King Rat

“Why do they stare at us? Why? Goddammit why?” Peter Marlowe shouted. There was no answer.

A doctor walked into the hut, a doctor with a Red Cross on his arm, and he hurried—but pretended not to hurry—and smiled at Peter Marlowe. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” he said, indicating the major who was walking through the camp.

“Why the hell do all you people stare at us?”

“Have a cigarette and calm down.”

The doctor seemed nice enough and quiet enough, but he was an outsider—and not to be trusted.

“Have a cigarette and calm down! That’s all you bastards can say,” Peter Marlowe raged. “I said, why do you all stare at us?”

The doctor lit a cigarette himself and sat on one of the beds and then wished he hadn’t, for he knew that all the beds were diseased. But he wanted to help. “I’ll try to tell you,” he said quietly. “You, all of you, have suffered the unsufferable and endured the unendurable. You’re walking skeletons. Your faces are all eyes, and in the eyes there’s a look…” He stopped a moment, trying to find the words, for he knew that they needed help and care and gentleness. “I don’t quite know how to describe it. It’s furtive—no, that’s not the right word, and it’s not fear. But there’s the same look in all your eyes. And you’re all alive, when by all the rules you should be dead. We don’t know why you aren’t dead or why you’ve survived—I mean each of you here, why you? We, from the outside, stare at you because you’re fascinating…”

“Like freaks in a goddam side show, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said the doctor calmly. “That would be one way of putting it, but—”

“I swear to Christ I’ll kill the next bugger who looks at me as though I’m a monkey.”

“Here,” the doctor said, trying to appease him. “Here are some pills. They’ll calm you down—”

Peter Marlowe knocked the pills out of the doctor’s hand and shouted, “I don’t want any goddam pills. I just want to be left alone!” And he fled the hut.

The American hut was deserted.

Peter Marlowe lay on the King’s bed and wept.

“’By, Peter,” Larkin said.

“’By, Colonel.”

“’By, Mac.”

“Good luck, laddie.”

“Keep in touch.”

Larkin shook their hands, and then he walked up to Changi Gate, where trucks were waiting to take the last of the Aussies to ships. To home.

“When are you off, Peter?” Mac asked after Larkin had disappeared.

“Tomorrow. What about you?”

“I’m leaving now, but I’m going to stay in Singapore. No point in getting a boat until I know which way.”

“Still no news?”

“No. They could be anywhere in the Indies. But if she and Angus were dead, I think I’d know. Inside.” Mac lifted his rucksack and unconsciously checked that the secret can of sardines was still safe. “I heard a rumor there are some women in one of the camps in Singapore who were on the Shropshire. Perhaps one of them will know something or give me a clue. If I can find them.” He looked old and lined but very strong. He put out his hand. “Salamat.”

“Salamat.”

“Puki ’mahlu!”

“Senderis,” said Peter Marlowe, conscious of his tears but not ashamed of them. Nor was Mac of his.

“You can always write me care of the Bank of Singapore, laddie.”

“I will. Good luck, Mac.”

“Salamat!”

Peter Marlowe stood in the street that bisected the camp and watched Mac walk the hill. At the top of the hill, Mac stopped and turned and waved once. Peter Marlowe waved back, and then Mac was lost in the crowd.

And now, Peter Marlowe was quite alone.

Last dawn in Changi. A last man died. Some of the officers of Hut Sixteen had already left. The sickest ones.

Peter Marlowe lay under his mosquito net on his bunk in half-sleep. Around him men were waking, getting up, going to relieve themselves. Barstairs was standing on his head practicing yoga, Phil Mint was already picking his nose with one hand and maiming flies with the other, the bridge game already started, Myner already doing scales on his wooden keyboard, and Thomas already cursing the lateness of breakfast.

“What do you think, Peter?” Mike asked.

Peter Marlowe opened his eyes and studied him. “Well, you look different, I’ll say that.”

Mike rubbed his shaven top lip with the back of his hand. “I feel naked.” He looked back at himself in the mirror. Then he shrugged. “Well, it’s off and that’s that.”

“Hey, grub’s up,” Spence called out.

“What is it?”

“Porridge, toast, marmalade, scrambled eggs, bacon, tea.”

Some men complained about the smallness of their portions, some complained about the bigness.

Peter Marlowe took only scrambled eggs and tea. He mixed the eggs into some rice he had saved from yesterday and ate with vast enjoyment.

He looked up as Drinkwater bustled in. “Oh, Drinkwater.” He stopped him. “Have you got a minute?”