King Rat (39 page)

So he had cooked one of his hens. He had cleaned it and fried it and eaten it. At least he had eaten half of it and kept half of it for breakfast. Now he had only two hens left. The others had been consumed during the last days — and he had shared them with the men who had done the work.

Yesterday he had tried to buy the camp store, but the pile of money that the diamond had brought was worthless. In his wallet he still had eleven American dollars, and these were good currency. But he knew — chilled — he could not last forever on eleven dollars and two hens.

He had slept little the previous night. But in the bleak watches of the early morning he had faced himself and told himself that this was weak and foolish and not the pattern of a King — it did not matter that when he had walked the camp earlier people had looked through him — Brant and Prouty and Samson and all the others had passed by and not returned his salute. It had been the same with everyone. Tinker Bell and Timsen and the MP’s and his informants and employees — men he had helped or known or sold for or given food or cigarettes or money. They had all looked at him as though he did not exist. Where always eyes had been watching him, and hate had been surrounding him when he walked the camp, now there was nothing. No eyes, no hate, no recognition.

It had been freezing to walk the camp a ghost. To return to his home a ghost. To lie in bed a ghost.

Nothingness.

Now he was listening as Tex poured out to the hut the incredible news of the captain’s arrival, and he could sense the new fear gnawing at them.

“What’s the matter?” he said. “What’re you all so goddam silent about? A guy’s arrived from outside, that’s all.”

No one said anything.

The King got up, galled by the silence, hating it. He put on his best shirt and his clean pants and wiped the dust off his polished shoes. He set his cap at a jaunty angle and stood for a moment in the doorway.

“Think I’m going to have me a cook-up today,” he said to no one in particular.

When he glanced around he could see the hunger in their faces and the barely concealed hope in their eyes. He felt warmed again and normal again, and looked at them selectively.

“You going to be busy today, Dino?” he said at length.

“Er, no. No,” Dino said.

“My bed needs fixing and there’s some laundry.”

“You, er, want me to do them?” Dino asked uncomfortably.

“You want to?”

Dino swore under his breath, but the remembrance of the perfume of the chicken last night shattered his will. “Sure,” he said.

“Thanks, pal,” said the King derisively, amused by Dino’s obvious struggle with his conscience. He turned and started down the steps.

“Er, which hen d’you want to have?” Dino called out after him.

The King did not stop. “I’ll think about that,” he said. “You just fix the bed and the laundry.”

Dino leaned against the doorway, watching the King walk in the sun along the jail wall and around the corner of the jail. “Son of a bitch!”

“Go get the laundry,” Tex said.

“Crap off! I’m hungry.”

“He aced you into doing his work without any goddam chicken.”

“He’ll eat one today,” Dino said stubbornly. “And I’ll help him eat it. He’s never eaten one before without giving the helper some.”

“What about last night?”

“Hell, he was fit to be tied ‘cause we took over his space.” Dino was thinking about the English captain and home and his girl friend and wondered if she was waiting or if she was married. Sure, he told himself sullenly, she’ll be married and no one’ll be there. How the hell am I going to get me a job?

“That was before,” Byron Jones III was saying. “I’ll bet the son of a bitch cooks it and eats it in front of us.” But he was thinking about his home. Goddamned if I’m going to stay there any more. Got to get me my own apartment. Yeah. But where the hell’s the dough coming from?

“So what if he does?” Tex asked. “We got maybe two or three days to go.” Then home to Texas, he was thinking. Can I get my job back? Where the hell will I live? What am I going to use for dough? When I get in the hay, is it going to work?”

“What about the Limey officer, Tex? You think we should go talk with him?”

“Yeah, we should. But hell, later today, or tomorrow. We gotta get used to the idea.” Tex suppressed a shudder. “When he looked at me — it was as though, just like he was looking at a — a geek! Holy cow, what’s so goddam wrong with me? I look all right, don’t I?”

They all studied Tex, trying to see what the officer had seen. But they saw only Tex, the Tex they had known for three and a half years.

“You look all right to me,” Dino said finally. “If anyone’s a freak it’s him. Goddamned if I’d parachute into Singapore alone. Not with all the lousy Japs around. No sir! He’s the real freak.”

The King was walking along the jail wall. You’re a stupid son of a bitch, he told himself. What the hell’re you so upset about? All’s well in the world. Sure. And you’re still the King. You’re still the only guy who knows how to get with it.

He cocked his hat at a rakish angle and chuckled as he remembered Dino. Yeah, that bastard would be cursing, wondering if he’d really get the chicken, knowing he’d been aced into working. The hell with him, let him sweat, the King thought cheerfully.

He crossed the path between two of the huts. Around the huts were groups of men. They were all looking north, towards the gate, silently, motionless. He rounded another hut and saw the officer standing in a pool of emptiness, staring around bewildered, his back towards him. He saw the officer go toward some men and laughed sardonically as he saw them retreat.

Crazy, he thought cynically. Plain crazy. What’s there to be scared of? The guy’s only a captain. Yep, he’s sure going to need a hand. But what the hell he’s so scared about beats me!

He quickened his pace, but his footsteps made no noise.

“Morning, sir,” he said crisply, saluting.

Captain Forsyth spun around, startled. “Oh! Hello.” He returned the salute with a sigh of relief. “Thank God someone here is normal.” Then he realized what he had said. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean —“

“That’s all right,” the King said agreeably. “This dump’s enough to put anyone off kilter. Boy, are we pleased to see you. Welcome to Changi!”

Forsyth smiled. He was much shorter than the King but built like a tank. “Thank you. I’m Captain Forsyth. I’ve been sent to look after the camp until the fleet arrives.”

“When’s that?”

“Six days.”

“Can’t they make it any sooner?”

“These things take time, I suppose.” Forsyth nodded toward the huts. “What’s the matter with everyone? It’s as though I was a leper.”

The King shrugged. “Guess they’re in a state of shock. Don’t believe their eyes yet. You know how some guys are. And it has been a long time.”

“Yes it has,” Forsyth said slowly.

“Crazy that they’d be scared of you.” The King shrugged again. “But that’s life, and their business.”

“You’re an American?”

“Sure. There are twenty-five of us. Officers and enlisted men. Captain Brough’s our senior officer. He got shot down flying the hump in ‘43. Maybe you’d like to meet him?”

“Of course.” Forsyth was dead-tired. He had been given this assignment in Burma four days ago. The waiting and the flight and the jump and the walk to the guardhouse and the worry of what he would meet and what the Japanese would do and how the hell he was going to carry out his orders, all these things had wrecked his sleep and terrored his dreams. Well, old chap, you asked for the job and you’ve got it and here you are. At least you passed the first test up at the main gate. Bloody fool, he told himself, you were so petrified all you could say was “Salute, you bloody bastards.”

From where he stood, Forsyth could see clusters of men staring at him from the huts and the windows and the doorways and shadows. They were all silent.

He could see the bisecting street, and beyond the latrine area. He noticed the sores of huts and his nostrils were filled with the stench of sweat and mildew and urine. Zombies were everywhere — zombies in rags, zombies in loincloths, zombies in sarongs — boned and meatless.

“You feeling okay?” the King asked solicitously. “You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m all right. Who are those poor buggers?”

“Just some of the guys,” the King said. “Officers.”

“What?”

“Sure. What’s wrong with them?”

“You mean to tell me those are officers?”

“That’s right. All these huts’re officers’ huts. Those rows of bungalows are where the Brass live, majors and colonels. There’s about a thousand Aussies and Lim-English,” he said quickly, correcting himself, “in huts south of the jail. Inside the jail are about seven or eight thousand English and Aussies. All enlisted men.”

“Are they all like that?”

“Sir?”

“Do they all look like that? Are they all dressed like that?”

“Sure.” The King laughed. “Guess they do look like a bunch of bums at that. It sure never bothered me up to now.” Then he realized that Forsyth was studying him critically.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, his smile fading.

Behind and all around men were watching, Peter Marlowe among them. But they all stayed out of range. They were all wondering if their eyes really saw a man, who looked like a man, with a revolver at his waist, talking to the King.

“Why’re you so different from them?” Forsyth said.

“Sir?”

“Why’re you properly dressed — and they’re all in rags?”

The King’s smile returned. “I’ve been looking after my clothes. I guess they haven’t.”

“You look quite fit.”

“Not as fit as I’d like to be, but I guess I’m in good shape. You like me to show you around? Thought you’d need a hand. I could rustle up some of the boys, get a detail together. There’s no supplies in the camp worth talking about. But there’s a truck up at the garage. We could drive into Singapore and liberate —“

“How is it that you are apparently unique here?” Forsyth interrupted, the words like bullets.

“Huh?”

Forsyth pointed a blunt finger at the camp. “I can see perhaps two or three hundred men but you’re the only one clothed. I can’t see a man who’s not as thin as a bamboo, but you,” he turned back and looked at the King, his eyes flinty, “you are ‘in good shape.’”

“I’m just the same as them. I’ve just been on the ball. And lucky.”

“There’s no such thing as luck in a hellhole like this!”

“Sure there is,” the King said. “And there’s no harm in looking after your clothes, no harm in keeping fit as you can. Man’s got to look after number one. No harm in that!”

“No harm at all,” Forsyth said, “providing it’s not at the expense of others!” Then he barked, “Where’s the Camp Commandant’s quarters?”

“Over there.” The King pointed. “The first row of bungalows. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. I thought I could help. Thought you’d need someone to put you in the picture—“

“I don’t need your help, Corporal! What’s your name!”

The King was sorry that he had taken the time out to try to help. Son of a bitch, he thought furiously, that’s what comes of trying to help! “King. Sir.”

“You’re dismissed, Corporal. I won’t forget you. And I’ll certainly make sure I see Captain Brough at the earliest opportunity.”

“Now what the hell does that mean?”

“It means I find you entirely suspicious,” Forsyth rapped. “I want to know why you’re fit and others aren’t. To stay fit in a place like this you’ve got to have money, and there would be very few ways to get money. Very few ways. Informing, for one! Selling drugs or food for another—“

“I’ll be goddamned if I’ll take that crap —“

“You’re dismissed, Corporal! But don’t forget I’ll make it my business to look into you!”

It took a supreme effort for the King to keep from smashing his fist into the captain’s face.

“You’re dismissed,” Forsyth repeated, then added viciously, “Get out of my sight!”

The King saluted and walked away, blood filming his eyes.

“Hello,” Peter Marlowe said, intercepting the King. “My God, I wish I had your guts.”

The King’s eyes cleared and he croaked, “Hi. Sir.” He saluted and began to pass.

“My God, Rajah, what the hell’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just don’t — feel like talking.”

“Why? If I’ve done something to hurt you, or get you fed up with me, tell me. Please.”

“Nothing to do with you.” The King forced a smile, but inside he was screaming, Jesus, what’ve I done that’s so wrong? I fed the bastards and helped them, and now they look at me as though I’m not here any more.

He looked back at Forsyth and saw him walk between two huts and disappear. And him, he thought in agony, he thinks I’m a goddam informer.

“What did he say?” Peter Marlowe asked.

“Nothing. He — I’ve got to — do something for him.”

“I’m your friend. Let me help. Isn’t it enough that I’m here?”

But the King only wanted to hide. Forsyth and the others had taken away his face. He knew that he was lost. And faceless, he was terrified.

“See you around,” he muttered and saluted and hurried away. Jesus God, he wept inside, give me back my face. Please give me back my face.

The next day a plane buzzed the camp. Out of its belly poured a supply drop. Some of the supplies fell into the camp. Those that fell outside the camp were not sought. No one left the safety of Changi. It still could be a trick. Flies swarmed, a few men died.

Another day. Then planes began to circle the airstrip. A full colonel strode into the camp. With him were doctors and orderlies. They brought medical supplies. Other planes circled and landed.

Suddenly there were jeeps screaming through the camp and huge men with cigars and four doctors. They were all Americans. They rushed into the camp and stabbed the Americans with needles and gave them gallons of fresh orange juice and food and cigarettes and embraced them-their boys, their hero boys. They helped them into the jeeps and drove them to Changi Gate, where a truck was waiting.

Peter Marlowe watched, astonished. They’re not heroes, he thought, bewildered. Neither are we. We lost. We lost the war, our war. Didn’t we? We’re not heroes. We’re not!