King Rat

“Abrupt nothin’.” Max spat. “He’s dead. We worked our asses off for that son of a bitch, and now he’s dead.”

Peter Marlowe pounced on Max, loathing him. “But when things were bad, he gave you food and money and—”

“We worked for it!” Max screamed, the tendons in his neck stretching. “I took enough crap from that bastard!” His eyes saw the rank insignia on Peter Marlowe’s arm. “And from you, you Limey bastard! You wanna kiss my ass like you kissed his?”

“Shut up, Max,” Tex said warningly.

“Drop dead, you Lone Star pimp!” Max spat at Tex and the spittle streaked the rough wood floor.

Tex flushed. He hurled himself at Max and smashed him against the wall with a backhanded blow across the face. Max reeled and fell off his bunk, but he whirled to his feet, grabbed a knife off his shelf and lunged at Peter Marlowe. Tex just managed to catch Max’s arm, and the knife only scored Peter Marlowe’s stomach. Dino grabbed Max around the throat and shoved him back on the bunk.

“You outta your skull?” Dino gasped.

Max stared up, his face twitching, his eyes fixed on Peter Marlowe. Suddenly he began screaming, and he hurled himself off the bunk fighting insanely, his arms flailing, lips stretched from his teeth, nails clawing. Peter Marlowe grabbed an arm and they all fell on Max and hauled him back to the bunk. It took three men to hold him down as he kicked and screamed and fought and bit.

“He’s flipped!” Tex shouted. “Clobber him, someone!”

“Get some rope!” Peter Marlowe yelled frantically as he held on to Max, his forearm jammed under Max’s chin, away from the grinding teeth.

Dino shifted his grip, worked one arm free, and smashed Max on the jaw, knocking him unconscious. “Jesus,” he said to Peter Marlowe as they stood up. “He goddam near murdered you!”

“Quick,” Peter Marlowe said urgently. “Put something between his teeth, he’ll bite his bloody tongue off.”

Dino found a piece of wood and they tied it between Max’s teeth. Then they tied his hands.

When Max was secure, Peter Marlowe relaxed, weak with relief. “Thanks, Tex. If you hadn’t stopped that knife, I would have had it.”

“Think nothing of it. Reflex action. What we going to do about him?”

“Get a doctor. He just had a fit, that’s all. There wasn’t any knife.” Peter Marlowe rubbed the score on his stomach as he watched Max jerking spastically. “Poor bugger!”

“Thank God you stopped him, Tex,” Dino said. “Gives me a sweat to think about it.”

Peter Marlowe looked at the King’s corner. It seemed very lonely. Unconsciously he flexed his hand and arm and gloried in its strength.

“How is it, Peter?” Tex asked.

It took Peter Marlowe a long time to find the right words. “Alive, Tex, alive—not dead.” Then he turned and walked out of the hut into the sun.

When he found the King eventually, it was already dusk. The King was sitting on a broken coconut stump in the north vegetable garden, half hidden by vines. He was staring moodily out of the camp and made no sign that he heard Peter Marlowe approaching.

“Hello, old chap,” Peter Marlowe said cheerfully, but the welcome in him died when he saw the King’s eyes.

“What do you want? Sir?” the King asked insultingly.

“I wanted to see you. Just wanted to see you.” Oh my God, he thought with pity, as he saw through his friend.

“Well, you’ve seen me. So now what?” The King turned his back. “Get lost!”

“I’m your friend, remember?”

“I got no friends. Get lost!”

Peter Marlowe squatted down beside the coconut stump and found the two tailor-made cigarettes in his pocket. “Have a smoke. I got them off Shagata!”

“Smoke ’em yourself. Sir!”

For a moment Peter Marlowe wished that he had not found the King. But he did not leave. He carefully lit the two cigarettes and offered one to the King. The King made no move to take it.

“Go on, please.”

The King smashed the cigarette out of his hands. “Screw you and your goddam cigarette. You want to stay here? All right!” He got up and began to stride away.

Peter Marlowe caught his arm. “Wait! This is the greatest day in our lives. Don’t spoil it because your cellmates got a little thoughtless.”

“You take your hand away,” the King said through his teeth, “or I’ll stomp it off!”

“Don’t worry about them,” Peter Marlowe said, the words beginning to pour out of him. “The war’s over, that’s the important thing. It’s over and we’ve survived. Remember what you used to drum into me? About looking after number one? Well, you’re all right! You’ve made it! What does it matter what they say?”

“I don’t give a good goddam about them! They’ve got nothing to do with it. And I don’t give a good goddam about you!” The King ripped his arm away.

Peter Marlowe stared at the King helplessly. “I’m your friend, dammit. Let me help you!”

“I don’t need your help!”

“I know. But I’d like to stay friends. Look,” he continued with difficulty. “You’ll be home soon—”

“The hell I will,” the King said, his blood roaring in his ears. “I got no home!”