King Rat

  Grey let the silence hang and the King stood easily, waiting. A breath of wind rustled the coconut trees that soared above the jungle just outside the fence, bringing the promise of rain. Already there were black clouds rimming the eastern sky, soon to cover the sky. Soon they would turn dust into bog and make humid air breathable.

  “You like a cigarette? Sir,” the King said, offering the pack.

  The last time Grey had had a tailor-made cigarette was two years before, on his birthday. His twenty-second birthday. He stared at the pack and wanted one, wanted them all. “No,” he said grimly. “I don’t want one of your cigarettes.”

  “You don’t mind if I smoke? Sir.”

  “Yes I do!”

  The King kept his eyes fixed on Grey’s and calmly slipped out a cigarette. He lit it and inhaled deeply.

  “Take that out of your mouth!” Grey ordered.

  “Sure. Sir.” The King took a long slow drag before obeying. Then he hardened. “I’m not under your orders and there’s no law that says I can’t smoke when I want to. I’m an American and I’m not subject to any goddam flag-waving Union Jack! That’s been pointed out to you too. Get off my back! Sir.”

  “I’m after you now, Corporal,” Grey erupted. “Soon you’re going to make a slip, and when you do I’ll be waiting and then you’ll be in there.” His finger was shaking as he pointed at the crude bamboo cage which served as a cell. “That’s where you belong.”

  “I’m breaking no laws—”

  “Then where do you get your money?”

  “Gambling.” The King moved closer to Grey. His anger was controlled, but he was more dangerous than usual. “Nobody gives me nothing. What I have is mine and I made it. How I made it is my own business.”

  “Not while I’m Provost Marshal.” Grey’s fists tightened. “Lot of drugs have been stolen over the months. Maybe you know something about them.”

  “Why you—Listen,” the King said furiously, “I’ve never stolen a thing in my life. I’ve never sold drugs in my life and don’t you forget it! Goddammit, if you weren’t an officer I’d—”

  “But I am and I’d like you to try. By God I would! You think you’re so bloody tough. Well, I know you’re not.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing. When we get through this shit of Changi, you come looking for me and I’ll hand you your head.”

  “I won’t forget!” Grey tried to slow his pumping heart. “But remember, until that time I’m watching and waiting. I’ve never heard of a run of luck that didn’t sometime run out. And yours will!”

  “Oh no it won’t! Sir.” But the King knew that there was a great truth in that. His luck had been good. Very good. But luck is hard work and planning and a little something besides, and not gambling. At least not unless it was a calculated gamble. Like today and the diamond. Four whole carats. At last he knew how to get his hands on it. When he was ready. And if he could make this one deal, it would be the last, and there would be no more need to gamble—not here in Changi.

  “Your luck’ll run out,” Grey said malevolently. “You know why? Because you’re like all criminals. You’re full of greed—”

  “I don’t have to take this crap from you,” the King said, and his rage snapped. “I’m no more a criminal than—”

  “Oh but you are. You break the law all the time.”

  “The hell I do. Jap law may say—”

  “To hell with Jap law. I’m talking about camp law. Camp law says no trading. That’s what you do!”

  “Prove it!”

  “I will in time. You’ll make one slip. And then we’ll see how you survive along with the rest of us. In my cage. And after my cage, I’ll personally see that you’re sent to Utram Road!”

  The King felt a horror-chill rush into his heart and into his testicles. “Jesus,” he said tightly. “You’re just the sort of bastard who’d do that!”

  “In your case,” Grey said, and there was foam on his lips, “it’d be a pleasure. The Japs are your friends!”

  “Why, you son of a bitch!” The King bunched a hamlike fist and moved towards Grey.

  “What’s going on here, eh?” Colonel Brant said as he stomped up the steps and entered the hut. He was a small man, barely five feet, and his beard rolled Sikh style under his chin. He carried a swagger cane. His peaked army cap was peakless and all patched with sackcloth; in the center of it, the emblem of a regiment shone like gold, smooth with years of burnishing.

  “Nothing—nothing, sir.” Grey waved at the sudden fly-swarm, trying to control his breathing. “I was just—searching Corporal—”

  “Come now, Grey,” Colonel Brant interrupted testily. “I heard what you said about Utram Road and the Japs. It’s perfectly in order to search him and question him, everyone knows that, but there’s no reason to threaten or abuse him.” He turned to the King, his forehead beaded with sweat. “You, Corporal. You should thank your lucky stars I don’t report you to Captain Brough for discipline. You should know better than to go around dressed like that. Enough to drive any man out of his mind. Just asking for trouble.”

  “Yes, sir,” the King said, outwardly calm but cursing himself inside for losing his temper—just what Grey was trying to make him do.

  “Look at my clothes,” Colonel Brant was saying. “How the hell do you think I feel?”

  The King made no reply. He thought, That’s your problem, Mac—you look after you, I’m looking after me. The colonel wore only a loincloth, made from half a sarong, knotted around his waist—kiltlike—and under the kilt there was nothing. The King was the only man in Changi who wore underpants. He had six pairs.

  “You think I don’t envy you your shoes?” Colonel Brant asked irritably. “When all I’ve got to wear are these confounded things?” He was wearing regulation slippers—a piece of wood and a canvas band for the instep.

  “I don’t know, sir,” said the King, with veiled humility, so dear to officer-ear.

  “Quite right. Quite right.” Colonel Brant turned to Grey. “I think you owe him an apology. It’s quite wrong to threaten him. We must be fair, eh, Grey?” He wiped more sweat from his face.

  It took Grey an enormous effort to stop the curse that quivered his lips. “I apologize.” The words were low and edged and the King was hard put to keep the smile from his face.

  “Very good.” Colonel Brant nodded, then looked at the King. “All right,” he said, “you can go. But dressed like that you’re asking for trouble! You’ve only yourself to blame!”

  The King saluted smartly. “Thank you, sir.” He walked out, and once more in the sunshine he breathed easily, and cursed himself again. Jesus, that’d been close. He had nearly hit Grey and that would have been the act of a maniac. To gather himself, he stopped beside the path and lit another cigarette and the many men who passed by saw the cigarette and smelled the aroma.

  “Blasted chap,” the colonel said at length, still looking after him and wiping his forehead. Then he turned back to Grey. “Really, Grey, you just must be out of your mind to provoke him like that.”

  “I’m sorry. I—I suppose he—”

  “Whatever he is, it certainly isn’t like an officer and a gentleman to lose your temper. Bad, very bad, don’t you think, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.” There was nothing more for Grey to say.

  Colonel Brant grunted, then pursed his lips. “Quite right. Lucky I was passing. Can’t have an officer brawling with a common soldier.” He glanced out of the door again, hating the King, wanting his cigarette. “Blasted man,” he said without looking back at Grey, “undisciplined. Like the rest of the Americans. Bad lot. Why, they call their officers by their first names!” His eyebrows soared. “And the officers play cards with the men! Bless my soul! Worse than the Australians—and they’re a shower if there ever was one. Miserable! Not like the Indian Army, what?”

  “No. Sir,” Grey said thinly.

  Colonel Brant turned quickly. “I didn’t mean—well, Grey, just because—” He stopped and sudde
nly his eyes were filled with tears. “Why, why would they do that?” he said brokenly. “Why, Grey? I—we all loved them.”

  Grey shrugged. But for the apology he would have been compassionate.

  The colonel hesitated, then turned and walked out of the hut. His head was bent and silent tears streamed down his cheeks.

  When Singapore fell in ’42, his Sikh soldiers had gone over to the enemy, the Japanese, almost to a man, and they had turned on their English officers. The Sikhs were among the first prison guards over the prisoners of war and some of them were savage. The officers of the Sikhs knew no peace. For it was only the Sikhs en masse, and a few from other Indian regiments. The Gurkhas were loyal to a man, under torture and indignity. So Colonel Brant wept for his men, the men he would have died for, the men he still died for.

  Grey watched him go, then saw the King smoking by the path. “I’m glad I said that now it’s you or me,” he whispered to himself.

  He sat back on the bench as a shaft of pain swept through his bowels, reminding him that dysentery had not passed him by this week. “To hell with it,” he said weakly, cursing Colonel Brant and the apology.

  Masters came back with the full water bottle and gave it to him. He took a sip and thanked him and then began to plan how he would get the King. But the hunger for lunch was on him and he let his mind drift.

  A faint moan cut the air. Grey glanced abruptly at Masters, who sat unconscious that he had made a sound, watching the constant movement of the house lizards in the rafters as they darted after insects or fornicated.

  “You have dysentery, Masters?”

  Masters bleakly waved away the flies that mosaiced his face. “No sir. At least I haven’t for nearly five weeks.”

  “Enteric?”

  “No, thank God. My bloody word. Just amebic. An’ I haven’t had malaria for near three months. I’m very lucky, an’ very fit, considering.”

  “Yes,” Grey said. Then as an afterthought, “You look fit.” But he knew he would have to get a replacement soon. He looked back at the King, watching him smoke, nauseated with cigarette hunger.

  Masters moaned again.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Grey said irately.

  “Nothing, sir. Nothing. I must have …”

  But the effort to speak was too much and Masters let his words slip off and blend with the drone of flies. Flies dominated the day, mosquitoes the night. No silence. Ever. What is it like to live without flies and mosquitoes and people? Masters tried to remember, but the effort was too great. So he just sat still, quiet, hardly breathing, a shell of a man. And his soul twisted uneasily.

  “All right, Masters, you can go now,” Grey said. “I’ll wait for your relief. Who is he?”

  Masters forced his brain to work and after a moment said, “Bluey—Bluey White.”

  “For God’s sake, get hold of yourself,” Grey snapped. “Corporal White died three weeks ago.”

  “Oh, sorry, sir,” Masters said weakly. “Sorry, I must have … It’s … er, I think it’s Peterson. The Pommy, I mean, Englishman. Infantryman, I think.”

  “All right. You can go and get your dinner now. But don’t dawdle coming back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Masters put on his rattan coolie hat and saluted and shambled out of the doorless doorway, hitching the rags of his pants around his hips. God, Grey thought, you can smell him from fifty paces. They’ve just got to issue more soap.

  But he knew that it wasn’t just Masters. It was all of them. If you didn’t bathe six times a day, the sweat hung like a shroud about you. And thinking of shrouds, he thought again about Masters—and the mark that he had on him. Perhaps Masters knew it too, so what was the point of washing?

  Grey had seen many men die. The bitterness began to well as he thought about the regiment and the war. Damn your eyes, he almost shouted, twenty-four and still a lieutenant! And the war going on all around—all over the world. Promotions every day of the year. Opportunities. And here I am in this stinking POW camp and still a lieutenant. Oh Christ! If only we hadn’t been transshipped to Singapore in ’42. If only we’d gone where we were supposed to go—to the Caucasus. If only…

  “Stop it,” he said aloud. “You’re as bad as Masters, you bloody fool!”

  It was normal in the camp to talk aloud to yourself sometimes. Better to speak out, the doctors had always said, than to keep it all choked inside—that way led to insanity. Most days were not so bad. You could stop thinking about your other life, about the guts of it—food, women, home, food, food, women, food. But the nights were the danger time. At night you dreamed. Dreamed about food and women. Your woman. And soon you would enjoy the dreaming more than the waking, and if you were careless you would dream while awake, and the days would run into nights and the night into day. Then there was only death. Smooth. Gentle. It was easy to die. Agony to live. Except for the King. He had no agony.

  Grey was still watching him, trying to hear what he was saying to the man beside him, but he was too far away. Grey tried to place the other man but he could not. He could see from the man’s armband that he was a major. By Japanese order all officers had to wear armbands with rank insignia on their left arms. At all times. Even naked.

  The black rain clouds were building fast now. Sheet lightning flecked the east, but still the sun thrust down. A fetid breeze broomed the dust momentarily, then left it settle.

  Automatically Grey used the bamboo fly-swat. A deft, half unconscious twist of the wrist and another fly fell to the ground, maimed. To kill a fly was careless. Cripple it, then the bastard would suffer and repay in tiny measure your own suffering. Cripple it and it would soundless scream until ants and other flies came to fight over its living flesh.

  But Grey did not take the usual pleasure in watching the torment of the tormentor. He was too intent on the King.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “By George,” the major was saying to the King with forced joviality, “and then there was the time I was in New York. In ’33. Marvelous time. Such a wonderful country, the States. Did I ever tell you about the trip I made to Albany? I was a subaltern at the time …”

  “Yes, sir,” the King said tiredly. “You’ve told me.” He felt he had been polite long enough and he could still feel Grey’s eyes on him. Though he was quite safe and not afraid, he wanted to get out of the sun and out of the range of the eyes. He had a lot to do. And if the major wouldn’t come to the point, what the hell! “Well, if you’ll excuse me, sir. It was nice to talk to you.”

  “Oh, just a minute,” Major Barry said quickly and looked around nervously, conscious of the curious eyes of the men that passed, conscious of their unspoken question—What’s he talking to the King for? “I—er, could I see you privately?”

  The King gauged him thoughtfully. “We’re private here. If you keep your voice down.”

  Major Barry was wet with embarrassment. But he had been trying to bump into the King for days now. And it was too good an opportunity to miss. “But the Provost Marshal’s hut is—”

  “What have the cops to do with talking privately? I don’t understand, sir.” The King was bland.

  “There’s no need—er—well, Colonel Sellars said that you might be able to help me.” Major Barry had only the stump of a right arm and he kept scratching the stump, touching it, molding it. “Would you—handle something for us, I mean me.” He waited until there was no one within hearing distance. “It’s a lighter,” he whispered. “A Ronson lighter. Perfect condition.” Now that he had come to the point, the major felt a little easier. But at the same time he felt naked, saying these words to the American, out in the sun, on the public path.

  The King thought a moment. “Who’s the owner?”

  “I am.” The major looked up, startled. “My God, you don’t think I stole it, do you? Good Lord, I’d never do that. I’ve kept it safe all this time, but now, well, now we’ve got to sell it. The unit’s all agreed.” He licked his dry lips and fondled the stum
p. “Please. Would you? You can get the best price.”

  “Trading’s against the law.”

  “Yes, but please, you—would you please? You can trust me.”

  The King turned so that his back was towards Grey and his face towards the fence—just in case Grey could lip read. “I’ll send someone after chow,” he said quietly. “Password is ‘Lieutenant Albany said for me to see you.’ Got it?”

  “Yes.” Major Barry hesitated, his heart pumping. “When did you say?”

  “After chow. Lunch!”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “Just give it to him. And when I’ve looked it over, I’ll get in touch with you. Same password.” The King flipped the burning top off his cigarette and dropped the butt onto the ground. He was just about to step on it when he saw the major’s face. “Oh! You want the butt?”

  Major Barry bent down happily and picked it up. “Thanks. Thanks very much.” He opened his little tobacco tin and carefully tore the paper off the butt and put the half inch of tobacco into the dried tea leaves and mixed them together. “Nothing like a little sweetening,” he said, smiling. “Thank you very much. It’ll make at least three good cigarettes.”

  “I’ll see you, sir,” said the King, saluting.

  “Oh, um, well—” Major Barry did not know quite how to put it. “Don’t you think,” he said nervously, keeping his voice low, “that, well—to give it to a stranger, just like that, how do I know that—well, everything will be all right?”

  The King said coldly, “The password for one thing. Another thing, I’ve got a reputation. Another thing, I’m trusting you that it’s not stolen. Maybe we’d better forget it.”

  “Oh no, please don’t misunderstand me,” the major said quickly, “I was just asking. It’s, well, it’s all I have left.” He tried to smile. “Thanks. After lunch. Oh, how long do you think it’ll take to, er, to dispose of it?”

  “Soon as I can. Usual terms. I get ten percent of the sale price,” the King said crisply.

  “Of course. Thank you, and thanks again for the tobacco.” Now that everything had been said, Major Barry felt an enormous weight off his mind. With luck, he thought as he hurried down the hill, we will get six or seven hundred dollars. Enough to buy food for months, with care. He did not think once of the man who had owned the lighter, who had given it into his keeping when the man had gone to the hospital, months ago, never to return. That was in the past. Today he owned the lighter. It was his. His to sell.