King Rat (33 page)

“It makes you sick,” Timsen said, “when you think of all that Red Cross medical supplies in the godown on Kedah Street.”

“Hell, that’s a rumor.”

“Oh, no it ain’t. I’ve seen it, mate. On a work party I was. Stashed full of Red Cross stuff — plasma, quinine, sulfa — everything, from floor to ceiling and still in their cases. Why, the godown must be a good hundred yards long and thirty wide. An’ it’s all going to those bugger Nips. They let the stuff in all right. Comes through Chungking, I’m told. The Red Cross give it to the Siamese — they turn it over to the Nips — all consigned for POW’s, Changi. Christ, I’ve even seen the labels, but the Nips just use it for their own monkeys.”

“Anyone else know about this?”

“I told the colonel and he told the Camp Commandant, who told that Nip bastard - what’s ‘is name, oh yus, Yoshima - and the Camp Commandant, see, well, he demanded the supplies. But the Nips just laughed at him and said it was a rumor and that was the last of it. No work parties ‘ave ever gone again. Lousy fuckers. Ain’t fair, not when we need the drugs so bad. They could give us a little. My cobber died six months back for want of a little insulin - and I saw crates of it. Crates.” Timsen rolled a cigarette and coughed and spat and was so incensed he kicked the wall.

He knew there was no future in getting upset about it. And there was no way to get at that godown. But he could get antitoxin and sulfa for the Pommy. Oh, my word, yes - and he’d give it to him for nothing.

But Timsen was much too clever to allow the King to see through him. That would be childish, to let the King know he’d a soft spot, for sure as God’s country was Down Under, the King’d use that as a lever sometime later on. Yus, an’ he had to have the King for the deal of the diamond. Oh bugger! I’d forgotten about that duty bushwhacker.

So Timsen named an extortionate figure and allowed himself to be beaten down. But he made the price steep, for he knew the King could afford it, and if he said he’d get the goods for a low price, the King’d be very suspicious.

“All right,” the King said glumly. “You got a deal.” Inside he wasn’t glum. Not too glum. He’d expected Timsen to soak him, but although the price was higher than he wanted to pay, it was fair.

“It’ll take three days,” Timsen said, knowing that three days would be too late.

“I’ve got to have it tonight.”

“Then it’ll cost another five hundred.”

“I’m a friend of yours!” the King said, feeling real pain. “We’re buddies and you stick me for another five C’s.”

“All right, cobber.” Timsen was sad, doglike. “But you know how it is. Three days is the best I can do.”

“Goddammit. All right.”

“And the nurse’ll be an extra five hundred.”

“For Chrissake! What the hell’s the nurse for?”

Timsen enjoyed seeing the King squirm. “Well,” he said agreeably, “what’re you going to do with the stuff when you’ve got it? How you going to treat the patient?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“That’s what the five hundred’s for. I suppose you’re going to give the stuff to the Pommy and he’s going to take it up to the ‘ospital and say to the nearest sawbones, ‘I got hantitoxin and sulfa, fix my bleedin’ arm up,’ and then the doc’s going to say, ‘We ain’t got no hantitoxin so where the ‘ell did you get this from,’ and when the Pommy won’t tell, the bastards’ll steal it off him and give it to some stinking Limey colonel who’s a slight case of piles.”

He deftly took the packet of cigarettes out of the King’s pocket and helped himself. “And,” he said, but now completely serious, “you have to find a place where you can treat him private-like. Where he can lie down. These hantitoxins’re tough on some men. An’ part of the deal’s that I accept no responsibility if the treatment turns sour.”

“If you’ve got antitoxin and sulfa, what can go sour?”

“Some folks can’t take it. Nausea. Tough. And it mayn’t work. Depends how much of the toxin’s already in his system.”

Timsen got up. “Sometime tonight. Oh yes, an’ the equipment’ll cost another five hundred.”

The King exploded. “What equipment, for Chrissake?”

“Hypodermics and bandages and soap. Jesus!” Timsen was almost disgusted. “You think hantitoxin’s a pill you stick up ‘is arse?”

The King stared after Timsen sourly, kicking himself. Thought you were so clever, didn’t you, finding out what cured gangrene for a cigarette and then, nut-head, you forget to ask what the hell you did with the stuff once you got it.

Well, the hell with it. The dough’s committed. And Pete’s got his arm back. And the cost’s all right too.

Then the King remembered the foxy little hijacker and he beamed. Yes, he felt very pleased with the day’s work.

That evening Peter Marlowe gave his food away. He did not give it to Mac or Larkin as he should, but to Ewart. He knew that if he had given it to his unit they would have forced him to reveal what was the matter. And there was no point in telling them.

That afternoon, sick with pain and worry, he had gone to see Dr. Kennedy. Again he had almost been crazed with agony while the bandage was ripped away. Then the doctor had said simply, “The poison’s above the elbow. I can amputate below, but it’s a waste of time. Might as well do the operation in one time. You’ll have a nice stump — at least five inches from the shoulder. Enough for an artificial arm to be strapped to. Quite enough.” Kennedy had templed his fingers calmly. “Don’t waste any more time, Marlowe,” and he had laughed dryly and quipped, “Domani e troppo tardi,” and when Peter Marlowe had looked at him blankly without understanding, he had said flatly, “Tomorrow may be too late.”

Peter Marlowe had stumbled back to his bunk and had lain in a pool of fear. Then dinner had come and he had given it away.

“You got fever?” Ewart said happily, filled by the extra food.

“No.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“For Christ’s sake leave me alone!” Peter Marlowe turned away from Ewart. After a time he got up and left the hut, regretting that he had agreed to play bridge with Mac and Larkin and Father Donovan for an hour or two. You’re a fool, he told himself bitterly, you should have stayed in your bunk until it was time to go through the wire to get the money.

But he knew that he could not have lain on his bunk, hour after hour, until it was safe to go. Better to have something to do.

“Hi, cobber!” Larkin’s face crinkled with his smile.

Peter Marlowe did not return the smile. He just sat grimly in the doorway. Mac glanced at Larkin, who shrugged imperceptibly.

“Peter,” Mac said, forcing good humor, “the news is better every day, isn’t it? Won’t be long before we’re out of here.”

“Too right!” Larkin said.

“You’re living in a fool’s paradise. We’ll never get out of Changi.” Peter Marlowe did not wish to be harsh, but he could not restrain himself. He knew Mac and Larkin were hurt, but he would do nothing to ease the hurt. He was obsessed with the five-inch stump. A chill dissolved his spine and pierced his testicles. How the hell could the King really help? How? Be realistic. If it was the King’s arm — what could I do, however much I’m his friend? Nothing. I don’t think there’s anything he can do — in time. Nothing. You’d better face it, Peter. It’s amputate or die. Simple. And when it comes down to it, you can’t die. Not yet. Once you’re born, you are obligated to survive. At all costs.

Yes, Peter Marlowe told himself, you’d better be realistic. There’s nothing the King can do, nothing. And you shouldn’t have put him on the spot. It’s your worry, not his. Just get the money and give it to him and go up to the hospital and lie on the table and let them cut your arm off.

So the three of them — he, Mac and Larkin — sat in the fetid night. Silent. When Father Donovan joined them they forced him to eat a little rice and blachang. They made him eat it then, for if they had not, he would have given it away, as he gave away most of his rations.

“You’re very kind to me,” Donovan said. His eyes twinkled as he added, “Now, if you three would see the error of your ways and come over to the right side of the fence, you’d complete my evening.”

Mac and Larkin laughed with him. Peter Marlowe did not laugh.

“What’s the matter, Peter?” Larkin said, an edge to his voice. “You’ve been like a dingo with a sore arse all evening.”

“No harm in being a little out of sorts,” Donovan said quickly, healing the ragged silence. “My word, the news is very good, isn’t it?”

Only Peter Marlowe was outside the friendship that was in the little room. He knew his presence was suffocating, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing.

The game started, and Father Donovan opened with two spades.

“Pass,” Mac said grumpily.

“Three diamonds,” Peter Marlowe said, and as soon as he had said it he wished he hadn’t, for he had stupidly overbid his hand and had said diamonds when he should have said hearts.

“Pass,” Larkin said testily. He was sorry now that he had suggested the game. There was no fun in it. No fun.

“Three spades,” Father Donovan said.

“Pass.”

“Pass,” Peter Marlowe said, and they all looked at him surprised.

Father Donovan smiled. “You should have more faith —“

“I’m tired of faith.” The words were sudden-raw and very angry.

“Sorry, Peter, I was only —“

“Now look here, Peter,” Larkin interrupted sharply, “just because you’re in a bad humor —“

“I’m entitled to an opinion and I think it was a bad joke,” Peter Marlowe flared. Then he whirled back on Donovan. “Just because you martyr yourself by giving your food away and sleeping in the men’s barracks, I suppose that gives you the right to be the authority. Faith’s a lot of nothing! What does it get you? Nothing! Faith’s for children — and so is God. What the hell can He do about anything? Really do? Eh? Eh?”

Mac and Larkin stared at Peter Marlowe without recognition.

“He can heal,” Father Donovan said, knowing about the gangrene. He knew many things he did not want to know.

Peter Marlowe slammed his cards down on the table. “Shit!” he shouted, berserk. “That’s shit and you know it. And another thing while we’re on the subject. God! You know, I think God’s a maniac, a sadistic, evil maniac, a bloodsucker —“

“Are you out of your mind, Peter?” Larkin exploded.

“No, I’m not. Look at God,” Peter Marlowe raved, his face contorted. “God’s nothing but evil — if He really is God. Look at all the bloodshed that’s been committed in the name of God.” He shoved his face nearer Donovan’s. “The Inquisition. Remember? All the thousands that were burned and tortured to death in His Name? By the Catholic sadists? And we won’t even think about the Aztecs and Incas and the poor bloody Indian millions. And the Protestants burning and killing the Catholics; and the Catholics, the Jews and the Mohammedans; and the Jews, more Jews-and the Mormons and Quakers and the whole stinking mess. Kill, torture, burn! Just so long as it’s in the name of God, you’re all right. What a lot of hypocrisy! Don’t give me faith! It’s nothing!”

“And yet you have faith in the King,” Father Donovan said quietly.

“I suppose you’re going to say he’s an instrument of God?”

“Perhaps he is. I don’t know.”

“I must tell him that.” Peter Marlowe laughed hysterically. “He’d laugh to high heaven.”

“Listen, Marlowe!” Larkin got up, shaking with rage. “You’d better apologize or get out!”

“Don’t worry, Colonel,” Peter Marlowe slammed back “I’m leaving.” He got up and glared at them, hating them, hating himself. “Listen, priest. You’re a joke. Your skirts’re a joke. You’re all an unholy joke, you and God. You don’t serve God because God’s the devil. You’re the servant of the devil.” And then he scooped some of the cards off the table and threw them into Father Donovan’s face and stormed out into the darkness.

“What in God’s name has happened to Peter?” Mac said, shattering the appalled silence.

“In God’s name,” Father Donovan said compassionately.

“Peter has gangrene. He has to have his arm amputated or he will die. You could see the scarlet streaks clearly, above his elbow.”

“What?” Larkin stared at Mac, petrified. Then simultaneously they both got up and began hurrying out. But Father Donovan called them back.

“Wait, there’s nothing you can do.”

“Dammit, there must be something.” Larkin stood in the doorway. “The poor lad — and I thought — the poor lad —“

“There’s nothing to do, except wait. Except have faith, and pray. Perhaps the King will help, can help.” Then Father Donovan added tiredly, “The King is the only man who can.”

Peter Marlowe stumbled into the American hut. “I’ll get the money now,” he muttered to the King.

“Are you crazy? There’s too many people around.”

“To hell with the people,” Peter Marlowe said angrily. “Do you want the money or not?”

“Sit down. Sit down.” The King forced Peter Marlowe to sit and gave him a cigarette and forced him to drink coffee and thought, Jesus, what I have to do for a little loot. Patiently he told Peter Marlowe to keep his wits about him, that everything was going to be all right, for the cure was already arranged, and after an hour Peter Marlowe was calmer and at least coherent. But the King knew he was not getting through to him. He saw that he was nodding from time to time, but he knew, deep down, that Peter Marlowe was quite beyond him, and if he was beyond him, the King, he was beyond anyone.

“Is it time now?” Peter Marlowe asked, almost blinded with pain, knowing if he did not go now he would never go.

The King knew that it was too early for safety, but he knew too that he could not keep him in the hut any longer. So he sent guards in all directions. The whole area was covered. Max was watching Grey, who was on his bunk. Byron Jones III was watching Timsen. And Timsen was north, by the gate, waiting for the drug shipment, and Timsen’s boys, another source of danger, were still desperately combing the area for the hijacker.

The King and Tex watched Peter Marlowe walk, zombie-like, out of the hut and across the path and up to the storm ditch. He wavered on the brink, then stepped across it and began to stagger towards the fence.

“Jesus,” Tex said. “I can’t watch!”

“I can’t either,” the King said.

Peter Marlowe was trying to focus his eyes on the fence, through the pain and delirium that was engulfing him. He was praying for a bullet. He could stand the agony no longer. But no bullet came, so he walked on, grimly erect, then reeled against the fence. He grabbed a wire to steady himself for a moment. Then he bent down to step through the wires and gave a little moan as he fell into the dregs of hell.

The King and Tex ran to the fence and picked him up and dragged him away from the fence.

“What’s the matter with him?” someone asked from the darkness.

“Guess he’s just gone stir-crazy,” the King said. “Come on, Tex, let’s get him in the hut.”

They carried him into the hut and laid him on the King’s bed. Then Tex hurried away to recall their guards and the hut returned to normal. Just one guard out.

Peter Marlowe lay on the bed, moaning and mumbling deliriously. After a while, he came out of the faint. “Oh Christ,” he gasped and tried to get off the bed, but his body defeated him.

“Here,” the King said anxiously, giving him four aspirins. “Take it easy, you’ll be all right.” His hand was shaking as he helped him to drink some water. Son of a bitch, he thought bitterly, if Timsen doesn’t bring the stuff tonight Peter won’t make it, and if he doesn’t, then how the hell am I going to get the dough? Son of a bitch!

When Timsen finally arrived the King was a wreck.

“Hi, cobber.” Timsen was nervous too. He had had to cover for his best cobber up by the main gate while the man had gone through the wire and into the Japanese doctor’s quarters, which were fifty yards away and not so very far from the Yoshima house and too near the guardhouse for any man’s nerves. But the Aussie had sneaked in and sneaked out, and while Timsen knew there ain’t no thief in the world like a Digger on the make for a piece of merchandise, no thief in the world, even so he had sweated, waiting until the man got back safely.

“Where we going to fix him?” he asked.

“Here.”

“All right. Better post some guards.”

“Where’s the nurse?”

“I’m the first one,” Timsen said queasily. “Steven can’t get down ‘ere now. He’ll take on from me.”

“You sure you know what the hell you’re doing?”

“Strike a bleedin’ light,” Timsen said. “’Course I know. You got some water boiling?”

“No.”

“Well, get some! Don’t you Yanks know anything?”

“Keep your shirt on!”

The King nodded to Tex and Tex got the water going. Timsen undid the surgical haversack and laid out a little towel.

“I’ll be goddamned,” Tex said. “I ain’t never seen something so clean before. Why, it’s almost blue it’s so white.”

Timsen spat and washed his hands carefully with a new cake of soap and started to boil the hypodermic and forceps. Then he bent over Peter Marlowe and slapped his face a little.

“Hey, cobber!”

“Yes,” Peter Marlowe said, weakly.

“I’m going to clean the wound, right?”

Peter Marlowe had to concentrate. “What?”

“I’m going to give you the hantitoxin —“

“I’ve got to get up to the hospital,” he said drunkenly. “It’s time now — cut it — I’m telling you —“ His spirit left him once more.

“Just as well,” Timsen said.

When the hypodermic was sterilized, Timsen gave an injection of morphine. “You help,” he said brusquely to the King. “Keep the bloody sweat out of me eyes.” Obediently the King got a towel.

Timsen waited until the injection reacted, then he ripped off the old bandage and laid the wound bare. “Jesus!” The whole wound area was puffy and purple and green. “I think it’s too late.”

“My God,” the King said. “No wonder the poor son of a bitch was crazy.”

Gritting his teeth, Timsen carefully cut away the worst of the rotted, putrid skin and probed deep and washed the wound as clean as he could. Then he sprinkled sulfa powder over it and neatly rebandaged it. When this was done, he straightened and sighed. “My bleedin’ back!” He looked at the purity of the bandage, then turned to the King. “Got a piece of shirt?”

The King grabbed a shirt from the wall and gave it to him.

Timsen ripped the arm out and tore it into a rough bandage and wrapped it on top of the bandage.

“What the hell’s that for?” the King asked Wearily.

“Camouflage,” Timsen said. “I suppose you think he can walk around the camp with a nice new bandage on him and not get stopped by curious docs and MP’s asking him where the hell he got it?”

“Oh, I see.”

“Well now, that’s something!”

The King let the crack pass. He was too qualmish with the memory of Peter Marlowe’s arm and the smell of it and the blood and the clotted mucused bandage that lay on the floor. “Hey Tex, get rid of that stinking thing.”