the hut, regretting that he had agreed to play bridge with Mac and Larkin and Father Donovan for an hour or two. You're a fool, he told himself bitterly, you should have stayed in your bunk until it was time to go through the wire to get the money.
But he knew that he could not have lain on his bunk, hour after hour, until it was safe to go. Better to have something to do.
'Hi, cobber!' Larkin's face crinkled with his smile.
Peter Marlowe did not return the smile. He just sat grimly in the doorway.
Mac glanced at Larkin, who shrugged imperceptibly.
'Peter,' Mac said, forcing good humor, 'the news is better every day, isn't it? Won't be long before we're out of here.'
'Too right!' Larkin said.
'You're living in a fool's paradise. We'll never get out of Changi.' Peter Marlowe did not wish to be harsh, but he could not restrain himself. He knew Mac and Larkin were hurt, but he would do nothing to ease the hurt.
He was obsessed with the five-inch stump. A chill dissolved his spine and pierced his testicles. How the hell could the King really help? How? Be realistic. If it was the King's arm — what could I do, however much I'm his friend? Nothing. I don't think there's anything he can do — in time. Nothing.
You'd better face it, Peter. It's amputate or die. Simple. And when it comes down to it, you can't die. Not yet. Once you're born, you are obligated to survive. At all costs.
Yes, Peter Marlowe told himself, you'd better be realistic. There's nothing the King can do, nothing. And you shouldn't have put him on the spot. It's your worry, not his. Just get the money and give it to him and go up to the hospital and lie on the table and let them cut your arm off.
So the three of them — he, Mac and Larkin — sat in the fetid night. Silent.
When Father Donovan joined them they forced him to eat a little rice and blachang. They made him eat it then, for if they had not, he would have given it away, as he gave away most of his rations.
'You're very kind to me,' Donovan said. His eyes twinkled as he added,
'Now, if you three would see the error of your ways and come over to the right side of the fence, you'd complete my evening.'
Mac and Larkin laughed with him. Peter Marlowe did not laugh.
'What's the matter, Peter?' Larkin said, an edge to his voice. 'You've been like a dingo with a sore arse all evening.'
'No harm in being a little out of sorts,' Donovan said quickly, healing the ragged silence. 'My word, the news is very good, isn't it?'
Only Peter Marlowe was outside the friendship that was in the little room.
He knew his presence was suffocating, but there was nothing he could do.
Nothing.
The game started, and Father Donovan opened with two spades.
'Pass,' Mac said grumpily.
'Three diamonds,' Peter Marlowe said, and as soon as he had said it he wished he hadn't, for he had stupidly overbid his hand and had said diamonds when he should have said hearts.
'Pass,' Larkin said testily. He was sorry now that he had suggested the game. There was no fun in it. No fun.
'Three spades,' Father Donovan said.
'Pass.'
'Pass,' Peter Marlowe said, and they all looked at him surprised.
Father Donovan smiled. 'You should have more faith —'
'I'm tired of faith.' The words were sudden-raw and very angry.
'Sorry, Peter, I was only —'
'Now look here, Peter,' Larkin interrupted sharply, 'just because you're in a bad humor —'
'I'm entitled to an opinion and I think it was a bad joke,' Peter Marlowe flared. Then he whirled back on Donovan. 'Just because you martyr yourself by giving your food away and sleeping in the men's barracks, I suppose that gives you the right to be the authority. Faith's a lot of nothing!
What does it get you? Nothing! Faith's for children — and so is God. What the hell can He do about anything? Really do? Eh? Eh?'
Mac and Larkin stared at Peter Marlowe without recognition.
'He can heal,' Father Donovan said, knowing about the gangrene. He knew many things he did not want to know.
Peter Marlowe slammed his cards down on the table. 'Shit!' he shouted, berserk. 'That's shit and you know it. And another thing while we're on the subject. God! You know, I think God's a maniac, a sadistic, evil maniac, a bloodsucker —'
'Are you out of your mind, Peter?' Larkin exploded.
'No, I'm not. Look at God,' Peter Marlowe raved, his face contorted.
'God's nothing but evil — if He really is God. Look at all the bloodshed that's been committed in the name of God.' He shoved his face nearer Donovan's. 'The Inquisition. Remember? All the thousands that were burned and tortured to death in His Name? By the Catholic sadists? And we won't even think about the Aztecs and Incas and the poor bloody Indian millions. And the Protestants burning and killing the Catholics; and the Catholics, the Jews and the Mohammedans; and the Jews, more Jews-and the Mormons and Quakers and the whole stinking mess. Kill, torture, burn! Just so long as it's in the name of God, you're all right. What a lot of hypocrisy! Don't give me faith! It's nothing!'
