of the Aussies to ships. To home.
'When are you off, Peter?' Mac asked after Larkin had disappeared.
'Tomorrow. What about you?'
'I'm leaving now, but I'm going to stay in Singapore. No point in getting a boat until I know which way.'
'Still no news?'
'No. They could be anywhere in the Indies. But if she and Angus were dead, I think I'd know. Inside.' Mac lifted his rucksack and unconsciously checked that the secret can of sardines was still safe. 'I heard a rumor there are some women in one of the camps in Singapore who were on the Shropshire. Perhaps one of them will know something or give me a clue. If I can find them.' He looked old and lined but very strong. He put out his hand. 'Salamat.'
'Salamat.'
'Puki mahlu!'
'Senderis,' said Peter Marlowe, conscious of his tears but not ashamed of them. Nor was Mac of his.
'You can always write me care of the Bank of Singapore, laddie.'
'I will. Good luck, Mac.'
'Salamat!'
Peter Marlowe stood in the street that bisected the camp and watched Mac walk the hill. At the top of the hill, Mac stopped and turned and waved once. Peter Marlowe waved back, and then Mac was lost in the crowd.
And now, Peter Marlowe was quite alone.
Last dawn in Changi. A last man died. Some of the officers of Hut Sixteen had already left. The sickest ones.
Peter Marlowe lay under his mosquito net on his bunk in half-sleep.
Around him men were waking, getting up, going to relieve themselves.
Barstairs was standing on his head practicing yoga, Phil Mint was already picking his nose with one hand and maiming flies with the other, the bridge game already started, Myner already doing scales on his wooden keyboard, and Thomas already cursing the lateness of breakfast.
'What do you think, Peter?' Mike asked.
Peter Marlowe opened his eyes and studied him. 'Well, you look different, I'll say that.'
Mike rubbed his shaven top lip with the back of his hand. 'I feel naked.'
He looked back at himself in the mirror. Then he shrugged. 'Well, it's off and that's that.'
'Hey, grub's up,' Spence called out.
'What is it?'
'Porridge, toast, marmalade, scrambled eggs, bacon, tea.'
Some men complained about the smallness of their portions, some complained about the bigness.
Peter Marlowe took only scrambled eggs and tea. He mixed the eggs into some rice he had saved from yesterday and ate with vast enjoyment.
He looked up as Drinkwater bustled in. 'Oh, Drinkwater.' He stopped him.
'Have you got a minute?'
'Why, certainly.' Drinkwater was surprised at Peter Marlowe's sudden affability. But he kept his pale blue eyes down, for he was afraid that his consuming hatred for Peter Marlowe would spill out. Hold on, Theo, he told himself. You've stuck it for months. Don't let go now. Only a few more hours, then you can forget him and all the other awful men. Lyles and Blodger had no right to tempt you. No right at all. Well, they got what they deserved.
'You remember that rabbit leg you stole?'
Drinkwater's eyes flashed. 'What — what are you talking about?'
Across the aisle, Phil stopped scratching and looked up.
'Oh, come on, Drinkwater,' Peter Marlowe said. 'I don't care any more.
Why the hell should I? The war's over and we're out of it. But you do remember the rabbit leg, don't you?'
Drinkwater's eyes flashed. 'What — what are you talking? No,' he said gruffly, 'no I don't.' But he was hard put not to say, delicious, delicious!
'It wasn't rabbit, you know.'
'Oh? Sorry, Marlowe — it wasn't me. And I don't know, to this day, who took it, whatever it was!'
'I'll tell you what it was,' Peter Marlowe said, glorying in the moment. 'It was rat meat. Rat meat.'
Drinkwater laughed. 'You're very amusing,' he said sarcastically.
'Oh but it was rat! Oh yes it was. I caught a rat. It was big and hairy and there were scabs all over it. And I think it had plague.'
Drinkwater's chin trembled, his jowls shaking.
Phil winked at Peter Marlowe and nodded cheerfully, 'That's right, Reverend. It was all scabby. I saw Peter skin the leg…'
