“You better get your ass State-side when you get out. We might even let you become an American!” Byron Jones III said.
“You gotta see Texas, Peter boy. You ever get to the States, you gotta come to the state!”
“Not much chance of that,” Peter Marlowe said amid the catcalls. “But if I ever do, you can depend on it.” He glanced towards the King’s corner. “Where’s our fearless leader?”
“He’s dead!” Max rocked with obscene laughter.
“What?” Peter Marlowe said, frightened in spite of himself.
“He’s still alive,” Tex said. “But he’s dead all the same.”
Peter Marlowe looked searchingly at Tex. Then he saw the expressions on all their faces. Suddenly he felt very sad. “Don’t you think that’s a little abrupt?”
“Abrupt nothin’.” Max spat. “He’s dead. We worked our asses off for that son of a bitch, and now he’s dead.”
Peter Marlowe pounced on Max, loathing him. “But when things were bad, he gave you food and money and—”
“We worked for it!” Max screamed, the tendons in his neck stretching. “I took enough crap from that bastard!” His eyes saw the rank insignia on Peter Marlowe’s arm. “And from you, you Limey bastard! You wanna kiss my ass like you kissed his?”
“Shut up, Max,” Tex said warningly.
“Drop dead, you Lone Star pimp!” Max spat at Tex and the spittle streaked the rough wood floor.
Tex flushed. He hurled himself at Max and smashed him against the wall with a backhanded blow across the face. Max reeled and fell off his bunk, but he whirled to his feet, grabbed a knife off his shelf and lunged at Peter Marlowe. Tex just managed to catch Max’s arm, and the knife only scored Peter Marlowe’s stomach. Dino grabbed Max around the throat and shoved him back on the bunk.
“You outta your skull?” Dino gasped.
Max stared up, his face twitching, his eyes fixed on Peter Marlowe. Suddenly he began screaming, and he hurled himself off the bunk fighting insanely, his arms flailing, lips stretched from his teeth, nails clawing. Peter Marlowe grabbed an arm and they all fell on Max and hauled him back to the bunk. It took three men to hold him down as he kicked and screamed and fought and bit.
“He’s flipped!” Tex shouted. “Clobber him, someone!”
“Get some rope!” Peter Marlowe yelled frantically as he held on to Max, his forearm jammed under Max’s chin, away from the grinding teeth.
Dino shifted his grip, worked one arm free, and smashed Max on the jaw, knocking him unconscious. “Jesus,” he said to Peter Marlowe as they stood up. “He goddam near murdered you!”
“Quick,” Peter Marlowe said urgently. “Put something between his teeth, he’ll bite his bloody tongue off.”
Dino found a piece of wood and they tied it between Max’s teeth. Then they tied his hands.
When Max was secure, Peter Marlowe relaxed, weak with relief. “Thanks, Tex. If you hadn’t stopped that knife, I would have had it.”
“Think nothing of it. Reflex action. What we going to do about him?”
“Get a doctor. He just had a fit, that’s all. There wasn’t any knife.” Peter Marlowe rubbed the score on his stomach as he watched Max jerking spastically. “Poor bugger!”
“Thank God you stopped him, Tex,” Dino said. “Gives me a sweat to think about it.”
Peter Marlowe looked at the King’s corner. It seemed very lonely. Unconsciously he flexed his hand and arm and gloried in its strength.
“How is it, Peter?” Tex asked.
It took Peter Marlowe a long time to find the right words. “Alive, Tex, alive—not dead.” Then he turned and walked out of the hut into the sun.
When he found the King eventually, it was already dusk. The King was sitting on a broken coconut stump in the north vegetable garden, half hidden by vines. He was staring moodily out of the camp and made no sign that he heard Peter Marlowe approaching.
“Hello, old chap,” Peter Marlowe said cheerfully, but the welcome in him died when he saw the King’s eyes.
“What do you want? Sir?” the King asked insultingly.
“I wanted to see you. Just wanted to see you.” Oh my God, he thought with pity, as he saw through his friend.
“Well, you’ve seen me. So now what?” The King turned his back. “Get lost!”
“I’m your friend, remember?”
“I got no friends. Get lost!”
Peter Marlowe squatted down beside the coconut stump and found the two tailor-made cigarettes in his pocket. “Have a smoke. I got them off Shagata!”
“Smoke ’em yourself. Sir!”
For a moment Peter Marlowe wished that he had not found the King. But he did not leave. He carefully lit the two cigarettes and offered one to the King. The King made no move to take it.
“Go on, please.”
The King smashed the cigarette out of his hands. “Screw you and your goddam cigarette. You want to stay here? All right!” He got up and began to stride away.
Peter Marlowe caught his arm. “Wait! This is the greatest day in our lives. Don’t spoil it because your cellmates got a little thoughtless.”
“You take your hand away,” the King said through his teeth, “or I’ll stomp it off!”
“Don’t worry about them,” Peter Marlowe said, the words beginning to pour out of him. “The war’s over, that’s the important thing. It’s over and we’ve survived. Remember what you used to drum into me? About looking after number one? Well, you’re all right! You’ve made it! What does it matter what they say?”
“I don’t give a good goddam about them! They’ve got nothing to do with it. And I don’t give a good goddam about you!” The King ripped his arm away.
Peter Marlowe stared at the King helplessly. “I’m your friend, dammit. Let me help you!”
“I don’t need your help!”
“I know. But I’d like to stay friends. Look,” he continued with difficulty. “You’ll be home soon—”
“The hell I will,” the King said, his blood roaring in his ears. “I got no home!”
The wind rustled the leaves. Crickets grated monotonously. Mosquitoes swarmed around them. Hut lights began to cast harsh shadows and the moon sailed in a velvet sky.
“Don’t worry, old chum,” Peter Marlowe said compassionately. “Everything’s going to be all right.” He did not flinch from the fear he saw in the King’s eyes.
“Is it?” the King said in torment.
“Yes.” Peter Marlowe hesitated. “You’re sorry it’s over, aren’t you?”
“Leave me alone. Goddammit, leave me alone!” the King shouted and turned away and sat on the coconut stump.
“You’ll be all right,” Peter Marlowe said. “And I’m your friend. Never forget it.” He reached out with his left hand and touched the King’s shoulder, and he felt the shoulder jerk away under his touch.
“’Night, old chum,” he said quietly. “See you tomorrow.” And miserably he walked away. Tomorrow, he promised himself, tomorrow I’ll be able to help him.
The King shifted on the coconut stump, glad to be alone, terrified by his loneliness.
Colonels Smedly-Taylor and Jones and Sellars were cleaning their plates.
“Magnificent!” Sellars said, licking the juice off his fingers.
Smedly-Taylor sucked the bone, though it was already quite clean. “Jones, my boy. I have to hand it to you.” He belched. “What a superb way to end the day. Delicious! Just like rabbit! A little stringy and somewhat tough, but delicious!”
“Haven’t enjoyed a meal so much in years,” Sellars chortled. “The meat’s a little greasy, but by Jove, just marvelous.” He glanced at Jones. “Can you get any more? One leg each isn’t very much!”
“Perhaps.” Jones picked up the last grain of rice delicately. His plate was dry and empty and he was feeling very full. “It was a bit of luck, wasn’t it?”
“Where did you get them?”
“Blakely told me about them. An Aussie was sellin
g them.” Jones belched. “I bought all he had.” He glanced at Smedly-Taylor. “Lucky you had the money.”
Smedly-Taylor grunted. “Yes.” He opened a wallet and tossed three hundred and sixty dollars on the table. “There’s enough for another six. No need to stint ourselves, eh, gentlemen?”
Sellars looked at the notes. “If you had all this money hidden away, why didn’t you use a little months ago?”
“Why indeed?” Smedly-Taylor got up and stretched. “Because I was saving it for today! And that’s the end of it,” he added. His granite eyes locked on Sellars.
“Oh, come off it, man, I don’t want you to say anything. I just can’t understand how you managed to do it, that’s all.”
Jones smiled. “Must have been an inside job. I hear the King nearly had a heart attack!”
“What’s the King got to do with my money?” Smedly-Taylor asked.
“Nothing.” Jones began counting the money. There were, indeed, three hundred and sixty dollars, enough for twelve Rusa tikus haunches at thirty dollars each, which was their real price, not sixty dollars as Smedly-Taylor believed. Jones smiled to himself thinking that Smedly-Taylor could well afford to pay double, now that he had so much money. He wondered how Smedly-Taylor had managed to effect the theft, but he knew Smedly-Taylor was right to keep a tight rein on his secrets. Like the other three Rusa tikus. The ones that he and Blakely had cooked and eaten in secret this afternoon. Blakely had eaten one, he had eaten the other two. And the two added to the one he had just devoured was the reason that he was satiated. “My God,” he said, rubbing his stomach, “don’t think I could eat as much every day!”
“You’ll get used to it,” Sellars said. “I’m still hungry. Try and get some more, there’s a good chap.”
Smedly-Taylor said, “How about a rubber or two?”
“Admirable,” said Sellars. “Who’ll we get as a fourth?”
“Samson?”
Jones laughed. “I’ll bet he’d be very upset if he knew about the meat.”
“How long do you think it’ll take our fellows to come to Singapore?” Sellars asked, trying to conceal his anxiety.
Smedly-Taylor looked at Jones. “A few days. At the most a week. If the Japs here are really going to give in.”
“If they leave us the wireless, they mean to.”
“I hope so. My God, I hope so.”
They looked at one another, the goodness of the food forgotten, lost in the worry of the future.
“Nothing to worry about. It’s—it’s going to be all right,” Smedly-Taylor said, outwardly confident. But inside he was panicked, thinking of Maisie and his sons and daughter, wondering if they were alive.
Just before dawn a four-engined airplane roared over the camp. Whether it was Allied or Japanese no one knew, but at the first sound of the engines the men had been panic-stricken waiting for the expected bombs that would rain down. When the bombs did not fall and the airplane droned away, the panic built once more. Perhaps they’ve forgotten us—they’ll never come.
Ewart groped his way into the hut and shook Peter Marlowe awake. “Peter, there’s a rumor that the plane circled the airfield—that a man parachuted out of it!”
“Did you see it?”
“No.”
“Did you talk to anyone who did?”
“No. It’s just a rumor.” Ewart tried not to show his fear. “I’m scared to death that as soon as the fleet comes into the harbor the Japs’ll go crazy.”
“They won’t!”
“I went up to the Camp Commandant’s office. There’s a whole group of chaps there, they keep giving out news bulletins. The last one said that—” for a moment Ewart couldn’t speak, then he continued—“that the casualties in Hiroshima and Nagasaki are over three hundred thousand. They say people are still dying like flies there—that this hell-bomb does something to the air and keeps on killing. My God, if that happened to London and I was in charge of a camp like this—I’d—I’d slaughter everyone. I would, by God I would.”
Peter Marlowe calmed him, then left the hut and walked to the gate in the gathering light. Inside, he was still afraid. He knew that Ewart was right. Such a hell-bomb was too much. But he knew, of a sudden, a great truth, and he blessed the brains that had invented the bombs. Only the bombs had saved Changi from oblivion. Oh yes, he told himself, whatever happens because of the bombs, I will bless the first two and the men who made them. Only they have given me back my life when there was truly no hope of life. And though the first two have consumed a multitude, by their very vastness they have saved the lives of countless hundred thousand others. Ours. And theirs. By the Lord God, this is the truth.
He found himself beside the main gate. The guards were there, as usual. Their backs were toward the camp, but they still had rifles in their hands. Peter Marlowe watched them curiously. He was sure that these men would blindly die in defense of men who only a day ago were their despised enemies.
My God, Peter Marlowe thought, how incredible some people are.
Then suddenly, out of the growing light of dawn, he saw an apparition. A strange man, a real man who had breadth and thickness, a man who looked like a man. A white man. He wore a strange green uniform and his parachute boots were polished and his beret decal flashed like fire and he had a revolver on his wide belt and there was a neat field pack on his back.
The man walked the center of the road, his heels click-clicking until he was in front of the guardhouse.
The man—now Peter Marlowe could see that he wore the rank of a captain—the captain stopped and glared at the guards and then he said, “Salute, you bloody bastards.”
When the guards stared at him stupidly, the captain went up to the nearest guard and ripped the bayoneted rifle out of his hands and stuck it viciously in the ground, and said again, “Salute me, you bloody bastards.”
The guards stared at him nervously. Then the captain pulled out his revolver and fired a single round into the earth at the feet of the guards and said, “Salute, you bloody bastards.”
Awata, the Japanese sergeant, Awata the Fearful, sweating and nervous, stepped forward and bowed. Then they all bowed.
“That’s better, you bloody bastards,” the captain said. Then he tore the rifle out of each man’s hands and threw it on the ground. “Get back in the bloody guardhouse.”
Awata understood the movement of his hand. He ordered the guards to line up. Then, on his command, they bowed again.
The captain stood and looked at them. Then he returned the salute.
“Salute, you bloody bastards,” the captain said once more.
Again the guards bowed.
“Good,” the captain said. “And next time I say salute, salute!”
Awata and all the men bowed and the captain turned and walked to the barricade.
Peter Marlowe felt the eyes of the captain on him and on the men near him, and he started with fear and backed away.
He saw first revulsion in the eyes of the captain, then compassion.
The captain shouted at the guards. “Open this bloody gate, you bloody bastards.”
Awata understood the point of the hand and quickly ran out with three guards and pulled the barricade out of the way.
Then the captain walked through, and when they began to close it again he shouted, “Leave that bloody thing alone.” And they left it alone and bowed in salute.
Peter Marlowe tried to concentrate. This was wrong. All wrong. This could not be happening. Then, suddenly, the captain was standing in front of him.
“Hello,” the captain said. “I’m Captain Forsyth. Who’s in charge here?” The words were soft and very gentle. But Peter Marlowe could only see the captain looking at him from head to toe.
What’s the matter? What’s wrong with me? Peter Marlowe desperately asked himself. What’s the matter with me? Frightened, he backed another step.
“There’s no need to be afraid of me.” The captain’s voice was deep and sympathetic. “The war’s over. I�
��ve been sent to see that you’re all looked after.”
The captain took a step forward. Peter Marlowe recoiled and the captain stopped. Slowly the captain took out a pack of Players. Good English Players.
“Would you like a cigarette?”
The captain stepped forward, and Peter Marlowe ran away, terrified.
“Wait a minute!” the captain shouted after him. Then he approached another man, but the man turned tail and fled too. And all the men fled from the captain.
The second great fear engulfed Changi.
Fear of myself. Am I all right? Am I, after all this time? I mean, am I all right in the head? It is three and a half years. And my God, remember what Van der Zelt said about impotence? Will it work? Will I be able to make love? Will I be all right? I saw the horror in the eyes of the captain when he looked at me. Why? What was wrong? Do you think, dare I ask him, dare I … am I all right?
When the King first heard about the officer, he was lying on his bed, brooding. True, he still had the choice position under the window, but now he had the same space as the other men—six feet by four feet. When he had returned from the north garden he had found his bed and chairs moved, and other beds were now spread into the space that was his by right. He had said nothing and they had said nothing, but he had looked at them and they had all avoided his eyes.
And, too, no one had collected or saved his evening meal. It had just been consumed by others.
“Gee,” Tex had said absently, “I guess we forgot about you. Better be here next time. Every man’s responsible for his own chow.”
So he had cooked one of his hens. He had cleaned it and fried it and eaten it. At least he had eaten half of it and kept half of it for breakfast. Now he had only two hens left. The others had been consumed during the last days—and he had shared them with the men who had done the work.
Yesterday he had tried to buy the camp store, but the pile of money that the diamond had brought was worthless. In his wallet he still had eleven American dollars, and these were good currency. But he knew—chilled—he could not last forever on eleven dollars and two hens.
He had slept little the previous night. But in the bleak watches of the early morning he had faced himself and told himself that this was weak and foolish and not the pattern of a King—it did not matter that when he had walked the camp earlier people had looked through him—Brant and Prouty and Samson and all the others had passed by and not returned his salute. It had been the same with everyone. Tinker Bell and Timsen and the MP’s and his informants and employees—men he had helped or known or sold for or given food or cigarettes or money. They had all looked at him as though he did not exist. Where always eyes had been watching him, and hate had been surrounding him when he walked the camp, now there was nothing. No eyes, no hate, no recognition.
King Rat Page 46