King Rat

The vein in Peter Marlowe’s forehead swelled like a thin black snake. But his voice was soft and the venom honey-coated. “I ought to thrash you, Grey. But it’s so ill-bred to brawl with the lower classes. Unfair, you know.”

“By God, Marlowe—” began Grey, but he was beyond speech, and the madness in him rose up and choked him.

Peter Marlowe looked deep into Grey’s eyes and knew that he had won. For a moment he gloried in the destruction of the man, and then his fury evaporated and he stepped around Grey and walked up the hill. No need to prolong a battle once it’s won. That’s ill-bred, too.

By the Lord God, Grey swore brokenly, I’ll make you pay for that. I’ll have you on your knees begging my forgiveness. And I’ll not forgive you. Never!

Mac took six of the tablets and winced as Peter Marlowe helped him up a little to drink the water held to his lips. He swallowed and sank back.

“Bless you, Peter,” he whispered. “That’ll do the trick. Bless you, laddie.” He lapsed into sleep, his face burning, his spleen stretched to bursting, and his brain took flight in nightmares. He saw his wife and son floating in the ocean depths, eaten by fish and screaming from the deep. And he saw himself there, in the deep, tearing at the sharks, but his hands were not strong enough and his voice not loud enough, and the sharks tore huge pieces of the flesh of his flesh and there were always more to tear. And the sharks had voices and their laughter was of demons, but angels stood by and told him to hurry, hurry, Mac, hurry or you’ll be too late. Then there were no sharks, only yellow men with bayonets and gold teeth, sharpened to needles, surrounding him and his family on the bottom of the sea. Their bayonets huge, sharp. Not them, me! he screamed. Me, kill me! And he watched, impotent, while they killed his wife and killed his son and then they turned on him and the angels watched and whispered in chorus, Hurry, Mac, hurry. Run. Run. Run away and you’ll be safe. And he ran, not wanting to run, ran away from his son and his wife and their blood-filled sea, and he fled through the blood and strangled. But he still ran and they chased him, the sharks with slant eyes and gold needle teeth with their rifles and bayonets, tearing at his flesh until he was at bay. He fought and he pleaded but they would not stop and now he was surrounded. And Yoshima shoved the bayonet deep into his guts. And the pain was huge. Beyond agony. Yoshima jerked the bayonet out and he felt his blood pour out of him, through the jagged hole, through all the openings of his body, through the very pores of his skin until only the soul was left in the husk. Then, at last, his soul sped forth and joined with the blood of the sea. A great, exquisite relief filled him, infinite, and he was glad that he was dead.

Mema twisted violently in her sleep and then she was wide awake. It was dusk. She glanced at her watch, glad to be awake and at the same time sorry that it was not yet morning. It was only eight o’clock and she had been asleep only half an hour. It was even too early yet for the night creatures to be about. She listened. Yes, the jungle was still quiet. In an hour or so the tempo would change.

She was lying on her side, half curled up, as she always slept, on the big clean, starched bed. Surrounding her was the protective mosquito cage.

It was much more pleasant to sleep in the cage than under a confining mosquito net. It was like being in a gossamer box and the box was within the large bedroom and the bed was within the box—box within boxes, selves within selves. A mosquito cage was expensive, and only the very well off could afford one. It was expensive because the joints of the door, set in a gossamer wall, had to be perfect-fitted, fitted to exclude the tiny winged creatures, smaller than mosquitoes—the midges—that abounded. Midges were not dangerous for they did not carry malaria or other violent diseases, but even so, they were just as sleep disturbing.

It was nice to lie, half awake in the clean pure space. There was a breeze tonight, cooling. A fragrance of frangipani surrounded her, brought by the sea breeze, and mixed with it were the perfumes of the night blooming flowers in the surrounding garden. The breeze touched her, pattering the gossamer negligee against her legs. Mem liked nice things, and the negligee was beautiful and sheer and came from Paris.

She moved slightly, resting her head on her bare arm on the sweet-smelling pillow, and she looked at the man, lying soft asleep beside her. Involuntarily she touched him, liking him. She did not love him, but she liked him. And that was good. It had not always been so.

The man stirred, then opened his eyes. When he saw her looking at him, he smiled and reached over and caressed her long golden hair.

“Omae,” he said gently, “nemuri nai no ka?” concerned to find her awake.