King Rat

  The men she had tried were nothing. And Grey, whom she felt could be a man, whom she loved as much as she could love, whom she tried in every way to force into rage enough to take her as she wanted to be taken, Grey had failed her. He had failed her. Failed to be a man.

  Trina’s cold eyes were on Billy. She knew Billy was seething with rage. But he’d do nothing but quarrel. Nothing. He didn’t understand her and he never would and it was true, she had married him because he was the agent. And she would stay with him while he was the agent. That was one thing he was good at.

  Then, sharp-eyed, she noticed Winter Smith with Durstein, close and intimate and huddled together. From the corner of her mouth she hissed at Billy. “You’d better go and break that up. That bitch’ll do anything to get the part.”

  Billy smiled cynically as he left. “But you won’t?”

  “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 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.

  Mema twisted violently in her sleep and then she was wide awake. It was dusk. She glanced at her watch, glad to be awake and at the same time sorry that it was not yet morning. It was only eight o’clock and she had been asleep only half an hour. It was even too early yet for the night creatures to be about. She listened. Yes, the jungle was still quiet. In an hour or so the tempo would change.

  She was lying on her side, half curled up, as she always slept, on the big clean, starched bed. Surrounding her was the protective mosquito cage.

  It was much more pleasant to sleep in the cage than under a confining mosquito net. It was like being in a gossamer box and the box was within the large bedroom and the bed was within the box—box within boxes, selves within selves. A mosquito cage was expensive, and only the very well off could afford one. It was expensive because the joints of the door, set in a gossamer wall, had to be perfect-fitted, fitted to exclude the tiny winged creatures, smaller than mosquitoes—the midges—that abounded. Midges were not dangerous for they did not carry malaria or other vi
olent diseases, but even so, they were just as sleep disturbing.

  It was nice to lie, half awake in the clean pure space. There was a breeze tonight, cooling. A fragrance of frangipani surrounded her, brought by the sea breeze, and mixed with it were the perfumes of the night blooming flowers in the surrounding garden. The breeze touched her, pattering the gossamer negligee against her legs. Mem liked nice things, and the negligee was beautiful and sheer and came from Paris.

  She moved slightly, resting her head on her bare arm on the sweet-smelling pillow, and she looked at the man, lying soft asleep beside her. Involuntarily she touched him, liking him. She did not love him, but she liked him. And that was good. It had not always been so.

  The man stirred, then opened his eyes. When he saw her looking at him, he smiled and reached over and caressed her long golden hair.

  “Omae,” he said gently, “nemuri nai no ka?” concerned to find her awake.

  “Hai,” she replied. “Hitotsumo nemuku arimasen.” She kissed him softly. “Anata dozo oyasumi ni natte ne.”

  He did as she bade him. He turned over and went back to sleep once more.

  For a while she lay back too, trying to sleep, but sleep would not come. She turned over once or twice, gently, for she didn’t wish to disturb him, then finally she gave up and got off the bed and put on her light housecoat.

  She opened the door of the cage and closed it quickly lest a stray mosquito was lying in wait, then crossed the marble floor to her dressing table. She lit a cigarette and brushed her hair while she smoked. This always seemed to help to make her sleepy, but tonight the ritual did not work. As she brushed, she looked into the mirror and the mirror showed herself to herself.

  Clean lines, round where they should be round, her shoulders nicely sloping and set just right to carry the breasts that still needed no bra to lift them. Flat stomach. Long legs. Long neck, a swan neck. Fair, fair skin with an English bloom to her cheeks. A delicate face, high cheek bones, unlined yet, long swaths of gold hair that curled of their own majesty. Yes, she told herself, for thirty-three, you’re still a woman to be desired.

  But the thought did not wholly please her.

  To shake off her mood, she slipped on the feathered mules and spilled sweet-smelling cologne on her hands and forehead, walked across the room and opened the door. Refreshed, she went across the hall and opened another door. She was about to enter when her amah came from the back of the house where the servants quarters were.

  “Dost thou require anything, Mistress?” the old woman asked politely in Malay.

  “No. If I do, I will call thee.”

  Then Mema went into the room and closed the door softly. Angus was curled up in a ball in the center of his bed under the mosquito net, curled around the long cylindrical pillow which in the East is called a Dutch nurse. Mem crossed, a sibilant movement, to her son, happily watching him sleep. Tousled hair, very short. Good body, tall for three and a half years.

  The boy yawned, then feeling eyes upon him, awoke. When he saw his mother, he smiled. “Okasa!” he piped as he had been taught. Fleetingly Mema thought that “Mummy” sounds so much better than “Okasa” which also means “Mummy.”

  “Angus, doka shita no?” she asked as she tucked the net closer to the mattress. She knew he was all right, and comfortable, but she asked anyway.

  “U-un,” he nodded happily. “Nandemo nai yo.” Of course I’m all right, ’cause I had ice cream for my supper, he told himself happily.

  “Ja,” she told him, “Hayaku nenne shimasai ne.”

  Angus was yawning and needed no gentle command from her to go back to his dreams. She waited, watching him. Often she would sit beside his bed at night when she could not sleep and gain from his tiny presence the peace that she needed to take away the bad dreams. It was a nice room and there were always fresh flowers beside his bed and his toys were scattered in the neatness of a child’s pattern which adults call chaos. But tonight Mem did not feel there would be bad dreams when at length she went to sleep. Happily she turned away and wandered past the little bed to the cot.

  Always she smiled when she saw the cot, for the miniature mosquito net and the tininess of the cot and the smallness of her daughter, beneath the sheet and under the net, pleased her. Nobu was so pretty, unbelievably so. Creamy golden skin, not as golden as her father’s, and not as white as her mother’s, but just right. Black hair and dark-dark eyes, slanting pleasingly, eyes that were now tight in sleep.

  She had been named Nobu, for her birth month was November. And she was fourteen months old.

  Mem checked the net to see if it was tight, and made sure that the child was sleeping well. She noticed a slight flush and the wet mouth, and reminded herself to talk to the doctor tomorrow, for the child was teething. Perhaps he could do something to help the little one.

  Content now that all was well, Mem went out, softly closing the door. Then, sleep still not on her, she wandered listlessly into the vast living room and turned on a lamp. She lit another cigarette.

  Through the long netted windows, out through the netted veranda, she could see the garden, banks upon banks of tropical flowers, and the little path that led at length to the road. The guard was as usual at the gates—and beyond the road was the sea. A few miles east was Oasthaven, the south-most seaport on the southmost tip of Sumatra.

  There was a pitcher of iced grapefruit juice, pressed from fresh fruit from their garden on a long marble table, and she poured herself a glass and took it out onto the veranda and sat in her favorite long chair, sipping it, her legs curled beneath her, and she looked out, past the palm trees, to the sea.

  You’re very lucky, she told herself. Lucky to have so much—a lovely house, two wonderful healthy children, a good man to look after you and love you. Oh yes, the Colonel loves you, there is no doubt of that. No doubt. Yes, Mema Angela McCoy, nee Douglas, you are lucky.

  Thinking of her name, she began to think of her life. There were two parts. From when she was born, to February 13, 1942. And from then onwards.

  Mem did not want to think, alone on the veranda. But she knew she would tonight—in spite of her wish. In spite of her self promise. Perhaps it is wise to think, she reasoned, wise to think of the good and the bad. Then the dreams would leave her be.

  Thirteen. Thirteen had always been her lucky number in her first life. She was born on the thirteenth, she had left England on the thirteenth for Malaya. She had met Mac on the thirteenth and she had married him on the thirteenth. But the thirteenth of February was not lucky. Or perhaps it was; it depended on how you looked at it. Even in her second life, the thirteenth was a little lucky for Nobu had been born on that day.

  And as she sat on the veranda, surrounded by richness and ornaments of exquisite taste and high cost, and the zephyr wind caressed her, the turntable of her mind told Mac, who was dead but the focus of her first life, the well-rehearsed and well-told story of the second life.

  “You see, Mac, it began on the thirteenth of February. Singapore fell—capitulated—on the twelfth. Our ship was off Sumatra heading out into the Indian Ocean. Then suddenly we were in the sea, and drowning, Angus and I, and Angus was in my arms. There were many planes, at first machine-gunning. Then later, I don’t know how much later, a big ship, a Japanese warship passed by. There were some of us who were picked up. Others were left, but we were picked up, Angus and I. I can’t remember much about the boat. There were only a few of us, all English, and all from the boat. The children were crying and so were the women in the little cabin. The rest of the time on the ship is a fog, until the engines stopped and we were told to go on deck. Then I saw we were in a port. The port was in flames and ships were on fire. One huge warehouse exploded and debris scattered the dockside. Overhead were Japanese planes and the wharfs were alive with Japanese ships loading and unloading. There were many bodies lying in the sun, and the smell of death was over everything. At first I thought we were in Java, but I saw a sign which said Oasthaven and I remembered that Oas
thaven was in Sumatra.

  “We were herded into a truck and taken to a schoolhouse under guard. When we got there, there were other women and children. I think they were mostly Dutch. Some were English. One woman with two children was from an oil field north. She said they had taken her husband away for questioning a few days ago. But he hadn’t returned. And he never did come back.

  “We were in the schoolhouse for a month. Food was little and sanitation was nonexistent. One of the children died. Angus, bless him, weathered it quite well, but he had fever and we had no drugs. It was bad, sitting, watching him, knowing that a little quinine would cure him. But there was none to be had. After we had been locked up there for two months, they began questioning us. Asking us about our husbands. I told them you were in the army. I told them about our plantation in Kedah. They were very angry that you had not stayed on the plantation and were angry at me. I tried to explain to them that, in war, well, men are supposed to go to war. Isn’t that so?

  “When four months had passed, five of the children had died. And two of the women. One of the women had gone mad. To save her child, we had to hold her down. I think we held her too hard, for the next day we found she was dead. Her child was only six months old, half gone with fever. I suppose watching her child, watching the child die, waiting for her to die, was too much for her. Her blood was on our hands. Then one day a young officer came and looked us over. We knew he was looking at us as women. He tempted one. She was unmarried, a sprite of a thing. We never saw her again. Her name was Gina.

  “Then there was more questioning. And that was when I met Colonel Imata for the first time. Angus was in my arms and we had been taken from the big room, where we lived and ate and slept and—I suppose—died, into a smaller room in the school buildings. It was small, but it was clean, and a little like paradise. The Colonel was sitting behind a huge desk and standing beside him was a young Japanese officer whose name was Saito. The Colonel was a big man, tall for a Japanese, with iron gray hair, close cropped, and a firm well-lined face. It was a kind face I thought. Saito said that this was Colonel Imata and the Colonel wanted to ask me some questions and to sit down. They gave me a cigarette and the Colonel looked at me. Then he asked about Angus for the child was not too well at that time and fretful. He seemed gentle and helpful so I asked for medicines and fresh milk. I could not feed my child for my milk had dried up and another of the mothers was feeding him, but only when her own child was replete and then, there was not much milk left for my son. Saito translated this to the Colonel who said he would see what could be done. Then he began questioning me. When he was finished questioning there was a bottle of fresh milk and a cake of soap and a pack of cigarettes. Saito said that they were gifts from the Colonel and that tomorrow I was to return.