King Rat (13 page)

He had asked her to marry him a week after he had met her. There had been difficulties and recriminations. Her mother hated him for wanting her only daughter just when her career was launched and she was so young. Only eighteen. His parents said wait, the war may be over soon and you’ve no money and, well, she’s not exactly from a good family, and he had looked around his home, a tired building joined to a thousand other tired buildings amid the twisted tramlines of Streatham, and he saw that the rooms were small and the minds of his parents were small and lower class and their love was twisted like the tramlines.

They were married a month later. Grey looked smart in his uniform and sword (hired by the hour). Trina’s mother didn’t come to the drab ceremony, performed in haste between air raid alerts. His parents wore disapproving masks and their kisses were perfunctory and Trina had dissolved into tears and the marriage license was wet with tears.

That night Grey discovered that Trina wasn’t a virgin. Oh, she acted as though she was, and complained for many days that, please darling, I’m so sore, be patient. But she wasn’t a virgin and that hurt Grey, for she had implied it many times. But he pretended that he didn’t know she had cheated him.

The last time he saw Trina was six days before he embarked for overseas. They were in their flat and he was lying on the bed watching her dressing.

“Do you know where you’re going?” she asked.

“No,” Grey said. The day had been bad and the quarrel of the night before bad, and the lack of her and the knowledge that his leave was up today was heavy on him.

He got up and stood behind her, slipping his hands into her bosom, molding the tautness of her, loving her.

“Don’t!”

“Trina, could we —“

“Don’t be foolish. You know the show starts at eight-thirty.”

“There’s plenty of time —“

“For the love of God, Robin, don’t! You’ll mess up my makeup!”

“To hell with your makeup,” he said. “I won’t be here tomorrow.”

“Perhaps that’s just as well. I don’t think you’re very kind or very thoughtful.”

“What do you expect me to be like? Is it wrong for a husband to want his wife?”

“Stop shouting, My God, the neighbors will hear you.”

“Let ‘em, by God!” He went towards her, but she slammed the bathroom door in his face.

When she came back into the room she was cold and fragrant. She wore a bra and half slip and panties under the slip, and stockings held by a tiny belt. She picked up the cocktail dress and began to step into it.

“Trina,” he began.

“No.”

He stood over her, and his knees had no strength in them. “I’m sorry I - I shouted.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He bent to kiss her shoulders, but she moved away.

“I see you’ve been drinking again,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

Then his rage burst. “I only had one drink, damn you to hell,” he shouted and spun her around and ripped the dress off her and ripped the bra off her and threw her on the bed. And he ripped at her clothes until she was naked but for the shreds of stockings clinging to her legs. And all the time she lay still, staring up at him.

“Oh God, Trina, I love you,” he croaked helplessly, then backed away, hating himself for what he had done and what he had nearly done.

Trina picked up the shreds of the clothes. As though in a dream, he watched as she went back to the mirror and sat before it and began to repair her makeup and started to hum a tune, over and over.

Then he slammed the door and went back to his unit and the next day he tried to phone her. There was no answer. It was too late to go back to London, in spite of his desperate pleading. The unit moved to Greenock for embarkation and every day, every minute of every day, he phoned her, but there was no answer, and no answer to his frantic telegrams, and then the coast of Scotland was swallowed by the night, and the night was only ship and sea, and he was only tears.

Grey shuddered under the Malayan sun. Ten thousand miles away. It wasn’t Trina’s fault, he thought, weak with self-disgust. It wasn’t her, it was me. I was too anxious. Maybe I’m insane. Maybe I should see a doctor. Maybe I’m oversexed. It’s got to be me, not her. Oh Trina, my love.

“Are you all right, Grey?” Colonel Jones asked.

“Oh, yes, sir, thank you.” Grey came to and discovered that he was leaning weakly against the supply hut. “It was — was just a touch of fever.”

“You don’t look too good. Sit down for a minute.”

“It’s all right, thank you. I’ll — I’ll just get some water.”

Grey went over to the tap and took off his shirt and dunked his head under the stream of water. Bloody fool, to let yourself go like that! he thought. But in spite of his resolve, inexorably his mind returned to Trina. Tonight, tonight I’ll let myself think of her, he promised. Tonight, and every night. To hell with trying to live without food. Without hope. I want to die. How much I want to die.

Then he saw Peter Marlowe walking up the hill. In his hands was an American mess can and he was holding it carefully. Why?

“Marlowe!” Grey moved in front of him.

“What the hell do you want?”

“What’s in there?”

“Food.”

“No contraband?”

“Stop picking on me, Grey.”

“I’m not picking on you. Judge a man by his friends.”

“Just stay away from me.”

“I can’t, I’m afraid, old boy. It’s my job. I’d like to see that. Please.”

Peter Marlowe hesitated. Grey was within his right to look and within his right to take him to Colonel Smedly-Taylor if he stepped out of line. And in his pocket were the twenty quinine tablets. No one was supposed to have private stores of medicine. If they were discovered he would have to tell where he had got them and then the King would have to tell where he got them and anyway, Mac needed them now. So he opened the can.

The katchang idju-bully gave off an unearthly fragrance to Grey. His stomach turned over and he tried to keep from showing his hunger. He tipped the mess can carefully so that he could see the bottom. There was nothing in it other than the bully and the katchang idju, delicious.

“Where did you get it?”

“I was given it.”

“Did he give it to you?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you taking it?”

“To the hospital.”

“For whom?”

“For one of the Americans.”

“Since when does a Flight Lieutenant DFC run errands for a corporal?”

“Go to hell!”

“Maybe I will. But before I do I’m going to see you and him get what’s coming to you.”

Easy, Peter Marlowe told himself, easy. If you take a sock at Grey you’ll really be up the creek.

“Are you finished with the questions, Grey?”

“For the moment. But remember —“ Grey went a pace closer and the smell of the food tortured him. “You and your damned crook friend are on the list. I haven’t forgotten about the lighter.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve done nothing against orders.”

“But you will, Marlowe. If you sell your soul, you’ve got to pay sometime.”

“You’re out of your head!”

“He’s a crook, a liar and a thief —“

“He is my friend, Grey. He’s not a crook and not a thief…”

“But he is a liar.”

“Everyone’s a liar. Even you. You denied the wireless. You’ve got to be a liar to stay alive. You’ve got to do a lot of things…”

“Like kissing a corporal’s arse to get food?”

The vein in Peter Marlowe’s forehead swelled like a thin black snake. But his voice was soft and the venom honey-coated. “I ought to thrash you, Grey. But it’s so ill-bred to brawl with the lower classes. Unfair, you know.”

“By God, Marlowe —“ began Grey, but he was beyond speech, and the madness in him rose up and choked him.

Peter Marlowe looked deep into Grey’s eyes and knew that he had won. For a moment he gloried in the destruction of the man, and then his fury evaporated and he stepped around Grey and walked up to the hill. No need to prolong a battle once it’s won. That’s ill-bred, too.

By the Lord God, Grey swore brokenly, I’ll make you pay for that. I’ll have you on your knees begging my forgiveness. And I’ll not forgive you. Never!

Mac took six of the tablets and winced as Peter Marlowe helped him up a little to drink the water held to his lips. He swallowed and sank back.

“Bless you, Peter,” he whispered. “That’ll do the trick. Bless you, laddie.” He lapsed into sleep, his face burning, his spleen stretched to bursting, and his brain took flight in nightmares. He saw his wife and son floating in the ocean depths, eaten by fish and screaming from the deep. And he saw himself there, in the deep, tearing at the sharks, but his hands were not strong enough and his voice not loud enough, and the sharks tore huge pieces of the flesh of his flesh and there were always more to tear. And the sharks had voices and their laughter was of demons, but angels stood by and told him to hurry, hurry, Mac, hurry or you’ll be too late. Then there were no sharks, only yellow men with bayonets and gold teeth, sharpened to needles, surrounding him and his family on the bottom of the sea. Their bayonets huge, sharp. Not them, me! he screamed. Me, kill me! And he watched, impotent, while they killed his wife and killed his son and then they turned on him and the angels watched and whispered in chorus, Hurry, Mac, hurry. Run. Run. Run away and you’ll be safe. And he ran, not wanting to run, ran away from his son and his wife and their blood-filled sea, and he fled through the blood and strangled. But he still ran and they chased him, the sharks with slant eyes and gold needle teeth with their rifles and bayonets, tearing at his flesh until he was at bay. He fought and he pleaded but they would not stop and now he was surrounded. And Yoshima shoved the bayonet deep into his guts. And the pain was huge. Beyond agony. Yoshima jerked the bayonet out and he felt his blood pour out of him, through the jagged hole, through all the openings of his body, through the very pores of his skin until only the soul was left in the husk. Then, at last, his soul sped forth and joined with the blood of the sea. A great, exquisite relief filled him, infinite, and he was glad that he was dead.

Mac opened his eyes. His blankets were soaked. His fever had passed. And he knew that he was alive once more.

Peter Marlowe was still sitting beside the bed. Night somewhere behind him.

“Hello, laddie.” The words were so faint that Peter Marlowe had to bend forward to catch them.

“You all right, Mac?”

“All right, laddie. It’s almost worth the fever, to feel so good. I’ll sleep now. Bring me some food tomorrow.”

Mac closed his eyes and was asleep. Peter Marlowe pulled the blankets off him and dried the husk of the man.

“Where can I get some dry blankets, Steven?” he asked, as he caught sight of the orderly hurrying through the ward.

“I don’t know, sir,” Steven said. He had seen this young man many times. And liked him. Perhaps - but no, Lloyd would be terribly jealous. Another day. There’s plenty of time. “Perhaps I can help you, sir.”

Steven went over to the fourth bed and took the blanket off the man, then deftly slid the bottom blanket off and came back. “Here,” he said. “Use these.”

“What about him?”

“Oh,” Steven said with a gentle smile. “He doesn’t need them any more. The detail’s due. Poor boy.”

“Oh!” Peter Marlowe looked across to see who it was, but it was a face he didn’t know. “Thanks,” he said and began to fix the bed.

“Here,” Steven said. “Let me. I can do it much better than you.” He was proud of the way he could make a bed without hurting the patient.

“Now don’t you worry about your friend,” he said, “I’ll see that he’s all right.” He tucked Mac in like a child. “There.” He stroked Mac’s head for a moment, then took out a handkerchief and wiped the remains of the sweat off Mac’s forehead. “He’ll be fine in two days. If you have some extra food —“ but he stopped and looked at Peter Marlowe and the tears gathered in his eyes. “How silly of me. But don’t you fret, Steven will find something for him. Now don’t you worry. There’s nothing more you can do tonight. You go off and have a good night’s rest. Go on, there’s a good boy.”

Speechless, Peter Marlowe allowed himself to be led outside. Steven smiled good night and went back inside.

From the darkness Peter Marlowe watched Steven smooth a fevered brow and hold an agued hand, and caress away the night-devils and soften the night-cries and adjust the covers and help a man to drink and help a man to vomit, and all the time a lullaby, delicate and sweet. When Steven came to Bed Four, he stopped and looked down on the corpse. He straightened the limbs and crossed the hands, then took off his smock and covered the body, his touch a benediction. Steven’s slim smooth torso and slim smooth legs glowed in the glittering half light.

“You poor boy,” he whispered and looked around the tomb. “Poor boys. Oh, my poor boys,” and he wept for them all.

Peter Marlowe turned away into the night, filled with pity, ashamed that Steven had once upon a time disgusted him.

As Peter Marlowe neared the American hut he was full of misgivings. He was sorry that he had agreed so readily to interpret for the King, and at the same time upset that he was unhappy about doing it. You’re a fine friend, he told himself, after all he’s done for you.

The sinking in his stomach increased. Just like before you go up for a mission, he thought. No, not like that. This feeling’s like when you’ve been sent for by the headmaster. The other’s just as painful, but at the same time mixed with pleasure. Like the village. That makes your heart take flight. To take such a chance, just for the excitement — or in truth for the food or the girl that might be there.

He wondered for the thousandth tune just why the King went and what he did there. But to ask would be impolite and he knew that he only had to have a little patience to find out. That was another reason he liked the King. The way that he volunteered nothing and kept most of his thoughts to himself. That’s the English way, Peter Marlowe told himself contentedly. Just let out a little at a time, when you’re in the mood. What you are or who you are is your own affair — until you wish to share with a friend. And a friend never asks. It has to be freely given or not at all.

Like the village. My God, he thought, that shows how much he thinks of you, to open up like that. Just to come out and say do you want to come along, the next time I go.

Peter Marlowe knew that it was an insane thing to do. To go to the village. But perhaps not so insane now. Now there was a real reason. An important reason. To try to get a part to fix the wireless - or to get a wireless, a whole one. Yes. This makes the risk worthwhile.

But at the same time he knew that he would have gone just because he had been asked to go, and because of the might-be-food and might-be girl.

He saw the King deep in a shadow, beside a hut, talking to another shadow. Their heads were close together and their voices were inaudible. So intent were they that Peter Marlowe decided to pass the King by, and he began to mount the stairs into the American hut, crossing the shaft of light.

“Hey, Peter,” the King called out.

Peter Marlowe stopped.

“Be right with you, Peter.” The King turned back to the other figure. “Think you’d better wait here, Major. Soon as he arrives I’ll give you the word.”

“Thank you,” the small man said, his voice wet with embarrassment.

“Have some tobacco,” the King said, and it was accepted avidly. Major Prouty backed deeper into the shadows but kept his eyes on the King as he walked the space to his own hut.

“Missed you, buddy,” the King said to Peter Marlowe and punched him playfully. “How’s Mac?”

“He’s all right, thanks.” Peter Marlowe wanted to get out of the shaft of light. Dammit, he thought. I’m embarrassed being seen with my friend. And that’s rotten. Very rotten.

But he could not help feeling the major’s eyes watching - or stop the wince as the King said, “C’mon. Won’t be long, then we can go to work!”

Grey went to the hiding place just in case there was a message for him in the can. And there was. Major Prouty’s watch. Tonight. Marlowe and him.

Grey tossed the can back into the ditch as casually as he had picked it up. Then, stretching, he got up and walked back towards Hut Sixteen. But all the time his mind worked with computer speed.

Marlowe and the King. They’ll be in the “shop” behind the American hut. Prouty. Which one? Major! Is he the one with the Artillery? Or the Aussie? Come on, Grey, he asked himself irritably, where’s the card index mind you’re so proud of? Got him! Hut Eleven! Little man! Pioneers! Aussie!

Is he connected with Larkin? No. Not to my knowledge. An Aussie. Then why not through that Aussie black-markeeteer Tiny Timsen? Why the King? Maybe it’s too big for Timsen to handle. Or maybe it’s stolen property — more likely, for then Prouty wouldn’t use regular Aussie channels. That’s more like it.

Grey glanced at his watch. He did it instinctively, even though he had not had a watch for three years, even though he needed no watch to tell the time or gauge the hour of the night. Like all of them, he knew the time, as much of time as it was necessary to know.

It’s too early yet, he thought. The guards don’t change yet awhile. And when they did, from his hut he would be able to see the old guard plod the camp, way up the road, past his hut toward the guardhouse. The man to watch’ll be the new guard. Who is it? Who cares? I’ll know soon enough. Safer to wait and watch until the time, then swoop. Carefully. Just interrupt them politely. See the guard with the King and Marlowe. Better to see them when the money changes hands or when the King hands over the money to Prouty. Then a report to Colonel Smedly-Taylor: “Last night I witnessed an interchange of money,” or just as good: “I saw the American corporal and Flight Lieutenant Marlowe, DFC-Hut Sixteen-with a Korean guard. I have reason to believe that Major Prouty, Pioneers, was involved and provided the watch for sale.”

That would do it. The regulations, he thought happily, were clear and defined: “No sales to guards!” Caught in the act. Then there would be a court-martial.

A court-martial to begin with. Then my jail, my little jail. With no extras and no katchang idju-bully. No nothing. Only caged, caged like the rats you are. Then to be let go — angry and hating. And angry men make mistakes. And the next time, perhaps Yoshima would be waiting. Better let the Japs do their own work — to help them isn’t right. Perhaps in this case it would be all right. But no. Just a nudge, perhaps?

I’ll pay you back, Peter Bloody Marlowe. Maybe sooner than I’d hoped. And my revenge on you and that crook will be ecstasy.

The King glanced at his watch. Nine-four. Any second now. One thing about the Japs, you always knew to the instant what they were going to do, for once a timetable had been set, it was set.

Then he heard the footsteps. Torusumi rounded the corner of the hut and came quickly under the lee of the curtain. The King rose to greet him. Peter Marlowe, also under the curtain, got up reluctantly, hating himself.

Torusumi was a character among the guards. Quite well-known. Dangerous and unpredictable. He had a face where most of them were faceless. He had been with the camp for a year or more. He liked to work the POWs hard and keep them in the sun and shout at them and kick them when the mood was on him.

“Tabe,” said the King, grinning. “Like smoke?” He offered some raw Java tobacco.

Torusumi showed his gold-proud teeth and handed Peter Marlowe his rifle and sat down. He pulled out a pack of Kooas and offered them to the King, who accepted one. Then the Korean looked at Peter Marlowe.

“Ichi-bon friend,” said the King.

Torusumi grunted, showed teeth, sucked his breath in and offered a cigarette.

Peter Marlowe hesitated. “Take it, Peter,” the King said.

Peter Marlowe obeyed, and the guard sat down at the little table.

“Tell him,” said the King to Peter Marlowe, “that he’s welcome.”

“My friend says that thou art welcome and he is pleasured to see thee here.”

“Ah, I thank thee. Does my worthy friend have anything for me?”

“He asks have you anything for him?”

“Tell him exactly what I say, Peter. Be exact.”

“I’ll have to put it in the vernacular. You can’t translate exactly.”

“That’s okay — but make sure it’s right — and take your time.”

The King passed over the watch. Peter Marlowe noticed with surprise that it was like new, freshly burnished, a new plastic watch face, and in a neat little chamois leather case.

“Tell him this — a guy I know wants to sell it. But it’s expensive, and maybe not what he wants.”

Even Peter Marlowe saw the glint of avarice in the Korean’s eyes as he took the watch out of the case and held it to his ear, grunted casually and put it back on the table.

Peter Marlowe translated the Korean’s reply. “Hast thou something else? I regret that Omegas are not bringing much in Singapore these days.”

“Thy Malay is exceptionally good, sir,” Torusumi added to Peter Marlowe, politely sucking the air past his teeth.

“I thank thee,” Peter Marlowe said grudgingly.

“What’d he say, Peter?”.

“Just that I spoke Malay well, that’s all.”

“Oh! Well, tell him I’m sorry, but that’s all I’ve got.”

The King waited until this had been translated, then smiled and shrugged and picked up the watch and put it into its case and back in his pocket, and got up. “Salamat!” he said.

Torusumi showed his teeth once more, then indicated that the King should sit. “It is not that I want the watch,” he said to the King. “But because thou art my friend and thou hast taken much trouble, I should inquire what does the man who owns this insignificant watch want for it?”

“Three thousand dollars,” the King replied. “I’m sorry it’s overpriced.”

“Truly it is overpriced. The owner has sickness in his head. I am a poor man, only a guard, yet because we have done business in the past and to do thee a favor I will offer three hundred dollars.”

“I regret. I dare not. I have heard that there are other buyers who would pay a more reasonable price through other intermediaries. I agree that thou art a poor man and should not offer money for so insignificant a watch. Of course, Omegas are not worth much money, but in deference to the owner thou wouldst understand it would be an insult to offer him anything less than a second-class watch is worth.”

“That is true. Perhaps I should increase the price, for even a poor man has honor, and it would be honorable to try to alleviate any man’s suffering in these trying times. Four hundred.”

“I thank your concern for my acquaintance. But this watch - being an Omega - and being that the price of Omegas has fallen from their accepted high place previously, obviously there is a more definite reason for thou not wanting to do business with me. A man of honor is always honorable —“

“I, too, am a man of honor. I had no wish to impugn thy reputation and the reputation of your acquaintance who owns the watch. Perhaps I should risk my reputation and try to see if I could persuade those miserable Chinese merchants with whom I have to deal to give a fair price once in their miserable existences. I’m sure that thou wilt agree, five hundred would be the maximum a fair and honorable man could go for an Omega, even before their price dropped.”

“True, my friend. But I have a thought for thee. Perhaps the prices of Omegas have not dropped from their ichi-bon position. Perhaps the miserly Chinese are mistakenly taking advantage of a man of honor. Why, only last week another of thy Korean friends came to me and bought such a watch and paid three thousand dollars for it. I only offered it to thee because of my long friendship and trust that pertains as between associates of long standing.”

“Dost thou tell me truly?” Torusumi spat vehemently on the floor, and Peter Marlowe readied himself for the blow which had followed such outbursts before.

The King sat unperturbed. God, thought Peter Marlowe, he’s got nerves of steel. The King pulled out some shreds of tobacco and began to roll himself a cigarette. When Torusumi saw this, he stopped raving and offered the pack of Kooas and cooled.

“I am astonished that the miserable Chinese merchants for whom I risk my life are so corrupt. I am horrified to hear what thou, my friend, hast told me. Worse, I am appalled. To think that they have abused my trust. For a year I have been dealing with the same man. And to think that he has cheated me for so long. I think I will kill him.”

“Better,” said the King, “to outsmart him.”

“How? I would dearly like my friend to tell me.”

“Curse him with thy tongue. Tell him that information has been given thee to prove that he is a cheat. Tell him if he does not give thee a fair price in future - a fair price plus twenty percent to pay thee back for all his past errors - then thou mayest whisper in the ear of the authorities. Then they will take him and take his women and take his children and abuse them to thy satisfaction.”

“It is superb advice. I am happy with the thought of my friend. Because of his thought and the friendship I hold for him, let me offer fifteen hundred dollars. It is all the money I have in the world, plus some money entrusted to me by my friend who is with the sickness of women in the stink-house called a hospital and who cannot work for himself.”

The King bent down and slapped at the clouds of mosquitoes on his ankles. That’s more like it, boy, he thought. Let’s see. Twenty would be high. Eighteen okay. Fifteen not bad.

“The King begs thee to wait,” Peter Marlowe translated. “He must consult with the miserable man who wishes to sell thee an overpriced commodity.”

The King climbed through the window and walked down the length of the hut, checking. Max was in place. Dino down the path to one side. Byron Jones III to the other.

He found Major Prouty, sweating with anxiety in the shadow of the hut next to the American hut.

“Gee, I’m sorry, sir,” the King whispered unhappily. “The guy’s not anxious at all.”

Prouty’s anxiety intensified. He had to sell. Oh God, he thought, just my luck. Got to get some money somehow.

“Won’t he offer anything?”

“Best I could do was four hundred.”

“Four hundred! Why everyone knows that an Omega’s worth at least two thousand.”

“I’m afraid that’s a story, sir. He, well, he seems suspicious. That it’s not an Omega.”

“He’s out of his mind. Of course it’s an Omega.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the King, stiffening slightly. “I’m only reporting . . .”

“My fault, Corporal. I didn’t mean to pick on you. These yellow bastards are all the same.” Now what do I do? Prouty asked himself. If I don’t sell it through the King we won’t sell it at all, and the unit needs the money and all our work will be for nothing. What do I do?

Prouty thought a minute, then said, “See what you can do, Corporal. I couldn’t take less than twelve hundred. I just couldn’t.”

“Well, sir. I don’t think I can do much, but I’ll try.”

“There’s a good fellow. I’m relying on you. I wouldn’t let it go so low, but well, food’s been so short. You know how it is.”