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.
“Hai,” she replied. “Hitotsumo nemuku arimasen.” She kissed him softly. “Anata dozo oyasumi ni natte ne.”
He did as she bade him. He turned over and went back to sleep once more.
For a while she lay back too, trying to sleep, but sleep would not come. She turned over once or twice, gently, for she didn’t wish to disturb him, then finally she gave up and got off the bed and put on her light housecoat.
She opened the door of the cage and closed it quickly lest a stray mosquito was lying in wait, then crossed the marble floor to her dressing table. She lit a cigarette and brushed her hair while she smoked. This always seemed to help to make her sleepy, but tonight the ritual did not work. As she brushed, she looked into the mirror and the mirror showed herself to herself.
Clean lines, round where they should be round, her shoulders nicely sloping and set just right to carry the breasts that still needed no bra to lift them. Flat stomach. Long legs. Long neck, a swan neck. Fair, fair skin with an English bloom to her cheeks. A delicate face, high cheek bones, unlined yet, long swaths of gold hair that curled of their own majesty. Yes, she told herself, for thirty-three, you’re still a woman to be desired.
But the thought did not wholly please her.
To shake off her mood, she slipped on the feathered mules and spilled sweet-smelling cologne on her hands and forehead, walked across the room and opened the door. Refreshed, she went across the hall and opened another door. She was about to enter when her amah came from the back of the house where the servants quarters were.
“Dost thou require anything, Mistress?” the old woman asked politely in Malay.
“No. If I do, I will call thee.”
Then Mema went into the room and closed the door softly. Angus was curled up in a ball in the center of his bed under the mosquito net, curled around the long cylindrical pillow which in the East is called a Dutch nurse. Mem crossed, a sibilant movement, to her son, happily watching him sleep. Tousled hair, very short. Good body, tall for three and a half years.
The boy yawned, then feeling eyes upon him, awoke. When he saw his mother, he smiled. “Okasa!” he piped as he had been taught. Fleetingly Mema thought that “Mummy” sounds so much better than “Okasa” which also means “Mummy.”
“Angus, doka shita no?” she asked as she tucked the net closer to the mattress. She knew he was all right, and comfortable, but she asked anyway.
“U-un,” he nodded happily. “Nandemo nai yo.” Of course I’m all right, ’cause I had ice cream for my supper, he told himself happily.
“Ja,” she told him, “Hayaku nenne shimasai ne.”
Angus was yawning and needed no gentle command from her to go back to his dreams. She waited, watching him. Often she would sit beside his bed at night when she could not sleep and gain from his tiny presence the peace that she needed to take away the bad dreams. It was a nice room and there were always fresh flowers beside his bed and his toys were scattered in the neatness of a child’s pattern which adults call chaos. But tonight Mem did not feel there would be bad dreams when at length she went to sleep. Happily she turned away and wandered past the little bed to the cot.