King Rat

by James Clavell

  “Take your time. It’s only just after lights-out.”

  “Mate!”

  The King leaped to the window and stared out into the darkness. He saw the faint outline of the little weasel man crouching against the wall.

  “’Urry,” the man whispered. “I got the stone ’ere.”

  “You’ll have to wait,” the King said. “I can’t give you the money for two days.”

  “Why you rotten bastard—”

  “Listen, you son of a bitch,” the King said. “If you want to wait for two days, great! You don’t, go to hell!”

  “All right, two days.” The man swore obscenely and disappeared.

  The King heard his feet patter away, and in a moment he heard other feet hot in pursuit. Then silence, broken only by the hum of the crickets.

  “What was that all about?” Peter Marlowe said.

  “Nothing,” replied the King, wondering if the man had escaped. But he knew that whatever happened, he would get the diamond. So long as he got the money.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  For two days Peter Marlowe battled with death. But he had the will to live. And he lived.

  “Peter!” Mac gently shook him awake.

  “Yes, Mac?”

  “It’s time.”

  Mac helped Peter Marlowe off the bunk and together they maneuvered down the steps, youth leaning on age, and made their way in the darkness to the bungalow.

  Steven was already there and waiting. Peter Marlowe lay on Larkin’s bunk and submitted again to the needle stab. He had to bite hard not to shout; Steven was gentle, but the needle was blunt.

  “There,” Steven said. “Now let’s take your temperature.” He put the thermometer in Peter Marlowe’s mouth, then took off the bandages and looked at the wound. The swelling was down and the green and purple hue was gone and hard clean scabs covered the wound. Steven spread more sulfa powder on the wound.

  “Very good.” Steven was pleased with the success of the treatment, but not pleased with today at all. That dirty Sergeant Flaherty, he thought, nasty man. He knows I hate doing it, but he picks me every time. “Rotten,” he said out loud.

  “What?” Mac and Larkin and Peter Marlowe were concerned.

  “Isn’t it all right?” Peter Marlowe asked.

  “Oh yes, dear. I was talking about something else. Now let’s see the temperature.” Steven took the thermometer out and smiled at Peter Marlowe, reading the measure. “Normal. At least, just a point over normal but that doesn’t matter. You’re lucky, very lucky.” He held up the empty antitoxin bottle. “I just gave you the last of it.”

  Steven took his pulse. “Very good.” He looked up at Mac. “Do you have a towel?”

  Mac gave it to him and Steven put cold water on it and put a compress on Peter Marlowe’s head. “I found these,” he said, giving him two aspirins. “They’ll help a little, dear. Now rest for a while.” He turned to Mac and got up and sighed and smoothed his sarong around his hips. “There’s nothing more for me to do. He’s very weak. You’ll have to give him some broth. And all the eggs you can get. And take care of him.” He turned back and looked at the gauntness of Peter Marlowe. “He must have lost fifteen pounds in the last two days and that’s dangerous at his weight, poor boy. He can’t weigh more than eight stone, which isn’t much for his size.”

  “Er, we’d like to thank you, Steven,” Larkin said gruffly. “We, er, appreciate all your work. You know.”

  “Always glad to help,” said Steven brightly, fixing a lock of hair that curled on his forehead.

  Mac glanced at Larkin. “If there’s anything, er, Steven, we can do—just say the word.”

  “That’s very kind. You’re both so—kind,” he said delicately, admiring the colonel, increasing their embarrassment, playing with the Saint Christopher locket that he wore around his neck. “If you could just do my borehole detail for me tomorrow, well, I’d do anything. Just anything. I can’t stand those smelly cockroaches. Disgusting,” he gushed. “Would you?”

  “All right, Steven,” Larkin said sourly.

  “We’ll see you at dawn then,” Mac grunted and moved back a little, out of the way of Steven’s attempted caress. Larkin was not quick enough and Steven put his hand on the colonel’s waist and patted it affectionately. “Night, dears. Oh, you’re both so kind to Steven.”

  When he’d gone, Larkin glared at Mac. “You say anything and I’ll pin your ears back.”

  Mac chuckled. “Eh, mon, dinna fash yoursel’. But you certainly gave the impression you enjoyed it.” He bent down to Peter Marlowe, who had been watching. “Eh, Peter?”

  “I think you’re both ready for a piece,” said Peter Marlowe, smiling faintly. “He’s well paid, but you two go offering your services, tempting him. But what he could see in you two old farts, damned if I know.”

  Mac grinned at Larkin. “Ah, the wee laddie’s better than somewhat. Now he can pull his weight for a change. And not, how is it the King puts it—ah yes—and not ‘goof off.’”

  “Is it two or three days since the first injection?” Peter Marlowe said.

  “Two days.”

  Two days? Feels more like two years, Peter Marlowe thought. But tomorrow I’ll be strong enough to get the money.

  That night, after the last roll call, Father Donovan came to play bridge with them. When Peter Marlowe told them about the nightmare quarrel he had had with them, they all laughed.

  “Eh, laddie,” Mac said, “your mind can play strange tricks with you when there’s fever on you.”

  “Yes,” Father Donovan said. Then he smiled at Peter. “I’m glad your arm is healed, Peter.”

  Peter Marlowe smiled back. “There’s not much that goes on that you don’t know about, is there?”

  “There’s not much that goes on that He doesn’t know about.” Donovan was very sure and completely peaceful. “We’re in good hands.” Then he chuckled and added, “Even you three!”

  “Well, that’s something,” Mac said, “though I think the colonel is far beyond the pale!”

  After the game, and after Donovan had left, Mac nodded to Larkin. “You keep a lookout. We’ll hear the news, then call it a night.”

  Larkin watched the road and Peter Marlowe sat on the veranda and tried to keep his eyes alert. Two days. Needles in his arm and now he was cured and had his arm back. Strange days, dream days, and now it was all right.

  The news was enormously good, and they all went back to their beds. Their sleep was dreamless and contented.

  At dawn, Mac went to the chicken run and found three eggs. He brought them back and made an omelet and filled it with a little rice he had saved from yesterday and perfumed it with a sliver of garlic.

  Then he carried it up to Peter Marlowe’s hut, and woke him and watched while he ate it all.

  Suddenly Spence rushed into the hut.

  “Hey, chaps!” he shouted. “There’s some mail in the camp!”

  Mac’s stomach turned over. Oh God, let there be one for me.

  But there was no letter for Mac.

  In all there were forty-three letters among the ten thousand. The Japanese had given mail to the camp twice in three years. A few letters. And on three occasions the men had been allowed to write a post card of twenty-five words. But whether these cards were ever delivered they did not know.

  Larkin was one who got a letter. The first he had ever received.

  His letter was dated April 2, 1945. Four months old. The age of the other letters varied from three weeks to more than two years.

  Larkin read and reread the letter. Then he read it to Mac, Peter Marlowe and the King, sitting on the veranda of the bungalow.

  Darling, This letter is number 205, it began. I am well and Jeannie is well and Mother is staying with us and we live just where we’ve always lived. We have had no news of you since your letter dated February 1, 1942, posted from Singapore. But even so we know you’re well and happy, and we’re praying for your safe return.

  I’ve
started each letter off the same, so if you’ve read the above before, forgive me. But it’s difficult, not knowing if this one will reach you, if any of them have. I love you. I need you. And I miss you more than I can bear at times.

  Today I feel sad, I don’t know why, but I am. I don’t want to be depressed and I wanted to tell you all manner of wonderful things.

  Perhaps I’m sad because of Mrs. Gurble. She got a post card yesterday and I didn’t. I’m just selfish I suppose. But that’s me. Anyway, be sure to tell Vic Gurble that his wife, Sarah, got a post card dated January 6, 1943. She is well and his son is bonny. Sarah is so happy that she is back in contact again. Oh yes, and the Regiment girls are all right. Timsen’s mother is just grand. And don’t forget to remember me to Tom Masters. I saw his wife last night. She’s well too and making a lot of money for him. She’s in a new business. Oh yes and I saw Elizabeth Ford, Mary Vickers…

  Larkin looked up from the letter. “She mentions maybe a dozen wives. But the men’re dead. All of ’em. The only man who’s alive is Timsen.”

  “Read on, laddie,” said Mac quickly, achingly aware of the agony that was written in Larkin’s eyes.

  Today’s hot, Larkin continued, and I’m sitting on the veranda and Jeannie’s playing in the garden and I think this weekend I’ll go up to the cottage in the Blue Mountains.

  I’d write about the news, but that’s not allowed.

  Oh God, how do you write into a vacuum? How do I know? Where are you, my love, for the love of Christ, where are you? I won’t write any more. I’ll just finish the letter here and won’t send it… oh my love, I pray for you—pray for me. Please pray for me, pray for me—

  After a pause, Larkin said, “There’s no signature and it’s—the address is in my mother’s handwriting. Well, what do you think of that?”

  “You know how it is with a lass,” Mac said. “She probably just put it in a drawer and then your mother found it and air-posted it off, without reading it, without asking her. You know how mothers are. More than likely Betty forgot all about it and the next day she wrote another letter when she felt better.”

  “What does she mean by ‘Pray for me’?” Larkin asked. “She knows I do, every day. What’s going on? For Christ’s sake, is she sick or something?”

  “There’s no need to worry, Colonel,” Peter Marlowe said.

  “What the hell do you know about things?” Larkin flared abruptly. “How the hell can’t I worry!”

  “Well, at least you know she’s all right, and your daughter’s all right,” Mac slammed back, beside himself with longing. “Bless your luck that far! We’ve not had a letter! None of us! You’re lucky!” And he stamped out furiously.

  “I’m sorry, Mac.” Larkin ran after him and pulled him back. “I’m sorry, it’s just that, after such a time—”

  “Eh, laddie, it wasn’t anything you said. It was just me. It’s me who should apologize. I was sick with jealousy. I think I hate these letters.”

  “You can say that again,” the King said. “’Nough to drive you crazy. Guys that get ’em go crazy, guys that don’t go crazy. Nothing but trouble.”

  It was dusk. Just after chow. The whole American hut was assembled.

  Kurt spat on the floor and put the tray down.

  “Here’s nine. I kept one. My ten percent.” He spat again and left.

  They all looked at the tray.

  “I think I’m going to be sick again,” Peter Marlowe said.

  “Don’t blame you,” the King agreed.

  “I don’t know about that.” Max cleared his throat. “They look just like rabbit legs. Small, sure, but still rabbit legs.”

  “You want to try one?” the King asked.

  “Hell no. I just said they looked like them. I can have an opinion, can’t I?”

  “My ruddy oath,” Timsen said. “Never thought we’d really sell any.”

  “If I didn’t know—” Tex stopped. “I’m so hungry. An’ I ain’t seen that much meat since we got that dog—”

  “What dog?” Max asked suspiciously.

  “Oh hell, it was, er, years ago,” Tex said. “Back in, er, ’43.”

  “Oh.”

  “Goddam!” said the King, still fascinated by the tray. “It looks all right.” He bent forward and sniffed the meat, but did not put his nose too close. “It smells all right…”

  “But it ain’t,” Byron Jones III interrupted acidly. “It’s rat meat.”

  The King pulled his head back. “What the hell you say that for, you son of a bitch!” he said through the laughter.

  “Well, it is rat, for Chrissake. The way you were going on, it was enough to make a guy hungry!”

  Peter Marlowe carefully picked up a leg and laid it on a banana leaf. “This I’ve got to have,” he said, and returned to his hut. He went to his bunk and whispered to Ewart, “Maybe we’ll eat very well tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Something special.” Peter Marlowe knew that Drinkwater was overhearing them; furtively he put the banana leaf on his shelf and said to Ewart, “I’ll be back in a mo’.” Half an hour later he came back and the banana leaf was gone and so was Drinkwater. “Did you go out?” Peter Marlowe asked Ewart.

  “Only for a moment. Drinkwater wanted me to get some water for him. Said he was feeling proper poorly.” And then Peter Marlowe had hysterics and everyone in the hut thought he had gone off his head. Only when Mike shook him could he stop laughing. “Sorry, just a private joke.”

  When Drinkwater came back Peter Marlowe pretended to be mortally concerned about the loss of some food, and Drinkwater was concerned too and said, licking his chops, “What a dirty trick,” and Peter Marlowe’s hysterics began again.

  At length Peter Marlowe groped into his bunk and lay back, exhausted by the laughter. And quickly this exhaustion added to the exhaustion of the last two days. He fell asleep, and in his dreams Drinkwater was eating mountains of little haunches and he, Peter Marlowe, was there watching all the time, and Drinkwater kept saying, “What’s the matter? They’re delicious, delicious…”

  Ewart shook him awake. “There’s an American outside, Peter. Wants to talk to you.”

  Peter Marlowe still felt weak and nauseated, but he got off the bed. “Where’s Drinkwater?”

  “I don’t know. He took off after you had the fit.”

  “Oh.” Peter Marlowe laughed again. “I was afraid it might have been a dream.”

  “What?” Ewart studied him.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t know what’s getting into you, Peter. You’ve been acting very strange lately.”

  Tex was waiting for Peter Marlowe in the lee of the hut. “Pete,” he whispered. “The King sent me. You’re overdue.”

  “Oh blast! Sorry, I dropped off.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he figured. ‘Better get with it,’ he told me to tell you.” Tex frowned. “You all right?”

  “Yes. Still a bit weak. I’ll be all right.”

  Tex nodded, then hurried away. Peter Marlowe rubbed his face and then walked down the steps to the asphalt road and stood under the shower, his body drinking strength from the cold. Then he filled his bottle and walked heavily to the latrines. He chose a hole at the bottom of the slope as near as possible to the wire.

  There was only a thread of a moon. He waited until the latrine area was momentarily empty, then he slipped across the naked ground and under the wire and into the jungle. He kept low as he skirted the wire, avoiding the sentry that he knew was meandering the path between jungle and fence. It took him an hour to find the spot where he had hidden the money. He sat down and took the inches of notes and tied them around his thighs, and doubled his sarong around his waist. Now, instead of reaching the ground, the sarong was knee length, and the bulk of it helped to hide the untoward thickness of his legs.

  He had to wait another hour just outside the latrine area before he could slip under the wire. He squatted down on the borehole in the darkness to catch
his breath and wait until his heart was calmer. At length he picked up his bottle and left the latrine area.

  “Hello, cobber,” Timsen said with a grin, coming out of the shadows. “Gorgeous night, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” Peter Marlowe said.

  “Beaut of a night for a walk, right?”

  “Oh?”

  “Mind if I walks along with you?”

  “No. Come along, Tim, I’m happy to have you. Then there won’t be any bloody hijackers. Right?”

  “Right, mate. You’re a toff.”

  “You’re not bad yourself, you old bastard.” Peter Marlowe slapped him on the back. “I never did thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it, mate. My bloody oath,” Timsen chuckled, “you nearly had me fooled. I thought you was only going to take a pong.”

  The King was grim when he saw Timsen, but at the same time he was not too grim, for the money was once more in his possession. He counted it and put it in the black box.

  “Now all we need’s the ice.”

  “Yus, mate.” Timsen cleared his throat. “If we catch the bushwhacker, before he comes ’ere or after he come ’ere, then I gets the price we agreed, right? If you buy the ring from him and we don’t catch him—then you’re the winner, right? Fair enough?”

  “Sure,” the King said. “It’s a deal.”

  “Good-oh! God help him if we catch him.” Timsen nodded to Peter Marlowe and walked out.

  “Peter, take the bed,” the King said, sitting on the black box. “You look wrung out.”

  “I thought I’d go on back.”

  “Stick around. Might need someone I can trust.” The King was sweating, and the heat of the money from the black box seemed to be burning through the wood.

  So Peter Marlowe lay on the bed, his heart still aching from the strain. He slept, but his mind was alert.

  “Mate!”

  The King jumped to the window. “Now?”

  “’Urry.” The little man was vastly afraid and the white of his eyes caught the light as they darted back and forth. “C’mon ’urry.”