King Rat

And huge waves of laughter engulfed the old man and the tears ran down his cheeks and his whole household was in an uproar and his wives came in to succor him and rub his back and stomach, and then they too were shrieking and so was Peter Marlowe.

Peter Marlowe smiled again, remembering. Now that was a man! Tuan Abu. But I won’t think any more today about my village, or my friends of the village, or N’ai, the daughter of the village they gave me to touch. Today I’ll think about the wireless and how I’m going to get the condenser and sharpen my wits for the village tonight.

He unwound himself from the lotus seat, then waited patiently till the blood began to flow in his veins once more. Around him was the sweet gasoline smell, carried by a breeze. Also on the breeze came voices raised in hymn. They came from the open air theater, which today was the Church of England. Last week it was a Catholic Church, the week before the Seventh-day Adventist, the week before another denomination. They were tolerant in Changi.

There were many parishioners crowding the rough seats. Some were there because of a faith, some were there for lack of a faith. Some were there for something to do, some were there because there was nothing else to do. Today Chaplain Drinkwater was conducting the service.

Chaplain Drinkwater’s voice was rich and round. His sincerity poured from him and the words of the Bible sprang to life, and gave you hope, and made you forget that Changi was fact, that there was no food in your belly.

Rotten hypocrite, Peter Marlowe thought, despising Drinkwater, remembering once again…

“Hey, Peter,” Dave Daven had whispered that day, “look over there.”

Peter Marlowe saw Drinkwater talking with a withered RAF corporal called Blodger. Drinkwater’s bunk had a favored spot near the door of Hut Sixteen.

“That must be his new batman,” Daven said. Even in the camp the age-old tradition was kept.

“What happened to the other one?”

“Lyles? My man told me he was up in hospital. Ward Six.”

Peter Marlowe got to his feet. “Drinkwater can do what he likes with Army types, but he’s not getting one of mine.”

He walked the four bunk lengths. “Blodger!”

“What do you want, Marlowe?” Drinkwater said.

Peter Marlowe ignored him. “What’re you doing here, Blodger?”

“I was just seeing the chaplain, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” he said moving closer, “I don’t see you too well.”

“Flight Lieutenant Marlowe.”

“Oh. How’re you, sir? I’m the chaplain’s new batman, sir.”

“You get out of here, and before you take a job as a batman, you come and ask me first!”

“But sir—”

“Who do you think you are, Marlowe?” Drinkwater snapped. “You’ve no jurisdiction over him.”

“He’s not going to be your batman.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so. You’re dismissed, Blodger.”

“But sir, I’ll look after the chaplain fine, I really will. I’ll work hard—”

“Where’d you get that cigarette?”

“Now look here, Marlowe—” Drinkwater began.

Peter Marlowe whirled on him. “Shut up!” Others in the hut stopped what they were doing and began to collect.

“Where did you get that cigarette, Blodger?”

“The chaplain gave it to me,” whimpered Blodger, backing away, frightened by the edge to Peter Marlowe’s voice. “I gave him my egg. He promised me tobacco in exchange for my daily egg. I want the tobacco and he can have the egg.”

“There’s no harm in that,” Drinkwater blustered, “no harm in giving the boy some tobacco. He asked me for it. In exchange for an egg.”

“You been up to Ward Six recently?” Peter Marlowe asked. “Did you help them admit Lyles? Your last batman? He’s got no eyes now.”

“That’s not my fault. I didn’t do anything about him.”

“How many of his eggs did you have?”

“None. I had none.”

Peter Marlowe snatched a Bible and thrust it into Drinkwater’s hands. “Swear it, then I’ll believe you. Swear it or by God I’ll do you!”

“I swear it!” Drinkwater moaned.

“You lying bastard,” Daven shouted, “I’ve seen you take Lyles’ eggs. We all have.”

Peter Marlowe grabbed Drinkwater’s mess can and found the egg. Then he smashed it against Drinkwater’s face, cramming the egg shell into his mouth. Drinkwater fainted.

Peter Marlowe dashed a bowl of water in his face, and he came to.

“Bless you, Marlowe,” he had whispered. “Bless you for showing me the error of my ways.” He had knelt beside the bunk. “Oh God, forgive this unworthy sinner. Forgive me my sins…”

Mrs. Alicia Drinkwater plodded ponderously into the little Rectory and closed the door and went into the kitchen. She began to make a cup of tea and heavily set the table for herself and the Reverend Webster Trout whom she had allowed to look after the flock while the Reverend was away at war.