter Marlowe to keep the men on their feet, so he organized foraging parties and kept the guards changing, for Torusumi was sleeping again. The heat was vicious and the air parched and everyone cursed the sun and prayed for night.

  Finally Torusumi woke up and relieved himself in the undergrowth and picked up his rifle and began to walk up and down to take the sleep away. He screamed at some of the men who were dozing, and he shouted to Peter Marlowe, “I beg thee get these sons of pigs up and about and make them work, or at least make them look as though they are working.”

  Peter Marlowe came over. “I’m sorry that thou art troubled.” Then he turned to the sergeant: “For Christ sake, you know you were supposed to keep an eye on him. Get these bloody idiots up and
dig a hole or chop that bloody tree or cut some palm fronds, you bloody idiot!”

  The sergeant was suitably apologetic and in no time he had the men hurrying about, pretending to be busy. They had it down to a fine art.

  A few husks of coconut were moved, and a few fronds were piled, and a few first saw cuts made in the trees. If they worked at the same speed, day after day, well, soon the whole area would be clean and level.

  The sergeant tiredly reported back to Peter Marlowe. “They’re all as busy as they’ll ever be, sir.”

  “Good. Won’t be long now.”

  “Look, sir, would you—would you do something—for me?”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s like this. Seeing as how—as you—well…” He wiped his mouth on his sweatrag, embarrassed. But it was too good an opportunity to miss. “Look at this.” He brought out a fountain pen. “Would you see if the Nip’ll buy it?”

  “You mean you want me to sell it for you?” Peter Marlowe gaped at him.

  “Yes, sir. It’s—well—I thought, you being a friend of the King like, you’d know—maybe you’d know how to go about it.”

  “It’s against orders to sell to the guards, both our orders and theirs.”

  “Aw, come on, sir, you can trust me. Why, you and the King—”

  “What about me and the King?”

  “Nothing, sir,” said the sergeant cautiously. What’s the matter with this bugger? Who’s he trying to fool? “I just thought you might help me. And my unit, of course.”

  Peter Marlowe looked at the sergeant and at the pen and wondered why he had got so angry. After all, he had sold for the King—or at least, tried to sell for the King—and truthfully he was a friend of the King. And there was nothing wrong in that. If it wasn’t for the King they would have never got the tree area. More likely he would be nursing a busted jaw, or at least a slapped face. So he should really uphold the reputation of the King. He did get you the coconuts.

  “What do you want for it?”

  The sergeant grinned. “Well, it isn’t a Parker, but it’s got a gold nib,” and he unscrewed the top and showed it, “so it should be worth something. Maybe you could see what he’d give.”

  “He’ll want to know what you want for it. I’ll ask him, but you set a price.”

  “If you could get me—sixty-five dollars, I’d be happy.”

  “Is it worth that much?”

  “I think so.”

  The pen did have a gold nib and a fourteen karat mark, and as near as Peter Marlowe could judge it was genuine. Not like the other pen.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “It’s mine, sir. I’ve been keeping it against a rainy day. Been raining a lot recently.”

  Peter Marlowe nodded briefly. He believed the man. “All right, I’ll see what I can do. You keep an eye on the men, and make sure there’s a guard out.”

  “Don’t you worry, sir. The buggers won’t bat a bleeding eyelid.”

  Peter Marlowe found Torusumi leaning against a squat tree, heavy with a grasping vine. “Tabe,” he said.

  “Tabe.” Torusumi glanced at his watch, and yawned. “In an hour we can go. It’s not time yet.” He took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his face and neck. “This stinking heat and stinking island!”

  “Yes.” Peter Marlowe tried to make the words sound important, as though it were the King speaking and not he: “One of the men has a pen he wishes to sell. It occurred to me that thee, as a friend, might wish to buy it.”

  “Astaghfaru’llah! Is it a Parka?”

  “No.” Peter Marlowe brought out the pen and unscrewed the top and held the nib so it caught the sunlight. “But it has a gold nib.”

  Torusumi examined it. He was disappointed that it wasn’t a Parker, but that would have been too much to expect. Certainly not on the airfield. A Parker would be handled by the King personally.

  “It is not worth much,” he said.

  “Of course. If thou dost not wish to consider it…” Peter Marlowe put the pen back in his pocket.

  “I can consider it. Perhaps we can pass the hour, considering such a worthless item.” He shrugged. “It would only be worth seventy-five dollars.”

  Peter Marlowe was amazed that the first bid was so high. The sergeant can’t have any idea of its value. God, I wish I knew how much it was really worth.

  So they sat and haggled. Torusumi got angry and Peter Marlowe was firm and they settled on a hundred and twenty dollars and a pack of Kooas.

  Torusumi got up and yawned again. “It is time to go.” He smiled. “The King is a good teacher. The next time I see him I will tell him how thou hast taken advantage of my friendship by driving such a hard bargain.” He shook his head with feigned self-pity. “Such a price for such a miserable pen! The King will surely laugh at me. Tell him, I beg thee, that I will be on guard in seven days from today. Perhaps he can find me a watch. A good one—this time!”

  Peter Marlowe was content that he had safely made his first real transaction for what seemed to be a fair price. But he was in a quandary. If he gave all the money to the sergeant, the King would be very upset. That would ruin the price structure that the King had so carefully built. And Torusumi would certainly mention the pen and the amount to the King. However, if he gave the sergeant only what he had asked and kept the rest, well that was cheating, wasn’t it? Or was it good “business”? In truth, the sergeant had asked for sixty-five, and that’s what he should get. And Peter Marlowe did owe the King a lot of money.

  He wished he’d never started the stupid business. Now he was caught in the trap of his own making. Trouble with you, Peter, is you’ve too big an idea of your own importance. If you’d said no to the sergeant you wouldn’t be up the creek now. What are you going to do? Whatever you do is going to be wrong!

  He strolled back slowly, pondering. The sergeant had already lined the men up, and took Peter aside expectantly. “They’re all ready, sir. An’ I’ve checked the tools.” He lowered his voice. “Did he buy it?”

  “Yes.” Then Peter Marlowe made the decision. He put his hand in his pocket and gave the sergeant the bundle of notes. “Here you are. Sixty-five dollars.”

  “Sir, you’re a bloody toff!” He peeled off a five dollar bill and offered it to him. “I owe you a dollar-fifty.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Ten percent’s yours. That’s legal, an’ I’m happy to pay it. I’ll give you the dollar an’ a half soon as I get change.”

  Peter Marlowe shoved the note back. “No,” he said, feeling suddenly guilty. “Keep it.”

  “I insist,” the sergeant said, pushing the note back into his hand.

  “Look, Sergeant—”

  “Well, at least take the five. I’d feel terrible, sir, if you didn’t. Terrible. I can’t thank you enough.”

  All the way back to the airfield Peter Marlowe was silent. He felt unclean with the monstrous bundle of notes in his pocket, but at the same time he knew that he owed the money to the King and was pleased to have it, for it would buy extras for the unit. The only reason the sergeant had asked him was because he knew the King, and the King, not the sergeant, was his friend. The whole miserable business was still going round and round in his mind when he got back to his hut.

  “Grey wants to see you, Peter,” Ewart said.

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know, Peter boy. But he seemed peed off about something.”

  Peter Marlowe’s tired mind adjusted to the new danger. It had to be something to do with the King. Grey meant trouble. Now, think, think, Peter. The village? The watch? The diamond? Oh my God—the pen? No, that’s being foolish. He can’t know about that yet. Shall I go to the King? Maybe he’d know what it’s about. Dangerous. Perhaps that’s why Grey told Ewart, to force me to make a mistake. He must have known I was on a work party.

  No point in going like a lamb to the slaughter when you’re hot and dirty. A shower, then I’ll stroll up to the jail hut. Take my ti
me.

  So he went to the shower. Johnny Hawkins was under one of the spouts.

  “Hello, Peter,” Hawkins said.

  Sudden guilt flushed Peter Marlowe’s face. “Hello, Johnny.” Hawkins looked ill. “Say, Johnny, I—I was so sorry—”

  “Don’t want to talk about it,” Hawkins said. “I’d be glad if you never mentioned it.”

  Does he know, Peter Marlowe asked himself, appalled, that I’m one of the ones who—ate?—Even now—was it only yesterday?—the sudden thought was revolting: cannibalism. He can’t, surely, for then he would have tried to kill me. I know if I were in his shoes, I would. Or would I?

  My God, what a state we’ve come to. Everything that seems wrong is right, and vice versa. It’s too much to understand. Much too much. Stupid screwed-up world. And the sixty dollars and the pack of Kooas I’ve earned, and at the same time stolen—or made—which is it? Should I give them back? That would be quite wrong.

  “Marlowe!”

  He turned and saw Grey standing malevolently at the side of the shower.

  “You were told to report to me when you got back!”

  “I was told you wanted to see me. As soon as I’d showered I was going to—”

  “I left orders that you were to report to me immediately.” There was a thin smile on Grey’s face. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re under hut arrest.”

  There was a quiet in the showers and all the officers were watching and listening.

  “What for?”

  Grey rejoiced in the flash of concern he saw. “For disobeying orders.”

  “What orders?”

  “You know as well as I do.” That’s right, sweat! Your guilty conscience will trouble you a little—if you’ve got a conscience, which I doubt. “You’re to report to Colonel Smedly-Taylor after supper. And be dressed like an officer, not a bloody tart!”

  Peter Marlowe snapped off the shower and slipped into his sarong and made the knot with a deft twist, conscious of the curious stares of the other officers. His mind was in a turmoil wondering what the trouble was, but he tried to hide his anxiety. Why give Grey the satisfaction?

  “You’re really so ill-bred, Grey. Such a bore,” he said.

  “I’ve learned a lot about breeding today, you bloody sod,” Grey said. “I’m glad I don’t belong to your stinking class, you rotten bugger. All shysters, cheats, thieves—”