King Rat

“Oh but I am, darling. I’m studying my next role. A big one. You’ll read all about it in a few days. I’m just ecstatic.”

When she had passed, Trina turned to Billy. “Bitch.” Then she picked up where they had left off. “Without you I might be better off.”

“Pity. I have your contract.” Billy was tired of the quarrel. They had always quarreled. And she was terrible in bed. Nothing. How could she look so good and act so sexy and yet be so cold was beyond his belief. But she was. “I’ll bet you gave Grey one hell of a time.”

“I did not. I loved the Colonel—”

“Lieutenant,” he said contemptuously. “Once you begin to believe your own publicity, you’re up the creek.”

“At least he was a man.”

Trina couldn’t even remember Grey’s face. The only time she’d ever felt herself desperate for him was the day he left. When he’d thrown her on the bed and ripped her clothes off. My God, she felt weak as she remembered. If only he had continued. And beat her too. She had really wanted him that moment and wanted him as a woman had never wanted a man. But he wasn’t a man. He had just left—weak and with tears streaming down his rotten faceless face. Men! There aren’t any.

The men she had tried were nothing. And Grey, whom she felt could be a man, whom she loved as much as she could love, whom she tried in every way to force into rage enough to take her as she wanted to be taken, Grey had failed her. He had failed her. Failed to be a man.

Trina’s cold eyes were on Billy. She knew Billy was seething with rage. But he’d do nothing but quarrel. Nothing. He didn’t understand her and he never would and it was true, she had married him because he was the agent. And she would stay with him while he was the agent. That was one thing he was good at.

Then, sharp-eyed, she noticed Winter Smith with Durstein, close and intimate and huddled together. From the corner of her mouth she hissed at Billy. “You’d better go and break that up. That bitch’ll do anything to get the part.”

Billy smiled cynically as he left. “But you won’t?”

“Are you all right, Grey?” Colonel Jones asked.

“Oh, yes, sir, thank you.” Grey came to and discovered that he was leaning weakly against the supply hut. “It was—was just a touch of fever.”

“You don’t look too good. Sit down for a minute.”

“It’s all right, thank you. I’ll—I’ll just get some water.”

Grey went over to the tap and took off his shirt and dunked his head under the stream of water. Bloody fool, to let yourself go like that! he thought. But in spite of his resolve, inexorably his mind returned to Trina. Tonight, tonight I’ll let myself think of her, he promised. Tonight, and every night. To hell with trying to live without food. Without hope. I want to die. How much I want to die.

Then he saw Peter Marlowe walking up the hill. In his hands was an American mess can and he was holding it carefully. Why?

“Marlowe!” Grey moved in front of him.

“What the hell do you want?”

“What’s in there?”

“Food.”

“No contraband?”

“Stop picking on me, Grey.”

“I’m not picking on you. Judge a man by his friends.”

“Just stay away from me.”

“I can’t, I’m afraid, old boy. It’s my job. I’d like to see that. Please.”

Peter Marlowe hesitated. Grey was within his right to look and within his right to take him to Colonel Smedly-Taylor if he stepped out of line. And in his pocket were the twenty quinine tablets. No one was supposed to have private stores of medicine. If they were discovered he would have to tell where he had got them and then the King would have to tell where he got them and anyway, Mac needed them now. So he opened the can.

The katchang idju-bully gave off an unearthly fragrance to Grey. His stomach turned over and he tried to keep from showing his hunger. He tipped the mess can carefully so that he could see the bottom. There was nothing in it other than the bully and the katchang idju, delicious.

“Where did you get it?”

“I was given it.”

“Did he give it to you?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you taking it?”

“To the hospital.”

“For whom?”

“For one of the Americans.”

“Since when does a Flight Lieutenant DFC run errands for a corporal?”

“Go to hell!”

“Maybe I will. But before I do I’m going to see you and him get what’s coming to you.”

Easy, Peter Marlowe told himself, easy. If you take a sock at Grey you’ll really be up the creek.

“Are you finished with the questions, Grey?”

“For the moment. But remember—” Grey went a pace closer and the smell of the food tortured him. “You and your damned crook friend are on the list. I haven’t forgotten about the lighter.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve done nothing against orders.”

“But you will, Marlowe. If you sell your soul, you’ve got to pay sometime.”

“You’re out of your head!”

“He’s a crook, a liar and a thief—”

“He is my friend, Grey. He’s not a crook and not a thief…”

“But he is a liar.”

“Everyone’s a liar. Even you. You denied the wireless. You’ve got to be a liar to stay alive. You’ve got to do a lot of things…”

“Like kissing a corporal’s arse to get food?”