King Rat

“Do me a favor, Peter. Put a ten with this and give it to that guy.”

“Samson? Colonel Samson?”

“Sure. You’ll find him up near the corner of the jail.”

“Give him the money? Just like that? But what do I say to him?”

“Tell him it’s from me.”

My God, thought Peter Marlowe, appalled, is Samson on the payroll? He can’t be! I can’t do it. You’re my friend, but I can’t go up to a colonel and say here’s a hundred bucks from the King. I can’t!

The King saw through his friend. Oh Peter, he thought, you’re such a goddam child. Then he added, To hell with you! But he threw the last thought away and cursed himself. Peter was the only guy in the camp he had ever wanted for his friend, the only guy he needed. So he decided to teach him the facts of life. It’s going to be tough, Peter boy, and it may hurt you a lot, but I’m going to teach you if I have to break you. You’re going to survive and you’re going to be my partner.

“Peter,” he said, “there are times when you have to trust me. I’ll never put you behind the eight ball. As long as you’re my friend, trust me. If you don’t want to be my friend, fine. But I’d like you to be my friend.”

Peter Marlowe knew that here was another moment of truth. Take the money in trust—or leave it and be gone.

A man’s life is always at a crossroads. And not his life alone, not if he’s a man. Always others in the balance.

He knew that one path risked Mac’s and Larkin’s lives, along with his own, for without the King they were as defenseless as any in the camp; without the King there was no village, for he knew that he would never risk it alone—even for the wireless. The other path would jeopardize a heritage or destroy a past. Samson was a power in the Regular Army, a man of caste, position and wealth, and Peter Marlowe was born to be an officer—as his father before him and his son after him—and such an accusation could never be forgotten. And if Samson was a hireling, then everything he had been taught to believe would have no value.

Peter Marlowe watched himself as he took the money and went into the night and walked up the path and found Colonel Samson, and heard the man whisper, “Oh hello, you’re Marlowe, aren’t you?”

He saw himself hand over the money. “The King asked me to give you this.”

He saw the mucused eyes light up as Samson greedily counted the money and tucked it away in his threadbare pants.

“Thank him,” he heard Samson whisper, “and tell him I stopped Grey for an hour. That was as long as I could hold him. That was long enough, wasn’t it?”

“It was enough. Just enough.” Then he heard himself say, “Next time keep him longer, or send word, you stupid bugger!”

“I kept him as long as I could. Tell the King I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry and it won’t happen again. I promise. Listen, Marlowe. You know how it is sometimes. It gets a bit difficult.”

“I’ll tell him you’re sorry.”

“Yes, yes, thank you, thank you, Marlowe. I envy you, Marlowe. Being so close to the King. You’re lucky.”

Peter Marlowe returned to the American hut. The King thanked him and he thanked the King again and walked out into the night.

He found a small promontory overlooking the wire and wished himself into his Spitfire soaring the sky alone, up, up, up in the sky, where all is clean and pure, where there are no lousy people—like me—where life is simple and you can talk to God and be of God, without shame.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Peter Marlowe lay on his bunk drifting in half sleep. Around him men were waking, getting up, going to relieve themselves, preparing for work parties, going and coming from the hut. Mike was already grooming his mustache, fifteen inches from tip to tip; he had sworn never to cut it until he was released. Barstairs was already standing on his head practicing yoga, Phil Mint already picking his nose, the bridge game already started, Raylins already doing his singing exercises, Myner already doing scales on his wooden keyboard, Chaplain Grover already trying to cheer everyone up, and Thomas was already cursing the lateness of breakfast.

Above Peter Marlowe, Ewart, who had the top bunk, groaned out of sleep and hung his legs over the bunk. “’Mahlu on the night!”

“You were kicking like hell.” Peter Marlowe had said the same remark many times, for Ewart always slept restlessly.

“Sorry.”

Ewart always said, Sorry. He jumped down heavily. He had no place in Changi. His place was five miles away, in the civilian camp, where his wife and family were—perhaps were. No contact had ever been allowed between the camps.

“Let’s burn the bed after we’ve showered,” he said, yawning. He was short and dark and fastidious.

“Good idea.”

“Never think we did it three days ago. How did you sleep?”

“Same as usual.” But Peter Marlowe knew that nothing was the same, not after accepting the money, not after Samson.