"Ah Peter," Raylins said, giving him his share, "you knew Charles, didn't you?"
"Oh yes, nice fellow." Peter Marlowe didn't know him. None of them did.
"Do you think he ever got them back in?" Raylins asked.
"Oh yes. Certainly." Peter Marlowe took his food away as Raylins turned to the next in line.
"Ah, Chaplain Grover, it's a warm day, isn't it? You knew Charles, didn't you?"
"Yes," the Chaplain said, eyes on the measure of rice. "I'm sure he did, Raylins."
"Good, good. I'm glad to hear it. Funny place to find your insides, on the outside, just like that."
Raylins' mind wandered to his cool, cool bank and to his wife, whom he would see tonight, when he left the bank, in their neat little bungalow near the racecourse. Let me see, he thought, we'll have lamb for dinner tonight.
Lamb! And a nice cool beer. Then I'll play with Penelope, and the missus'll be content to sit on the veranda and sew.
"Ah," he said, happily recognizing Ewart. "Would you like to come to dinner tonight, Ewart old boy? Perhaps you'd like to bring the missus."
Ewart mumbled through clenched teeth. He took his rice and stew and turned away.
"Take it easy, Ewart," Peter Marlowe cautioned him
"Take it easy yourself! How do you know what it feels like? I swear to God I'll kill him one day."
"Don't worry —"
"Worry! They're dead. His wife and child are dead. I saw them dead. But my wife and two children? Where are they, eh? Where? Somewhere dead too. They've got to be after all this time. Dead!"
"They're in the civilian camp—"
"How in Christ's name do you know? You don't, I don't, and it's only five miles away. They're dead! Oh my God," and Ewart sat down and wept, spilling his rice and stew on the ground. Peter Marlowe scooped up the rice and the leaves that floated in the stew and put them in Ewart's mess can.
"Next week they'll let you write a letter. Or maybe they'll let you visit. The Camp Commandant's always asking for a list of the women and children.
Don't worry, they're safe." Peter Marlowe left him slobbering his rice into his face, and took his own rice and went down to the bungalow.
"Hello, cobber," Larkin said. "You been up to see Mac?"
"Yes. He looks fine. He even started getting ruffled about his age."
"It'll be good to get old Mac back." Larkin reached under his mattress and brought out a spare mess can. "Got a surprise!" He opened the mess can and revealed a two-inch square of brownish puttylike substance.
"By all that's holy! Blachang! Where the devil did you get it?"
"Scrounged it, of course."
"You're a genius, Colonel. Funny, I didn't smell it." Peter Marlowe leaned over and took a tiny piece of the blachang. "This'll last us a couple of weeks."
Blachang was a native delicacy, easy to make. When the season was right, you went to the shore and netted the myriads of tiny sea creatures that hovered in the surf. You buried them in a pit lined with seaweed, then covered it with more seaweed and forgot about it for two months.
When you opened the pit, the fishes had decayed into a stinking paste, the stench of which would blow your head off and destroy your sense of smell for a week. Holding your breath, you scooped up the paste and fried it. But you had to stay to windward or you'd suffocate. When it cooled, you shaped it into blocks and sold it for fortune. Prewar, ten cents a cube. Now maybe ten dollars a sliver. Why a delicacy? It was pure protein. And a tiny fraction would flavor a whole bowl of rice. Of course you could easily get dysentery from it. But if it'd been aged right and cooked right and hadn't been touched by flies, it was all right.
But you never asked. You just said, "Colonel, you're a genius," and spooned it into your rice and enjoyed it.
"Take some up to Mac, eh?"
"Good idea. But he's sure to complain it's not cooked enough."
"Old Mac'd complain if it was cooked to perfection —" Larkin stopped.
"Hey, Johnny," he called to the tall man walking past, leading a scrawny mongrel on a tether. "Would you like some blachang, cobber?"
"Would I?"
They gave him a portion on a banana leaf and talked of the weather and asked how the dog was. John Hawkins loved his dog above all things. He shared his food with it - astonishing the things a dog would eat - and it slept on his bunk. Rover was a good friend. Made a man feel civilized.
"Would you like some bridge tonight? I'll bring a fourth," Hawkins said.
"Can't tonight," Peter Marlowe said, maiming flies.
"I can get Gordon, next door," suggested Larkin.
"Great. After dinner?"
"Good-oh, see you then."
"Thanks for the blachang," Hawkins said as he left, Rover yapping happily beside him.
"How the hell he gets enough to feed himself and that dingo, damned if I know," Larkin said. "Or kept him out of some bugger's billy can for that matter!"
Peter Marlowe stirred his rice, mixing the blachang carefully. He wanted very much to share the secret of his trip tonight with Larkin. But he knew it was too dangerous.
Chapter 14
Getting out of the camp was too simple. Just a short dash to a shadowed part of the six-wire fence, then easily through and a quick run into the jungle. When they stopped to catch their breath, Peter Marlowe wished he were safely back talking to Mac or Larkin or even Grey.
All this time, he told himself, I've been wanting to be out, and now when I am, I'm frightened to death.
It was weird-on the outside, looking in. From where they were they could see into the camp. The American hut was a hundred yards away. Men were walking up and down. Hawkins was walking his dog. A Korean guard was strolling the camp. Lights were off in the various huts and the evening check had long since been made. Yet the camp was alive with the sleepless. It was always thus.
"C'mon Peter," the King whispered and led the way deeper into the foliage.
The planning had been good. So far. When he had arrived at the hut, the King was already prepared. "Got to have tools to do a job right," he had said, showing him a well-oiled pak of Jap boots — crepe soles and soft noiseless leather — and the "outfit," a pak of black Chinese pants and short blouse.
Only Dino was in the know about the trip. He had bundled up the two kits and dumped them secretly in the jumping-off point. Then he had returned, and when all was clear Peter Marlowe and the King had walked out casually, saying that they were playing bridge with Larkin and another Aussie. They had had to wait a nerve-wracking half hour before the way was clear for them to run into the storm drain beside the wire and change into their outfits and mud their faces and hands. Another quarter hour before they could run to the fence unobserved. Once they were through and in position, Dino had collected their discarded clothes.
Jungle at night. Eerie. But Peter Marlowe felt at home. It was just like Java, just like the surrounds of his own village, so his nervousness subsided a little.