Now, on this sun-kissed Sunday, Peter Marlowe listened as Drinkwater finished the sermon. Blodger had long since gone to Ward Six, but whether Drinkwater had helped him there, Peter Marlowe could never prove. Drinkwater still got many eggs from somewhere.
Peter Marlowe’s stomach told him it was time for lunch.
When he got back to his hut, the men were already waiting, mess cans in hands, impatient. The extra was not going to arrive today. Or tomorrow according to rumor. Ewart had already checked the cookhouse. Just the usual. That was all right too, but why the hell don’t they hurry up?
Grey was sitting on the end of his bed.
“Well, Marlowe,” he said, “you eating with us these days? Such a pleasant surprise.”
“Yes, Grey, I’m still eating here. Why don’t you just run along and play cops and robbers? You know, pick on someone who can’t hit back!”
“Not a chance, old man. Got my eye on bigger game.”
“Jolly good luck.” Peter Marlowe got his mess cans ready. Across the way from him Brough, kibitzing a game of bridge, winked.
“Cops!” he whispered. “They’re all the same.”
“That’s right.”
He joined Peter Marlowe. “Hear you’ve a new buddy.”
“That’s right.” Peter Marlowe was on his guard.
“It’s a free country. But sometimes a guy’s got to get out on a limb and make a point.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Fast company can sometimes get out of hand.”
“That’s true in any country.”
“Maybe,” Brough grinned, “maybe you’d like to have a cuppa Joe sometime and chew the fat.”
“I’d like that. How about tomorrow? After chow — ” Involuntarily he used the King’s word. But he didn’t correct himself. He smiled and Brough smiled back.
“Hey, grub’s up!” Ewart called out.
“Thank God for that,” Phil groaned. “How about a deal, Peter? Your rice for my stew?”
“You’ve got a hope!”
“No harm in trying.”
Peter Marlowe went outside and joined the mess line. Raylins was serving out the rice. Good, he thought, no need to worry today.
Raylins was middle-aged and bald. He had been a junior manager in the Bank of Singapore and, like Ewart, one of the Malayan Regiment. In peacetime it was a great organization to belong to. Lots of parties, cricket, polo. A man had to be in the Regiment to be anyone. Raylins also looked after the mess fund, and banqueting was his specialty. When they gave him a gun and told him he was in the war and ordered him to take his platoon across the causeway and fight the Japanese, he had looked at the colonel and laughed. His job was accounts. But it hadn’t helped him, and he had had to take twenty men, as untrained as himself, and march up the road. He had marched, then suddenly his twenty men were three. Thirteen had been killed instantly in the ambush. Four were only wounded. They were lying in the middle of the road screaming. One had his hand blown off and he was staring at the stump stupidly, catching his blood in his only hand, trying to pour it back into his arm. Another was laughing, laughing as he crammed his entrails back into the gaping hole.
Raylins had stared stupidly as the Japanese tank came down the road, guns blazing. Then the tank was past and the four were merely stains on the asphalt. He had looked at his remaining three men — Ewart was one of them. They had looked back at him. Then they were running, running terror-stricken into the jungle. Then they were lost. Then he was alone, alone in a horror night of leeches and noises, and the only thing that saved him from insanity was a Malay child who had found him babbling and had guided him to a village. He had sneaked into the building where remnants of an army were collected. The next day the Japanese shot two of every ten. He and a few others were kept in the building. Later they were put into a truck and sent to a camp and he was among his own people. But he could never forget his friend Charles, the one with his intestines hanging out.
Raylins spent most of his time in a fog. For the life of him he could not understand why he wasn’t in his bank counting his figures, clean neat figures, and why he was in a camp where he excelled at one thing. He could deal out an unknown amount of rice into exactly the right number of parts. Almost to the grain.
“Ah, Peter,” Raylins said, giving him his share, “you knew Charles, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes, nice fellow.” Peter Marlowe didn’t know him. None of them did.
“Do you think he ever got them back in?” Raylins asked.
“Oh yes. Certainly.” Peter Marlowe took his food away as Raylins turned to the next in line.
“Ah, Chaplain Grover, it’s a warm day, isn’t it? You knew Charles, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” the Chaplain said, eyes on the measure of rice. “I’m sure he did, Raylins.”
“Good, good. I’m glad to hear it. Funny place to find your insides, on the outside, just like that.”
Raylins’ mind wandered to his cool, cool bank and to his wife, whom he would see tonight, when he left the bank, in their neat little bungalow near the racecourse. Let me see, he thought, we’ll have lamb for dinner tonight. Lamb! And a nice cool beer. Then I’ll play with Penelope, and the missus’ll be content to sit on the veranda and sew.
“Ah,” he said, happily recognizing Ewart. “Would you like to come to dinner tonight, Ewart, old boy? Perhaps you’d like to bring the missus.”
Ewart mumbled through clenched teeth. He took his rice and stew and turned away.
“Take it easy, Ewart,” Peter Marlowe cautioned him.
“Take it easy yourself! How do you know what it feels like? I swear to God I’ll kill him one day.”
“Don’t worry — ”
“Worry! They’re dead. His wife and child are dead. I saw them dead. But my wife and two children? Where are they, eh? Where? Somewhere dead too. They’ve got to be after all this time. Dead!”
“They’re in the civilian camp — ”
“How in Christ’s name do you know? You don’t, I don’t, and it’s only five miles away. They’re dead! Oh my God,” and Ewart sat down and wept, spilling his rice and stew on the ground. Peter Marlowe scooped up the rice and the leaves that floated in the stew and put them in Ewart’s mess can.”
Next week they’ll let you write a letter. Or maybe they’ll let you visit. The Camp Commandant’s always asking for a list of the women and children. Don’t worry, they’re safe.” Peter Marlowe left him slobbering his rice into his face, and took his own rice and went down to the bungalow.
“Hello, cobber,” Larkin said. “You been up to see Mac?”
“Yes. He looks fine. He even started getting ruffled about his age.”
“It’ll be good to get old Mac back.” Larkin reached under his mattress and brought out a spare mess can. “Got a surprise!” He opened the mess can and revealed a two-inch square of brownish puttylike substance.
“By all that’s holy! Blachang! Where the devil did you get it?”
“Scrounged it, of course.”
“You’re a genius, Colonel. Funny, I didn’t smell it.” Peter Marlowe leaned over and took a tiny piece of the blachang. “This’ll last us a couple of weeks.”
Blachang was a native delicacy, easy to make. When the season was right, you went to the shore and netted the myriads of tiny sea creatures that hovered in the surf. You buried them in a pit lined with seaweed, then covered it with more seaweed and forgot about it for two months.
When you opened the pit, the fishes had decayed into a stinking paste, the stench of which would blow your head off and destroy your sense of smell for a week. Holding your breath, you scooped up the paste and fried it. But you had to stay to windward or you’d suffocate. When it cooled, you shaped it into blocks and sold it for a fortune. Prewar, ten cents a cube. Now maybe ten dollars a sliver. Why a delicacy? It was pure protein. And a tiny fraction would flavor a whole bowl of rice. Of course you could easily get dysentery from it. But if it’d been aged right and cooked right and hadn’t been touched by flies, it was all right.