King Rat

  “We got to have a brand name.” The King thought a moment. “I got it. How about Three Kings? One for King Royal Air Force, one for King Texas an’ one for me.”

  “Not bad,” Tex said.

  “We’ll start the factory tomorrow.”

  Tex shook his head. “I’m on a work party.”

  “The hell with it! I’ll get Dino to sub for you.”

  “No. I’ll ask him.” Tex got up and smiled at Peter Marlowe. “Happy to know you, sir.”

  “Forget the sir, will you?” Peter Marlowe said.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Peter Marlowe watched him go. “Funny,” he said quietly to the King. “I’ve never seen so many smiles in one hut before.”

  “There’s no point in not smiling, is there? Things could be a lot worse. You get shot down flying the hump?”

  “You mean the Calcutta-Chungking route? Over the Himalayas?”

  “Yeah.” The King nodded at the tobacco. “Fill your box.”

  “Thanks. I will if you don’t mind.”

  “Anytime you’re short, come and help yourself.”

  “Thanks, I’ll do that. You’re very kind.” Peter Marlowe wanted another cigarette but he knew that he was smoking too much. If he smoked another now, then the hunger would hurt more. Better go easy. He glanced at the sun-shadow and promised that he would not smoke again until the shadow had moved two inches. “I wasn’t shot down at all. My kite—my plane got hit in an air raid in Java. I couldn’t get it up. Rather a bore,” he added, and tried to hide the bitterness.

  “That’s not so bad,” said the King. “You might’ve been in it. You’re alive and that’s what counts. What were you flying?”

  “Hurricane. Single-seat fighter. But my regular plane’s a Spit—Spitfire.”

  “I’ve heard about them—never seen one. You guys sure as hell made the Germans look sick.”

  “Yes,” said Peter Marlowe softly. “We did, rather.”

  The King was surprised. “You weren’t in the Battle of Britain, were you?”

  “Yes. I got my wings in 1940—just in time.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Huh, I’d’ve thought, looking at your face, you’d be at least thirty-eight, not twenty-four!”

  “Up yours, brother!” Peter Marlowe laughed. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five. Son of a bitch,” the King said. “Best years of my life and I’m locked up in a stinking jail.”

  “You’re hardly locked up. And it seems to me you’re doing very well.”

  “We’re still locked up, whichever way you figure it. How long you think it’s going to last?”

  “We’ve got the Germans on the run. That show should be over soon.”

  “You believe that?”

  Peter Marlowe shrugged. Careful, he told himself, you can never be too careful. “Yes, I think so. You can never tell about rumors.”

  “And our war. What about ours?”

  Because the question had been asked by a friend, Peter Marlowe talked freely. “I think ours will last forever. Oh, we’ll beat the Japs. I know that now. But for us, here? I don’t think we’ll get out.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I don’t think the Japs’ll ever give in. That means we’ll have to land on the mainland. And when that happens, I think they’ll eliminate us here, all of us. If disease and sickness haven’t got us already.”

  “Why the hell should they do that?”

  “Oh, to save time, I suppose. I think as the net tightens on Japan, they’ll start pulling in their tentacles. Why waste time over a few thousand prisoners? Japs think of life quite differently than we do. And the idea of our troops on their soil will drive them around the bend.” His voice was quite flat and calm. “I think we’ve had it. Of course I hope I’m wrong. But that’s what I think.”

  “You’re a hopeful son of a bitch,” the King said sourly, and when Peter Marlowe laughed he said, “What the hell are you laughing about? You always seem to laugh in the wrong places.”

  “Sorry, bad habit.”

  “Let’s sit outside. The flies’re getting bad. Hey Max,” the King called out. “You want to clean up?”

  Max arrived and began tidying up and the King and Peter Marlowe slipped easily through the window. Just outside the King’s window there was another small table and a bench under a canvas overhang. The King sat on the bench. Peter Marlowe squatted on his heels, native style.

  “Never could do that,” said the King.

  “It’s very comfortable. I learned it in Java.”

  “How come you speak Malay so well?”

  “I lived in a village for a time.”

  “When?”

  “In ’42. After the cease-fire.”

  The King waited patiently for him to continue but nothing more came out. He waited some more, then asked, “How come you lived in Java in a village after the cease-fire in 1942 when everyone was in a POW camp by then?”

  Peter Marlowe’s laugh was rich. “Sorry. Nothing much to tell. I didn’t like the idea of being in a camp. Actually, when the war ended, I got lost in the jungle and eventually found this village. They took pity on me. I stayed for six months or so.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Wonderful. They were very kind. I was just like one of them. Dressed like a Javanese, dyed my skin dark—you know, nonsense really, for my height and eyes would give me away—worked in the paddy fields.”

  “You on your own?”

  After a pause Peter Marlowe said, “I was the only European there, if that’s what you mean.” He looked out at the camp, seeing the sun beat the dust and the wind pick up the dust and swirl it. The swirl reminded him of her.

  He looked away towards the east, into a nervous sky. But she was part of the sky.

  The wind gathered slightly and bent the heads of the coconut palms. But she was part of the wind and the palms and the clouds beyond.

  Peter Marlowe tore his mind away and watched the Korean guard plodding along beyond the fence, sweating under the lowering heat. The guard’s uniform was shabby and ill-kempt and his cap as crumpled as his face, his rifle askew on his shoulders. As graceless as she was graceful.

  Once more Peter Marlowe looked up into the sky, seeking distance. Only then could he feel that he was not within a box—a box filled with men, and men’s smells and men’s dirt and men’s noises. Without women, Peter Marlowe thought helplessly, men are only a cruel joke. And he bled in the starch of the sun.

  “Hey, Peter!” The King was looking up the slope, his mouth agape.

  Peter Marlowe followed the King’s gaze and his stomach turned over as he saw Sean approaching. “Christ!” He wanted to slip through the window out of sight, but he knew that that would make him more conspicuous. So he waited grimly, hardly breathing. He thought he had a good chance of not being seen, for Sean was deep in conversation with Squadron Leader Rodrick and Lieutenant Frank Parrish. Their heads were close together and their voices intense.

  Then Sean glanced past Frank Parrish and saw Peter Marlowe and stopped.

  Rodrick and Frank stopped also, surprised. When they saw Peter Marlowe they thought, Oh my God. But they concealed their anxiety.

  “Hello, Peter,” Rodrick called out. He was a tall neat man with a chiseled face, as tall and neat as Frank Parrish was tall and careless.

  “Hello, Rod!” Peter Marlowe called back.

  “I won’t be a moment,” Sean said quietly to Rodrick and walked towards Peter Marlowe and the King. Now that the first shock had worn off, Sean smiled a welcome.

  Peter Marlowe felt the hackles on his neck begin to rise and he got up and waited. He could feel the King’s eyes boring into him.

  “Hello, Peter,” Sean said.

  “Hello, Sean.”

  “You’re so thin, Peter.”

  “Oh I don’t know. No more than anyone. I’m very fit, thanks.”

  “I haven’t seen you for such a long time
—why don’t you come up to the theater sometime? There’s always a little extra around somewhere—and you know me, I never did eat much.” Sean smiled hopefully.

  “Thanks,” Peter Marlowe said, raw with embarrassment.

  “Well, I know you won’t,” Sean said unhappily, “but you’re always welcome.” There was a pause. “I never see you any more.”

  “Oh, you know how it is, Sean. You’re doing all the shows and I’m, well, I’m on work parties and things.”

  Like Peter Marlowe, Sean was wearing a sarong, but unlike Peter Marlowe’s, which was threadbare and multifaded-color, Sean’s was new and white and the border was embroidered with blue and silver. And Sean wore a short-sleeved native baju coat, ending above the waist, cut tight to allow for the swell of breasts. The King was staring fascinated at the half-opened neck of the baju.

  Sean noticed the King and smiled faintly and brushed back some hair that the wind had caressed out of place and toyed with it until the King looked up. Sean smiled inside, warmed inside, as the King flushed.

  “It’s, er, it’s getting hot, isn’t it?” the King said uncomfortably.

  “I suppose so,” Sean said pleasantly, cool and sweatless, as always—however intense the heat.

  There was a silence.

  “Oh, sorry,” Peter Marlowe said as he saw Sean looking at the King and waiting patiently. “Do you know—”

  Sean laughed. “My God, Peter. You are in a state. Of course I know who your friend is, though we’ve never met.” Sean put out a hand. “How are you? It’s quite an honor to meet a King!”

  “Er, thanks,” the King said, hardly touching the hand, so small against his. “You, er, like a smoke?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t. But if you don’t mind I will take one. In fact two, if it’s all right?” Sean nodded back towards the path. “Rod and Frank smoke and I know they’d appreciate one.”

  “Sure,” the King said. “Sure.”

  “Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

  In spite of himself the King felt the warmth of Sean’s smile. In spite of himself he said, meaning it, “You were great in Othello.”

  “Thank you,” said Sean delightedly. “Did you like Hamlet?”

  “Yes. And I never was much on Shakespeare.”

  Sean laughed. “That’s praise indeed. We’re doing a new play next. Frank has written it especially and it should be a lot of fun.”

  “If it’s just ordinary, it’ll be great,” the King said, more at ease, “and you’ll be great.”

  “How nice of you. Thanks.” Sean glanced at Peter Marlowe and the eyes took on an added luster. “But I’m afraid Peter won’t agree with you.”

  “Stop it, Sean,” Peter Marlowe said.

  Sean did not look at Peter Marlowe, only the King, and smiled, but fury lurked beneath the smile. “Peter doesn’t approve of me.”

  “Stop it, Sean,” Peter Marlowe said harshly.

  “Why should I?” Sean lashed out. “You despise deviates—isn’t that what you call queers? You made that perfectly clear. I haven’t forgotten!”

  “Nor have I!”

  “Well, that’s something! I don’t like to be despised—least of all by you!”

  “I said stop it! This isn’t the time or the place. And we’ve been through this before and you’ve said it all before. I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean any harm!”

  “No. But you still hate me—why? Why?”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “Then why do you always avoid me?”

  “It’s better. For God’s sake, Sean, leave me be.”

  Sean stared at Peter Marlowe, and then as suddenly as it had flared, the anger melted. “Sorry, Peter. You’re probably quite right. I’m the fool. It’s just that I’m lonely from time to time. Lonely just for talk.” Sean reached out and touched Peter Marlowe’s arm. “Sorry. I just want to be friends again.”

  Peter Marlowe could say nothing.

  Sean hesitated. “Well, I suppose I’d better be going.”

  “Sean,” Rodrick called out from the path, “we’re late already.”

  “I won’t be a moment.” Sean still looked at Peter Marlowe, then sighed and held out a hand to the King. “It was nice to meet you. Please forgive my bad manners.”

  The King couldn’t avoid touching the hand again. “Happy to meet you,” he said.

  Sean hesitated, eyes grave and searching. “Are you Peter’s friend?”

  The King felt the whole world heard him when he said, stumbling, “Er, sure, yeah, I guess so.”

  “Strange, isn’t it, how one word can mean so many different things. But if you are his friend, don’t lead him astray, please. You’ve a reputation for danger, and I wouldn’t like Peter hurt. I’m very fond of him.”

  “Er, yes, sure.” The King’s knees jellied and his backbone melted. But the magnetism of Sean’s smile pervaded him. It was unlike anything he had ever felt. “The shows are the best thing in the camp,” he said. “Make life worth living. And you’re the best thing in them.”

  “Thank you.” And then, to Peter Marlowe: “It does make life worthwhile. I’m very happy. And I like what I’m doing. It does make things worthwhile, Peter.”

  “Yes,” Peter Marlowe said, tormented. “I’m glad all’s well.”

  Sean smiled hesitantly a last time, then turned quickly and was suddenly gone.

  The King sat down. “I’ll be goddamned!”

  Peter Marlowe sat down too. He opened his box and rolled a cigarette.

  “If you didn’t know he was a man, you’d swear to God that he was a woman,” the King said. “A beautiful woman.”

  Peter Marlowe nodded bleakly.

  “He’s not like the other fags,” the King said, “that’s for sure. No sir. Not the same at all. Jesus, there’s something about him that’s not—” The King stopped and groped and continued helplessly, “Don’t quite know how to put it. He’s—he’s a woman, goddammit! Remember when he was playing Desdemona? My God, the way he looked in the negligee, I’ll bet there wasn’t a man in Changi that didn’t have a hard on. Don’t blame a man for being tempted. I’m tempted, everyone is. Man’s a liar if he says otherwise.” Then he looked at Peter Marlowe and studied him carefully.

  “Oh, for the love of God,” Peter Marlowe said irritably. “Do you think I’m queer too?”

  “No,” the King said calmly. “I don’t mind if you are. Just as long as I know.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “It sure as hell sounded like it,” the King said with a grin. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

  “Go to hell!”

  After a minute the King said tentatively, “You known Sean long?”

  “He was in my squadron,” Peter Marlowe said at length. “Sean was the baby, and I was sort of detailed to look after him. Got to know him very well.” He flicked the burning end off his cigarette and put the remains of tobacco back in his box. “In fact he was my best friend. He was a very good pilot—got three Zeroes over Java.” He looked at the King. “I liked him a lot.”

  “Was—was he like that before?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I know he didn’t dress like a woman all the time, but hell, it must have been obvious he was that way.”

  “Sean was never that way. He was just a very handsome, gentle chap. There was nothing effeminate about him, just a sort of … compassion.”

  “You ever seen him without clothes on?”

  “No.”

  “That figures. No one else has either. Even half naked.”

  Sean was allowed a tiny little room up in the theater, a private room, which no one else in the whole of Changi had, not even the King. But Sean never slept in the room. The thought of Sean alone in a room with a lock on the door was too dangerous, because there were many in the camp whose lust swept out, and the rest were full of lust inside. So Sean always slept in one of the huts, but changed and showered in the private room.

  “What’s between you two?” the King asked.
/>
  “I nearly killed him. Once.”

  Suddenly the conversation ceased and both men listened intently. All they could hear was a sigh, an undercurrent. The King looked around quickly. Seeing nothing extraordinary, he got up and climbed through the window, Peter Marlowe close behind. The men in the hut were listening too.

  The King peered towards the corner of the jail. Nothing seemed to be wrong. Men still walked up and down.

  “What do you think?” the King asked softly.

  “Don’t know,” said Peter Marlowe, concentrating. Men were still walking by the jail, but now an almost imperceptible quickening had been added to their walk.

  “Hey, look,” Tex whispered.

  Rounding the corner of the jail and heading up the slope towards them was Captain Brough. Then other officers began to appear behind him, all heading for various enlisted men’s huts.

  “Got to mean trouble,” Tex said sourly.

  “Maybe it’s a search,” Max said.

  The King was on his knees in an instant, unlocking the black box. Peter Marlowe said hurriedly, “I’ll see you later.”

  “Here,” the King said, throwing him a pack of Kooas, “see you tonight if you like.”

  Peter Marlowe raced out of the hut and down the slope. The King jerked out the three watches that were buried in the coffee beans and got up. He thought for a moment, then he stood on his chair and stuffed the three watches into the atap thatch. He knew that all the men had seen the new hiding place but he did not care, for that could not be helped now. Then he locked the black box and Brough was at the door.

  “All right, you guys, outside.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Peter Marlowe was thinking of nothing except his water bottle as he shoved through the sweating hive of men forming up on the asphalt road. He tried desperately to remember if he had filled the bottle, but he could not remember for sure.

  He ran up the stairs from the street towards his hut. But the hut was already empty and a soiled Korean guard already stood in the doorway. Peter Marlowe knew that he would not be allowed to pass, so he turned back and ducked under the lee of the hut and up the other side. He ran for the other door and was beside his bunk with his water bottle in his hand before the guard saw him.

  The Korean swore at him sullenly and walked over and motioned for him to put the water bottle back. But Peter Marlowe saluted with a flourish and said in Malay, which most of the guards understood, “Greetings, sir. We may have a long time to wait, and I beg thee, let me take my water bottle with me, for I have dysentery.” As he spoke he shook the bottle. It was full.