King Rat

Larkin rolled a cigarette and lit it, taking a deep puff. He passed it to Mac, who smoked and passed it to Peter Marlowe. When they had almost finished it, Larkin knocked off the burning top and put the remains of tobacco back into his box. He broke the silence. “Think I’ll take a walk.”

Peter Marlowe smiled. “Salamat,” he said, which meant “Peace be upon thee.”

“Salamat,” Larkin said and went out into the sun.

As Grey walked up the slope towards the MP hut, his brain churned with excitement. He promised himself that as soon as he got to the hut and released the Australians he would roll a cigarette to celebrate. His second today, even though he had only enough Java weed for three more cigarettes until payday the next week.

He strode up the steps and nodded at Sergeant Masters. “You can let ’em out!”

Masters took away the heavy bar from the door of the bamboo cage and the two sullen men stood to attention in front of Grey.

“You’re both to report to Colonel Larkin after roll call.”

The two men saluted and left.

“Damn troublemakers,” said Grey shortly.

He sat down and took out his box and papers. This month he had been extravagant. He had bought a whole page of Bible paper, which made the best cigarettes. Though he was not a religious man, it still seemed a little blasphemous to smoke the Bible. Grey read the scripture on the fragment he was preparing to roll: “So Satan went forth from the presence of the Lord and smote Job with sore boils from the sole of his foot unto his crown. And he took him a potsherd to scrape himself withal; and he sat down among the ashes. And then his wife said …”

Wife! Why the hell did I have to come across that word? Grey cursed and turned the paper over.

The first sentence on the other side was: “Why died I not from the womb? Why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly?”

Grey jerked upright as a stone hissed through the window, smashed against a wall and clattered to the floor.

A piece of newspaper was wrapped around the stone. Grey picked it up and darted to the window. But there was no one near. Grey sat down and smoothed out the paper. On the edge of it was written:

Make you a deal. I’ll deliver the King on a plate—if you’ll close your eyes when I trade a little in his place when you got him. If it’s a deal, stand outside the hut for a minute with this stone in your left hand. Then get rid of the other cop. Guys say you’re an honest cop so I’ll trust you.

“What’s it say, sir?” Masters asked, staring rheumy-eyed at the paper.

Grey crumpled the paper into a ball. “Someone thinks we work too hard for the Japs,” he said harshly.

“Bloody bastard.” Masters went to the window. “What the hell they think’d happen if we didn’t enforce discipline? The buggers’d be at each other’s throats all day long.”

“That’s right,” said Grey. The ball of paper felt animated in his hand. If this is a real offer, he thought, the King can be felled.

It was no easy decision to make. He would have to keep his side of the bargain. His word was his bond; he was an honest “cop,” and not a little proud of his reputation. Grey knew that he would do anything to see the King behind the bamboo cage, stripped of his finery—even close his eyes a little to a breaking of the rules. He wondered which of the Americans could be the informer. All of them hated the King, envied him—but who would play Judas, who would risk the consequences if he were to be discovered? Whoever the man was, he could never be such a menace as the King.

So he walked outside with the stone in his left hand and scrutinized the men who passed. But no one gave him a sign.

He threw the stone away and dismissed Masters. Then he sat in the hut and waited. He had given up hope when another rock sailed through the window with the second message attached:

Check a can that’s in the ditch by Hut Sixteen. Twice a day, mornings and after roll call. That’ll be our go-between. He’s trading with Turasan tonight.

CHAPTER SIX

That night Larkin lay on his mattress under his mosquito net gravely concerned about Corporal Townsend and Private Gurble. He had seen them after roll call.

“What the hell were you two fighting about?” he had asked repeatedly, and each time they had both replied sullenly, “Two-up.” But Larkin had known instinctively that they were lying.

“I want the truth,” he had said angrily. “Come on, you two are cobbers. Now why were you fighting?”

But the two men had kept their eyes obstinately on the ground. Larkin had questioned them individually, but each in his turn scowled and said, “Two-up.”