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!”
“And yet you have faith in the King,” Father Donovan said quietly.
“I suppose you’re going to say he’s an instrument of God?”
“Perhaps he is. I don’t know.”
“I must tell him that.” Peter Marlowe laughed hysterically. “He’d laugh to high heaven.”
“Listen, Marlowe!” Larkin got up, shaking with rage. “You’d better apologize or get out!”
“Don’t worry, Colonel,” Peter Marlowe slammed back, “I’m leaving.” He got up and glared at them, hating them, hating himself. “Listen, priest. You’re a joke. Your skirts’re a joke. You’re all an unholy joke, you and God. You don’t serve God because God’s the devil. You’re the servant of the devil.” And then he scooped some of the cards off the table and threw them into Father Donovan’s face and stormed out into the darkness.
“What in God’s name has happened to Peter?” Mac said, shattering the appalled silence.
“In God’s name,” Father Donovan said compassionately. “Peter has gangrene. He has to have his arm amputated or he will die. You could see the scarlet streaks clearly, above his elbow.”
“What?” Larkin stared at Mac, petrified. Then simultaneously they both got up and began hurrying out. But Father Donovan called them back.
“Wait, there’s nothing you can do.”
“Dammit, there must be something.” Larkin stood in the doorway. “The poor lad — and I thought — the poor lad — ”
“There’s nothing to do, except wait. Except have faith, and pray. Perhaps the King will help, can help.” Then Father Donovan added tiredly, “The King is the only man who can.”
Peter Marlowe stumbled into the American hut. “I’ll get the money now,” he muttered to the King.
“Are you crazy? There’s too many people around.”
“To hell with the people,” Peter Marlowe said angrily. “Do you want the money or not?”
“Sit down. Sit down!” The King forced Peter Marlowe to sit and gave him a cigarette and forced him to drink coffee and thought, Jesus, what I have to do for a little loot. Patiently he told Peter Marlowe to keep his wits about him, that everything was going to be all right, for the cure was already arranged, and after an hour Peter Marlowe was calmer and at least coherent. But the King knew he was not getting through to him. He saw that he was nodding from time to time, but he knew, deep down, that Peter Marlowe was quite beyond him, and if he was beyond him, the King, he was beyond anyone.
“Is it time now?” Peter Marlowe asked, almost blinded with pain, knowing if he did not go now he would never go.
The King knew that it was too early for safety, but he knew too that he could not keep him in the hut any longer. So he sent guards in all directions. The whole area was covered. Max was watching Grey, who was on his bunk. Byron Jones III was watching Timsen. And Timsen was north, by the gate, waiting for the drug shipment, and Timsen’s boys, another source of danger, were still desperately combing the area for the hijacker.
The King and Tex watched Peter Marlowe walk, zombielike, out of the hut and across the path and up to the storm ditch. He wavered on the brink, then stepped across it and began to stagger towards the fence.
“Jesus,” Tex said. “I can’t watch!”
“I can’t either,” the King said.
Peter Marlowe was trying to focus his eyes on the fence, through the pain and delirium that was engulfing him. He was praying for a bullet. He could stand the agony no longer. But no bullet came, so he walked on, grimly erect, then reeled against the fence. He grabbed a wire to steady himself for a moment. Then he bent down to step through the wires and gave a little moan as he fell into the dregs of hell.