King Rat

But Grey was not alone in his hatred. The whole of Changi hated the King. They hated him for his muscular body, the clear glow in his blue eyes. In this twilight world of the half alive there were no fat or well-built or round or smooth or fair-built or thick-built men. There were only faces dominated by eyes and set on bodies that were skin over sinews over bones. No difference between them but age and face and height. And in all this world, only the King ate like a man, smoked like a man, slept like a man, dreamed like a man and looked like a man.

“You,” Grey barked. “Corporal! Come over here!”

The King had been aware of Grey ever since he had turned the corner of the jail, not because he could see into the blackness of the MP hut but because he knew that Grey was a person of habit and when you have an enemy it is wise to know his ways. The King knew as much about Grey as any man could know about another.

He stepped off the path and walked towards the lone hut, set like a pimple among sores of other huts.

“You wanted me, sir?” the King said, saluting. His smile was bland. His sun glasses veiled the contempt of his eyes.

From his window, Grey stared down at the King. His taut features hid the hate that was part of him. “Where are you going?”

“Back to my hut. Sir,” the King said patiently, and all the time his mind was figuring angles—had there been a slip, had someone informed, what was with Grey?

“Where did you get that shirt?”

The King had bought the shirt the day before from a major who had kept it neat for two years against the day he would need to sell it for money to buy food. The King liked to be tidy and well-dressed when everyone else was not, and he was pleased that today his shirt was clean and new and his long pants were creased and his socks clean and his shoes freshly polished and his hat stainless. It amused him that Grey was naked but for pathetically patched short pants and wooden clogs, and a Tank Corps beret that was green and solid with tropic mold.

“I bought it,” the King said. “Long time ago. There’s no law against buying anything—here, anywheres else. Sir.”

Grey felt the impertinence in the “Sir.” “All right, Corporal, inside!”

“Why?”

“I just want a little chat,” Grey said sarcastically.

The King held his temper and walked up the steps and through the doorway and stood near the table. “Now what? Sir.”

“Turn out your pockets.”

“Why?”

“Do as you’re told. You know I’ve the right to search you at any time.” Grey let some of his contempt show. “Even your commanding officer agreed.”

“Only because you insisted on it.”

“With good reason. Turn out your pockets!”

Wearily the King complied. After all, he had nothing to hide. Handkerchief, comb, wallet, one pack of tailor-made cigarettes, his tobacco box full of raw Java tobacco, rice cigarette papers, matches. Grey made sure all pockets were empty, then opened the wallet. There were fifteen American dollars and nearly four hundred Japanese Singapore dollars.

“Where did you get this money?” Grey snapped, the ever-present sweat dripping from him.

“Gambling. Sir.”

Grey laughed mirthlessly. “You’ve a lucky streak. It’s been good for nearly three years. Hasn’t it?”

“You through with me now? Sir.”

“No. Let me look at your watch.”

“It’s on the list—”

“I said let me look at your watch!”

Grimly the King pulled the stainless steel expanding band off his wrist and handed it to Grey.

In spite of his hatred of the King, Grey felt a shaft of envy. The watch was waterproof, shockproof, self-winding. An Oyster Royal. The most priceless possession of Changi—other than gold. He turned the watch over and looked at the figures etched into the steel, then went over to the atap wall and took down the list of the King’s possessions and automatically wiped the ants off it, and meticulously checked the number of the watch against the number of the Oyster Royal watch on the list.

“It checks,” the King said. “Don’t worry. Sir.”

“I’m not worried,” Grey said. “It’s you who are to be worried.” He handed the watch back, the watch that could bring nearly six months of food.

The King put the watch back on his wrist and began to pick up his wallet and other things.

“Oh yes. Your ring!” Grey said. “Let’s check that.”

But the ring checked with the list too. It was itemed as A gold ring, signet of the Clan Gordon. Alongside the description was an example of the seal.

“How is it an American has a Gordon ring?” Grey had asked the same question many times.

“I won it. Poker,” the King said.

“Remarkable memory you’ve got, Corporal,” Grey said and handed it back. He had known all along that the ring and the watch would check. He had only used the search as an excuse. He felt compelled, almost masochistically, to be near his prey for just a while. He knew, too, that the King did not scare easily. Many had tried to catch him, and failed, for he was smart and careful and very cunning.