King Rat

“No, cobber. But I said it, an’ we should all decide what to do.”

  Mac picked up one of the bottles. “Perhaps they’ll return the other ones in a day or so. We canna hide the guts of the bottles any better than they’re hid now.” He looked up and said venomously, “But who’s the bastard who knows?”

  They stared at the water bottles.

  “Isn’t it about time to listen for the news?” Peter Marlowe said.

  “Ay laddie,” Mac said and looked at Larkin.

  “I agree,” he said.

  The King was still awake when Timsen peered through the window. “Cobber?”

  “Yeah?”

  Timsen held up a bundle of notes. “We got the ten you paid.”

  The King sighed and he opened his black box and paid Timsen what was owed.

  “Thanks, cobber.” Timsen chuckled. “Hear you had a set-to with Grey and Yoshima.”

  “So?”

  “Nothin’—just a pity Grey didn’t find the stone. I wouldn’t be in your shoes—or Pete’s for that. Oh dear, no. Very dangerous, right?”

  “Go to hell, Timsen.”

  Timsen laughed. “Just a friendly warning, right? Oh, yus. The first shipment of netting’s under the hut, enough for a hundred or so cages.” He peeled off one hundred and twenty dollars. “I sold the first shipment at thirty a leg. Here’s your cut—fifty-fifty.”

  “Who got ’em?”

  Timsen winked. “Just friends of mine. ’Night, cobber.”

  The King relaxed in his bed and rechecked to see that the net was once more tight under his mattress. He was alert for danger. He knew that he could not go to the village for two days, and between then and now, many eyes would be watching and waiting. That night his sleep was fitful, and the next day he stayed in the hut surrounded by guards.

  After lunch there was a sudden search of the bungalow area. Three times the guards went through the little rooms before the search was called off.

  At nightfall Mac groped his way to the latrine area and pulled up the three water bottles that were dangling on a string in one of the boreholes. He cleaned them and brought them back to the room and connected them. He, Larkin and Peter Marlowe listened to the news, memorizing it. Afterwards, he did not take the bottles back to their cache, for though he had been cautious, he knew he had been observed.

  The three of them decided not to hide the bottles any more. They knew, without despair, that very soon they would be caught.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The King hurried through the jungle. As he approached the camp he became more careful until he was in a position just opposite the American hut. He lay on the ground and yawned contentedly, waiting for the moment to slip across the path and under the wire and back to the safety of the hut. The balance of the money bulked his pockets.

  He had gone alone to the village. Peter Marlowe was not fit enough to go with him. He had met Cheng San and given him the diamond. Then they had had a feast and he had gone to Kasseh and she had welcomed him.

  Dawn was painting the new day as the King sneaked under the wire and into the hut. It was only when he got in bed that he noticed that his black box was missing.

  “Why, you stupid sons of bitches!” he screamed. “Can’t you be trusted to do a goddam thing!”

  “Goddammit to hell,” Max said. “It was there a few hours ago. I got up to go to the latrine.”

  “Where the hell is it now?”

  But none of the men had seen or heard anything.

  “Get Samson and Brant,” the King said to Max.

  “Jesus,” Max said, “it’s a little early—”

  “I said get ’em!”

  In half an hour Colonel Samson arrived, wet with fear. “What’s the matter? You know I mustn’t be seen here.”

  “Some son of a bitch has stolen my box. You can help find out who did it.”

  “How can I—”

  “I don’t care how,” the King interrupted. “Just keep your ears open around the officers. There’s no more dough for you until I know who’s done it.”

  “But Corporal, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “As soon as I know, the weekly pay-off’ll start again. Now beat it.”

  A few minutes later Major Brant arrived and got the same treatment. As soon as he left, the King fixed himself some breakfast while the others in the hut were scouring the camp. He had just finished eating when Peter Marlowe came in. The King told him about the theft of the black box.

  “That’s a bad bit of luck,” Peter Marlowe said.

  The King nodded, then winked. “It doesn’t matter. I got the rest of the dough from Cheng San—so we’ve plenty. I just thought it was about time to bear down a little. The guys got careless—and it’s a matter of principle.” He handed him a small pile of notes. “Here’s your cut from the diamond.”

  Peter Marlowe wanted the money badly. But he shook his head. “You keep it. I owe you much more than I can ever pay you. And there’s the money you put out for the medicine.”

  “All right, Peter. But we’re still partners.”

  Peter Marlowe smiled. “Good.”

  The trapdoor opened and Kurt climbed up into the room.

  “Seventy so far,” he said.

  “Huh?” the King said.

  “It’s B Day.”

  “Goddam,” the King said. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Just as well I didn’t, ain’t it? I’ll butcher another ten in a few days. No need in feeding the males. There’s five or six that’re big enough!”

  The King felt sick, but he said, “All right. I’ll tell Timsen.”

  When Kurt had gone Peter Marlowe said, “I don’t think I’ll come around for a day or so.”

  “Huh?”

  “I think it’s better. We can’t hide the wireless any more. We’ve decided, the three of us, to stay around the room.”

  “You want to commit suicide? Get rid of the goddam thing if you figure you’re spotted. Then if you’re questioned—deny it.”

  “We thought about that, but ours is the only wireless left—so we want to keep it going as long as we can. With a little luck we won’t be caught.”

  “You better look after number one, buddy.”

  Peter Marlowe smiled. “Yes, I know. That’s why I’m not coming here for a while. Don’t want to drag you into anything.”

  “What’re you going to do if Yoshima starts heading your way?”

  “Make a run for it.”

  “Run where, for God’s sake?”

  “Better that than just sit.”

  Dino, the guard of the moment, stuck his head through the doorway. “Excuse me, but Timsen’s heading this way.”

  “Okay,” the King said. “I’ll see him.” He turned back to Peter Marlowe. “It’s your neck, Peter. My advice is dump it.”

  “Wish we could, but we can’t.”

  The King knew that there was nothing he could do.

  “Hi, cobber,” Timsen said as he came in, his face taut with anger. “Heard you had a bad bit of luck, right?”

  “I need a new set of watchdogs, that’s for sure.”

  “You and me both,” Timsen said furiously. “The bushwhackers dumped your black box under my bloody hut. My hut!”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. It’s there, under my hut, clean as a whistle. Bloody bastards, that’s the truth. No Aussie’d steal it and dump it under my hut. No sir. Got to be a Pommy or a Yank.”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is they weren’t none of mine. You got my ruddy oath on that.”

  “I’ll believe you. But you can spread the word—there’s a thousand bucks reward for the proof as to who hijacked my box.” The King reached under his pillow and deliberately pulled out the pile of notes that Cheng San had given him for the completion of the sale. He peeled off three hundred dollars and offered them to Timsen, who was staring wide-eyed at the vastness of the pile. “I need some sugar and coffee and oil—maybe a
coconut or two. You fix it?”

  Timsen took the money, unable to tear his eyes from the remaining pile of notes. “You completed the sale, right? My ruddy oath, never thought you’d do it. But you have, right?”

  “Sure,” the King said nonchalantly. “I got enough to last a month or two.”

  “A bloody year, mate,” Timsen said, overwhelmed. He turned and walked slowly to the door, then looked back with a sudden laugh. “A thousand, eh? I’d say that’d produce results, right?”

  “Yeah,” the King said. “Just a question of time.”

  Within the hour the news of the reward had spread through the camp. Eyes began to watch with renewed interest. Ears were tuned to catch the whispers on the wind. Memories were searched and re-searched. It was only a question of time before the thousand would be claimed.

  That night when the King walked the camp he felt, as never before, the hate and the envy and the strength of the eyes. It made him feel good and better than good, for he knew that they all knew he had a vast pile of notes where they had none—that he, of all of them, truly had it made.

  Samson sought him out, and Brant—and many others—and though he sickened at their fawning, it pleased him enormously that for the first time they did it in public. He passed the MP hut, and even Grey, standing outside, merely returned his neat salute and did not call him in to be searched. The King smiled to himself, knowing that even Grey was thinking about the stack of notes and the reward.

  Nothing could touch the King now. The stack of notes were safety and life and power. And they were his alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  When Yoshima came this time, he came stealthily but with great speed. He did not come as usual through the camp along the road, but he came with many guards through the wire, and when Peter Marlowe saw the first of the guards the bungalow was already surrounded and there was nowhere to run. Mac was still under his mosquito net, listening through the earphone, when Yoshima swooped into the bungalow.

  Peter Marlow and Larkin and Mac were herded into one corner. Then Yoshima picked up the earphone and listened. The radio was still connected and he heard the tail end of the news broadcast.

  “Very ingenious,” he said, putting the earphone down. “Your names, please?”

  “I’m Colonel Larkin, this is Major McCoy, and this is Flight Lieutenant Marlowe.”

  Yoshima smiled. “Would you like a cigarette?” he asked.

  They each took a cigarette and accepted a light from Yoshima, who also lit one for himself. They all smoked in silence. Then Yoshima spoke.

  “Disconnect the radio and come with me.”

  Mac’s fingers trembled as he bent down. He looked around nervously as another Japanese officer appeared abruptly out of the night. The officer whispered urgently in Yoshima’s ear. For a moment Yoshima stared at him speechless, then he snapped at a guard, who posted himself in the doorway, and hurried away with the officer and all the other guards.

  “What’s up?” said Larkin, his eyes on the guard, who covered them with a bayoneted rifle.

  Mac stood near his bed, above the radio, his knees shaking, hardly breathing. When at length he could talk he said hoarsely, “I think I know. It’s the news. I didn’t have time to tell you. We’ve—we’ve a new type of bomb. An atom bomb. Yesterday at eight-fifteen in the morning one was dropped on Hiroshima. The whole city disappeared. They say the casualties’ll be in the hundreds of thousands—men, women and children!”

  “Oh my God!”

  Larkin sat suddenly, and the nervous guard cocked his rifle and half pressed the trigger as Mac shouted in Malay, “Wait, he’s just sitting!”

  “All of you sit!” the guard shouted back in Malay, cursing them. When they had obeyed him, he said, “Thou art fools! Be more careful as thou move—for I am responsible that thou do not escape. Sit where thou art. And stay where thou art! I will shoot thee without question.”

  So they sat and did not talk. In time they fell asleep, dozing restlessly under the harsh light of the electric lamp, slapping at the mosquitoes until dawn took away the mosquitoes.

  At dawn the guard was changed. Still the three friends sat. Outside the bungalow nervous men walked the path, but they looked the other way until they were well clear of the condemned room.

  The day was bleak under the scorching sky. It dragged long, longer than any day had ever dragged.

  In the middle of the afternoon the three looked up as Grey approached the guard and saluted. In his hands were two mess cans.

  “Can I give them this? Makan?” He opened the mess cans and showed the guard the food.

  The guard shrugged and nodded.

  Grey walked across the veranda and put the food down at the doorway, his eyes red-rimmed and piercing.

  “Sorry it’s cold,” he said.

  “Come to gloat, Grey, old man?” Peter Marlowe said with a mirthless smile.

  “It’s no bloody satisfaction to me that they are going to put you away. I wanted to catch you breaking the laws—not see you caught for risking your life for the good of us all. Just your bloody luck you’ll go in a blaze of glory.”

  “Peter,” Mac whispered, “distract the guard!”

  Peter Marlowe got up and quickly moved into the doorway. He saluted the guard and asked permission to go to the latrine. The guard pointed to the ground just outside the bungalow. Peter Marlowe squatted in the dirt and relieved himself, hating to do it there in the open, but thankful that they were not going to be made to do it in the little room. As the guard watched Peter Marlowe, Mac whispered the news to Grey, who blanched. Grey got up and nodded to Peter Marlowe, who nodded back, and saluted the guard once more. The guard pointed at the fly-covered mess and told Grey to return with a bucket and clean it away.

  Grey passed the news on to Smedly-Taylor, who whispered it to the others, and soon the whole of Changi knew—long before Grey had found a bucket and had cleaned away the mess and set another bucket on the ground for them to use.

  The first of the great fears permeated the camp. The fear of reprisal.

  At sundown the guard was changed again and the new guard was Shagata. Peter Marlowe tried to talk to him, but Shagata just motioned him back into the little room with his bayonet. “I cannot talk with thee. Thou hast been caught with a radio, which is forbidden. I will shoot even thee if any of thee attempt to escape. I do not wish to shoot thee.” And he moved back to the door.

  “My bloody oath,” Larkin said. “I wish they’d just finish us off.”

  Mac looked at Shagata. “Sir,” he said, motioning toward his bed, “I beg thee a favor. May I rest there, please? I slept little in the night.”

  “Assuredly. Rest while thou hast time, old man.”

  “I thank thee. Peace be upon thee.”

  “And upon thee.”

  Mac went over to his bed and lay down. He let his head rest on the pillow. “It’s still connected,” he said, keeping his voice level with difficulty. “There’s a music recital. I can hear it clearly.”

  Larkin saw the earphone near Mac’s head and suddenly laughed. Then they were all laughing. Shagata jerked his rifle towards the men. “Stop it,” he shouted, frightened by the laughter.

  “We beg thy pardon,” Peter Marlowe said. “It is just that we who are so near eternity find small things amusing.”

  “Truly thou art near death—and also a fool to be caught breaking the law. But I hope that I may have the courage of laughter when my time arrives.” He threw a pack of cigarettes into the room. “Here,” he said. “I’m sorry that thou hast been caught.”

  “No sorrier that I,” Peter Marlowe said.

  He divided the cigarettes and glanced across at Mac. “What’s the re-cital?”

  “Bach, laddie,” Mac said, hard put not to break out into hysterical laughter again. He moved his head nearer the earphone. “Shut up, will you, now. I’d like to enjoy the music.”

  “Maybe we can take turns,” Larkin said. “Though anyone who can enjoy Bach is a
bit of a wet.”

  Peter Marlowe smoked his cigarette and said pleasantly to Shagata, “Thank thee for thy cigarettes.”

  Flies were swarming the bucket and its rough lid on top. The afternoon rains came early and settled the stench, and then the sun came out and began to dry the wetness of Changi.

  The King walked down the line of bungalows, conscious of the eyes on him. He stopped cautiously outside the condemned bungalow. “Tabe, Shagata-san,” he said. “Ichi-bon day, no? Can I talk to my ichi-bon friend?”

  Shagata stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  “He begs thy permission to talk to me,” Peter Marlowe said.

  Shagata thought a moment, then nodded. “Because of the money I made from the sale, I will let thee talk.” He turned to Peter Marlowe. “If I have thy words that thou wilt not try to escape.”

  “Thou hast our words.”

  “Be quick. I will watch.” Shagata moved so that he could keep an eye on the road.

  “There’s a rumor that guards are pouring into the guardhouse,” the King began nervously. “Goddamned if I’m going to sleep tonight. They’re just the sort of bastards who’d do it at night.” His lips felt dry and he had been watching the wire all day hoping for a sign from the guerrillas that would trigger the decision to make a break. But there had been none. “Listen.” He dropped his voice and told them about the plan. “When the killing starts, rush the guard and break out near our hut. I’ll try and cover for the three of you, but don’t hope for much.”

  Then he got up and nodded to Shagata and walked away. Once in the American hut he called a council of war. He told them of his plan, but he didn’t tell them that only ten could go. They all discussed the plan and then decided to wait. “Can’t do more,” Brough said, echoing their fears. “If we tried now, we’d be shot to pieces.”

  Only the very sick slept that night. Or those—the infinite few—who could commit themselves peacefully into the hands of God—or Fate. Dave Daven was sleeping.

  “They brought Dave back from Utram Road this afternoon,” Grey had whispered as he brought them their evening meal.

  “How is he?” Peter Marlowe asked.