King Rat

The King knew that Grey had been watching him all the time. The excitement of making a deal in front of the MP hut added to his well-being. Pleased with himself, he walked up the slight rise, responding automatically to the greetings of the men—officers and enlisted men, English and Australian—that he knew. The important ones got special treatment, the others a friendly nod. The King was conscious of their malevolent envy and it bothered him not at all. He was used to it; it amused him and added to his stature. And he was pleased that the men called him the King. He was proud of what he had done as a man—as an American. Through cunning he had created a world. He surveyed his world now and was well satisfied.

He stopped outside Hut Twenty-four, one of the Australian huts, and poked his head through a window.

“Hey, Tinker,” he called out. “I want me a shave and a manicure.”

Tinker Bell was small and wiry. His skin was pigment-brown and his eyes were small and very brown and his nose was peeling. He was a sheep shearer by trade but he was the best barber in Changi.

“Wot’s this, your ruddy birthday? I gave you a manicure the day before yesterday.”

“So I get another today.”

Tinker shrugged and jumped out the window. The King sat back in the chair under the lee of the hut’s overhang, relaxing contentedly as Tinker put the sheet around his neck and settled him just right. “Look at this, mate,” he said, and held a little cake of soap under the King’s nose. “Smell it.”

“Hey,” said the King, grinning. “That’s the real McCoy.”

“Don’t know about that, mate! But it’s Yardley’s ruddy violets. A cobber o’ mine swiped it on a work party. Right from under the nose of a bloody Nip. Cost me thirty dollars,” he said with a wink, doubling the price. “I’ll keep it just for you, special, if you likes.”

“Tell you what. I’ll make it five bucks a time, instead of three, as long as it lasts,” the King said.

Tinker calculated quickly. The cake of soap would last perhaps eight shaves, maybe ten. “Strike a light, mate. I ’ardly makes me money back.”

The King grunted. “You got taken, Tink. I can buy that by the pound for fifteen a cake.”

“My bloody oath,” Tinker burst out, feigning anger. “A cobber taking me for a sucker! Now that ain’t right!” Furiously he mixed hot water and the sweet-smelling soap into a lather. Then he laughed. “You’re the King all right, mate.”

“Yeah,” the King said contentedly. He and Tinker were old friends.

“Ready, mate?” Tinker asked as he held up the lathered brush.

“Sure.” Then the King saw Tex walking down the path. “Wait a minute. Hey, Tex!” he called out.

Tex looked across at the hut and saw the King and ambled over to him. “Yeah?” He was a gangling youth with big ears and a bent nose and contented eyes, and he was tall, very tall.

Without being asked, Tinker moved out of earshot as the King beckoned Tex closer. “Do something for me?” he asked quietly.

“Sure.”

The King took out his wallet and peeled off a ten-dollar note. “Go find Colonel Brant. The little guy with the beard rolled under his chin. Give him this.”

“You know where he’d be?”

“Down by the corner of the jail. It’s his day for keeping an eye on Grey.”

Tex grinned. “Hear you had a set-to.”

“The son of a bitch searched me again.”

“Tough,” said Tex dryly, scratching his blond crewcut.

“Yes.” The King laughed. “And tell Brant not to be so goddam late next time. But you should have been there, Tex. Man, that Brant’s a great actor. He even made Grey apologize.” He grinned, then added another five. “Tell him this is for the apology.”

“Okay. That all?”

“No.” He gave him the password and told him where to find Major Barry, then Tex went his way and the King settled back. Altogether, today had been very profitable.

Grey hurried across the dirt path and up the steps to Hut Sixteen. It was almost lunchtime and he was painfully hungry.

Men were already forming an impatient line for food. Quickly Grey went to his bed and got his two mess cans and mug and spoon and fork and joined the line.

“Why isn’t it here already?” he wearily asked the man ahead of him.

“How the hell do I know?” Dave Daven said curtly. His accent was public school—Eton, Harrow or Charterhouse—and he was tall like bamboo.

“I was just asking,” Grey said irritably, despising Daven for his accent and his birthright.

After they had waited an hour, the food arrived. A man carried two containers to the head of the line and set them down. The containers had formerly held five gallons of high-octane gasoline. Now one was half full of rice—dry, pellucid. The other was full of soup.

Today it was shark soup—at least, one shark had been divided ounce by ounce into soup for ten thousand men. It was warm and tasted slightly of the fish, and in it there were pieces of eggplant and cabbage, a hundred pounds for ten thousand. The bulk of the soup was made from leaves, red and green, bitter and yet nutritious, grown with so much care in the gardens of the camp. Salt and curry powder and chili pepper spiced it.