Then Drinkwater vomited all over his nice clean uniform and rushed out and vomited some more. Peter Marlowe began laughing and soon the entire hut was roaring.
'Oh God,' Phil said weakly. 'I've got to hand it to you, Peter. What a brilliant idea. To pretend it was a rat. Oh my God! That pays the bugger back!'
'But it really was rat,' Peter Marlowe said. 'I planted it so he'd steal it.'
'Oh yes, of course,' Phil said sarcastically, automatically using his fly-swat. 'Don't try to cap such a wonderful story! Wonderful!'
Peter Marlowe knew they would not believe him. So he didn't say any more. No one would believe him unless he showed the Farm to them. . . .
My God! The Farm! And his stomach turned over.
He put on his new uniform. On the epaulets was his rank-flight lieutenant.
On his left breast, bis wings. He looked around at his possessions — bed, mosquito net, mattress, blanket, sarong, rag shirt, a ragged pair of shorts, two pairs of clogs, knife, spoon and three aluminum plates. He scooped everything off his bed and carried it outside and set fire to it.
'Hey you… oh excuse me, sir,' the sergeant said. 'Fires're dangerous.'
The sergeant was an outsider, but Peter Marlowe wasn't afraid of outsiders. Not now.
'Beat it,' snapped Peter Marlowe.
'But sir…'
'I said beat it, goddammit!'
'Yes sir.' The sergeant saluted and Peter Marlowe felt very pleased that he wasn't afraid of outsiders any more. He returned the salute and then wished he hadn't, for he didn't have his cap on. So he tried to cover his mistake with 'Oh, where the hell's my cap?' and walked back into the hut feeling the fear of outsiders returning. But he forced it away and swore to himself, by the Lord my God, I'll never be afraid again. Never.
He found his cap and the concealed can of sardines. He put the can in his pocket and walked down the stairs of the hut and up the road beside the wire. The camp was almost deserted now. The last of the English troops were going today, on the same convoy as his. Going away. Long after all the Aussies had left, and an age after the Yanks. But that was only to be expected. We're slow but very sure.
He stopped near the American hut. The canvas flap of the overhang waved miserably on a wind of the past. Then Peter Marlowe went inside the hut for the last time.
The hut was not empty. Grey was there, polished and uniformed.
'Come to look a last time at the place of your triumphs?' he asked venomously.
'That's one way of putting it.' Peter Marlowe rolled a cigarette and replaced the savings in his tobacco box. 'And now the war's over. Now we're equal, you and me.'
'That's right.' Grey's face was stretched, his eyes snake-like. 'I hate your guts.'
'Remember Dino?'
'What about him?'
'He was your informer, wasn't he?'
'I suppose there's no harm in admitting it now.'
'The King knew all about Dino.'
'I don't believe you.'
'Dino was giving you information on orders. On the King's orders!' Peter Marlowe laughed.
'You're a bloody liar!'
'Why should I lie?' Peter Marlowe's laugh died abruptly. 'The time for lying's over. Finished. But Dino was doing it on orders. Remember how you were always just too late? Always.'
Oh my God, thought Grey. Yes, yes, I can see that now.
Peter Marlowe drew on his cigarette. 'The King figured that if you didn't get real information, you'd really try to get an informer. So he gave you one.'
Suddenly Grey felt very tired. Very tired. A lot of things were hard to understand. Many things, strange things. Then he saw Peter Marlowe and the taunting smile and all his pent-up misery exploded. He slammed across the hut and kicked the King's bed over and scattered his possessions, then whipped on Peter Marlowe. 'Very clever! But I saw the King cut down to size, and I'll see it happen to you. And your stinking class!'
'Oh?'
'You can bet your bloody life! I'll fix you somehow, if I have to spend the rest of my life doing it. I'll beat you at the end. Your luck's going to run out.'
'Luck's got nothing to do with it.'
Grey pointed a ringer in Peter Marlowe's face. 'You were born lucky.
You've ended Changi lucky. Why, you've even escaped with what precious little soul you ever had!'
'What're you talking about?' Peter Marlowe shoved the finger away.
'Corruption. Moral corruption. You were saved just in time. A few more months around the King's evil and you'd have been changed forever. You were beginning to be a great liar and a cheat — like him.'
'He wasn't evil and he cheated no one. All he did was adapt to circumstances.'
'The world'd be a sorry place if everyone hid behind that excuse. There's such a thing as morality.'
