King Rat

“Poor Sean. He’s such a wonderful person. If it wasn’t for him, Frank and I would have given up the ghost long ago.”

There was a roar of applause as Sean made another entrance from the other side of the stage. “You’ve no idea what applause’ll do to you,” Rodrick said, half to himself, “applause and adoration. Not unless you’ve experienced it yourself. Out there, on the stage. No idea. It’s fantastically exciting, a frightening, terrifying, beautiful drug. And it’s always poured into Sean. Always. That and the lust—yours, mine, all of us.”

Rodrick wiped the sweat off his face and hands. “We’re responsible all right, God forgive us.”

His cue came and he walked onto the stage.

“Do you want to go back to our seats?” Peter Marlowe asked the King.

“No. Let’s watch from here. I’ve never been backstage before. Something I always wanted to do.” Is Cheng San spilling his guts right now, the King asked himself.

But the King knew there was no value in worrying. They were committed and he was ready—whatever card came up. He looked back at the stage. His eyes watched Rodrick and Frank and Sean. Inexorably, his eyes followed Sean. Every movement, every gesture.

Everyone was watching Sean. Intoxicated.

And Sean and Frank and the eyes became one, and together the brooding passion on the stage soared into the players and into the watchers, ripping them bare.

When the curtain descended on the last act, there was utter silence. The watchers were spellbound.

“My God,” Rodrick said, awed. “That’s the greatest compliment they could ever pay us. And you deserve it, you two, you were inspired. Truly inspired.”

The curtain began to rise, and when it was completely up the awful silence shattered and there were cheers and ten curtain calls and more cheers and then Sean stood alone drinking the life-giving adoration.

In the continuing ovation, Rodrick and Frank came out a last time to share the triumph, two creators and a creation, the beautiful girl who was their pride and their nemesis.

The audience filed quietly out of the auditorium. Each man was thinking of home, thinking of her, locked in his own brooding hurt. What’s she doing, right now?

Larkin was the most hit. Why in God’s name call the girl Betty? Why? And my Betty—is she—would she—is she now, is she now in someone else’s arms?

And Mac. He was swept with fear for Mem. Did the ship get sunk? Is she alive? Is my son alive? And Mem—would she—is she now—is she? It’s been so long, my God, how long?

And Peter Marlowe. What of N’ai, the peerless? My love, my love.

And all of them.

Even the King. He was wondering who she was with—the vision of loveliness he had seen when he was still in his teens, still on the bum—the girl who’d said with a perfumed handkerchief to her nose that white trash smell worse than niggers.

The King smiled sardonically. Now that was one hell of a broad, he told himself as he turned his mind to more important things.

The lights were out now in the theater. It was empty but for the two in the landlocked dressing room.

PART FOUR

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The King and Peter Marlowe waited with growing anxiety. Shagata was long overdue.

“What a stinking night,” the King said irritably. “I’m sweating like a pig.”

They were sitting in the King’s corner and Peter Marlowe was watching the King play solitaire. There was a tension in the sultry air settling the camp from the moonless sky. Even the constant scratchings from beneath the hut were hushed.

“I wish he’d get here if he’s coming,” Peter Marlowe said.

“I wish we knew what the hell happened with Cheng San. Least the son of a bitch could’ve done was to send us word.” The King glanced out of his window towards the wire for the thousandth time. He was seeking a sign from the guerrillas that should be there—must be there! But there was no movement, no sign. The jungle, like the camp, drooped and was still.

Peter Marlowe winced as he flexed the fingers of his left hand and moved his aching arm into a more comfortable position.

The King looked back. “How’s it feel?”

“Hurts like hell, old chum.”

“You should get it looked at.”

“I’m on sick call tomorrow.”

“Lousy piece of luck.”

“Accidents happen. Nothing you can do about it.”

It had happened two days previously. On the wood detail. One moment Peter Marlowe had been straining in the swamp against the weight of the fanged tree stump, hauling it with twenty other sweating pairs of hands into the trailer, and the next moment the hands had slipped and his arm had been caught between the stump and the trailer. He had felt the iron-hard barbs of wood rip deep into his arm muscle, the weight of the tree stump almost crushing his bones, and he had screamed in agony.