"He is my friend, Grey. He's not a crook and not a thief…"
"But he is a liar."
"Everyone's a liar. Even you. You denied the wireless. You've got to be a liar to stay alive. You've got to do a lot of things…"
"Like kissing a corporal's arse to get food?"
The vein in Peter Marlowe's forehead swelled like a thin black snake. But his voice was soft and the venom honey-coated. "I ought to thrash you, Grey. But it's so ill-bred to brawl with the lower classes. Unfair, you know."
"By God, Marlowe —" began Grey, but he was beyond speech, and the madness in him rose up and choked him.
Peter Marlowe looked deep into Grey's eyes and knew that he had won.
For a moment he gloried in the destruction of the man, and then his fury evaporated and he stepped around Grey and walked up to the hill. No need to prolong a battle once it's won. That's ill-bred, too.
By the Lord God, Grey swore brokenly, I'll make you pay for that. I'll have you on your knees begging my forgiveness. And I'll not forgive you. Never!
Mac took six of the tablets and winced as Peter Marlowe helped him up a little to drink the water held to his lips. He swallowed and sank back.
"Bless you, Peter," he whispered. "That'll do the trick. Bless you, laddie."
He lapsed into sleep, his face burning, his spleen stretched to bursting, and his brain took flight in nightmares. He saw his wife and son floating in the ocean depths, eaten by fish and screaming from the deep. And he saw himself there, in the deep, tearing at the sharks, but his hands were not strong enough and his voice not loud enough, and the sharks tore huge pieces of the flesh of his flesh and there were always more to tear. And the sharks had voices and their laughter was of demons, but angels stood by and told him to hurry, hurry, Mac, hurry or you'll be too late. Then there were no sharks, only yellow men with bayonets and gold teeth, sharpened to needles, surrounding him and his family on the bottom of the sea. Their bayonets huge, sharp. Not them, me! he screamed. Me, kill me! And he watched, impotent, while they killed his wife and killed his son and then they turned on him and the angels watched and whispered in chorus, Hurry, Mac, hurry. Run. Run. Run away and you'll be safe. And he ran, not wanting to run, ran away from his son and his wife and their blood-filled sea, and he fled through the blood and strangled. But he still ran and they chased him, the sharks with slant eyes and gold needle teeth with their rifles and bayonets, tearing at his flesh until he was at bay. He fought and he pleaded but they would not stop and now he was surrounded. And Yoshima shoved the bayonet deep into his guts. And the pain was huge.
Beyond agony. Yoshima jerked the bayonet out and he felt his blood pour out of him, through the jagged hole, through all the openings of his body, through the very pores of his skin until only the soul was left in the husk.
Then, at last, his soul sped forth and joined with the blood of the sea. A great, exquisite relief filled him, infinite, and he was glad that he was dead.
Mac opened his eyes. His blankets were soaked. His fever had passed.
And he knew that he was alive once more.
Peter Marlowe was still sitting beside the bed. Night somewhere behind him.
"Hello, laddie." The words were so faint that Peter Marlowe had to bend forward to catch them.
"You all right, Mac?"
"All right, laddie. It's almost worth the fever, to feel so good. I'll sleep now.
Bring me some food tomorrow."
Mac closed his eyes and was asleep. Peter Marlowe pulled the blankets off him and dried the husk of the man.
"Where can I get some dry blankets, Steven?" he asked, as he caught sight of the orderly hurrying through the ward.
"I don't know, sir," Steven said. He had seen this young man many times.
And liked him. Perhaps - but no, Lloyd would be terribly jealous. Another day. There's plenty of time. "Perhaps I can help you, sir."
Steven went over to the fourth bed and took the blanket off the man, then deftly slid the bottom blanket off and came back. "Here," he said. "Use these."
"What about him?"
"Oh," Steven said with a gentle smile. "He doesn't need them any more.
The detail's due. Poor boy."
"Oh!" Peter Marlowe looked across to see who it was, but it was a face he didn't know. "Thanks," he said and began to fix the bed.
"Here," Steven said. "Let me. I can do it much better than you." He was proud of the way he could make a bed without hurting the patient.
"Now don't you worry about your friend," he said, "I'll see that he's all right." He tucked Mac in like a child. "There." He stroked Mac's head for a moment, then took out a handkerchief and wiped the remains of the sweat off Mac's forehead. "He'll be fine in two days. If you have some extra food
—" but he stopped and looked at Peter Marlowe and the tears gathered in his eyes. "How silly of me. But don't you fret, Steven will find something for him. Now don't you worry. There's nothing more you can do tonight. You go off and have a good night's rest. Go on, there's a good boy."
Speechless, Peter Marlowe allowed himself to be led outside. Steven smiled good night and went back inside.
From the darkness Peter Marlowe watched Steven smooth a fevered brow and hold an agued hand, and caress away the night-devils and soften the night-cries and adjust the covers and help a man to drink and help a man to vomit, and all the time a lullaby, delicate and sweet. When Steven came to Bed Four, he stopped and looked down on the corpse. He straightened the limbs and crossed the hands, then took off his smock and covered the body, his touch a benediction. Steven's slim smooth torso and slim smooth legs glowed in the glittering half light.
"You poor boy," he whispered and looked around the tomb. "Poor boys.
Oh, my poor boys," and he wept for them all.
Peter Marlowe turned away into the night, filled with pity, ashamed that Steven had once upon a time disgusted him.
Chapter 12
As Peter Marlowe neared the American hut he was full of misgivings. He was sorry that he had agreed so readily to interpret for the King, and at the same time upset that he was unhappy about doing it. You're a fine friend, he told himself, after all he's done for you.
The sinking in his stomach increased. Just like before you go up for a mission, he thought. No, not like that. This feeling's like when you've been sent for by the headmaster. The other's just as painful, but at the same time mixed with pleasure. Like the village. That makes your heart take flight. To take such a chance, just for the excitement — or in truth for the food or the girl that might be there.
He wondered for the thousandth tune just why the King went and what he did there. But to ask would be impolite and he knew that he only had to have a little patience to find out. That was another reason he liked the King. The way that he volunteered nothing and kept most of his thoughts to himself. That's the English way, Peter Marlowe told himself contentedly.
Just let out a little at a time, when you're in the mood. What you are or who you are is your own affair — until you wish to share with a friend. And a friend never asks. It has to be freely given or not at all.
Like the village. My God, he thought, that shows how much he thinks of you, to open up like that. Just to come out and say do you want to come along, the next time I go.