'Sure.'
'Thanks.'
That night the King was worrying about a new problem. How in the hell could he do what he had said he would do?
Chapter 20
Larkin was deeply troubled as he strode up the path towards the Aussie hut. He was worried about Peter Marlowe — his arm seemed to be troubling him more than somewhat, hurting too much to be brushed off as just a flesh wound. He was worried too about old Mac. Last night Mac'd been talking and screaming in his sleep. And he was worried about Betty.
Had bad dreams himself last few nights, all twisted up, Betty and him, with other men in bed with her, and him watching and her laughing at him.
Larkin entered the hut and went over to Townsend, who was lying in his bunk.
Townsend's eyes were puffed and closed and his face was scratched and his arms and chest were bruised and scratched. When he opened his mouth to answer, Larkin saw the bloody gap where teeth should have been.
'Who did it, Townsend?'
'Don't know,' Townsend whimpered. 'I wuz bushwhacked.'
'Why?'
Tears welled and dirtied the bruises. 'I'd — I'd a-nothing — nothing. I don't know.'
'We're alone, Townsend. Who did it?'
'I don't know.' A sobbing moan burst from Townsend's lips. 'Oh Christ, they hurt me, hurt me.'
'Why were you bushwhacked?'
'I — I —' Townsend wanted to shout, 'The diamond, I had the diamond,'
and he wanted the colonel's help to get the bastards who'd stolen it from him. But he couldn't tell about the diamond, for then the colonel'd want to know where he'd got it and then he'd have to say from Gurble. An' then there'd be questions about Gurble, where had he got it from — Gurble?
The suicide? Then maybe they'd say that it wasn't suicide, it were murder, but it weren't, least he, Townsend, didn't think so, but who knows, maybe someone did Gurble in for the diamond. But that particular night Gurble was away from his bunk and I'd felt the outline of the diamond ring in his mattress and slipped it out and took off into the night and who could prove anythin' and Gurble happened to suicide that night so there weren't no harm. Except that maybe I murdered Gurble, murdered him by stealing the stone, maybe that was the final straw for Gurble, being kicked out of the unit for stealing rations and then having the diamond stole. Maybe that'd put him off his head, poor bastard, an' made him jump into the borehole!
But stealing rations didn't make sense, not when a man's a diamond to sell. No sense. No sense at all. Except that maybe I was the cause of Gurble's death and I curse myself, again and again, for stealing the diamond. Since I become a thief I got no peace, no peace, no peace. An'
now, now I'm glad, glad that it's gone from me, stolen from me.
'I don't know,' Townsend sobbed.
Larkin saw that it was no use and left Townsend to his pain.
'Oh, sorry, Father,' Larkin said, as he almost bumped Father Donovan down the hut steps.
'Hello, old friend.' Father Donovan was wraithlike, impossibly emaciated, his eyes deepset and strangely peaceful. 'How are you? And Mac? And young Peter?'
'Fine, thanks.' Larkin nodded back towards Townsend. 'Do you know anything about this?'
Donovan looked at Townsend and replied gently, 'I see a man in pain.'
'Sorry, I shouldn't have asked.' Larkin thought a moment, smiled. 'Would you like a game of bridge? Tonight? After supper?'
'Yes. Thank you. I'd like that.'
'Good. After supper.'
Father Donovan watched Larkin walk away and then went over to Townsend's bed. Townsend was not a Catholic. But Father Donovan gave of himself to all, for he knew that all men are children of God. But are they, all of them? he asked himself in wonder. Could children of God do such things?
At noon the wind and the rain came together. Soon everything and everyone was drenched. Then the rain stopped and the wind continued.
Pieces of thatch ripped away and whirled across the camp, mixing with loose fronds and rags and coolie hats. Then the wind stopped and the camp was normal with sun and heat and flies. Water in the storm channels gushed for half an hour, then began to sink into the earth and stagnate.
More flies gathered.
Peter Marlowe wandered up the hill listlessly. His feet were mud-stained like his legs, for he had let the tempest surround him, hoping that the wind and the rain would take away the brooding hurt. But they had not touched him.
He stood outside the King's window and peered in.
'How do you feel, Peter, buddy?' the King asked as he got up from his bed and found a pack of Kooas.
'Awful.' Peter Marlowe sat on the bench under the overhang, nauseated from the pain. 'My arm's killing me.' His laugh was brittle. 'Joke!'
The King jumped down and forced a smile. 'Forget it —'
