King Rat

“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.