"I've got to have it tonight."
"Then it'll cost another five hundred."
"I'm a friend of yours!" the King said, feeling real pain. "We're buddies and you stick me for another five C's."
"All right, cobber." Timsen was sad, doglike. "But you know how it is.
Three days is the best I can do."
"Goddammit. All right."
"And the nurse'll be an extra five hundred."
"For Chrissake! What the hell's the nurse for?"
Timsen enjoyed seeing the King squirm. "Well," he said agreeably,
"what're you going to do with the stuff when you've got it? How you going to treat the patient?"
"How the hell do I know?"
"That's what the five hundred's for. I suppose you're going to give the stuff to the Pommy and he's going to take it up to the 'ospital and say to the nearest sawbones, 'I got hantitoxin and sulfa, fix my bleedin' arm up,' and then the doc's going to say, 'We ain't got no hantitoxin so where the 'ell did you get this from,' and when the Pommy won't tell, the bastards'll steal it off him and give it to some stinking Limey colonel who's a slight case of piles."
He deftly took the packet of cigarettes out of the King's pocket and helped himself. "And," he said, but now completely serious, "you have to find a place where you can treat him private-like. Where he can lie down. These hantitoxins're tough on some men. An' part of the deal's that I accept no responsibility if the treatment turns sour."
"If you've got antitoxin and sulfa, what can go sour?"
"Some folks can't take it. Nausea. Tough. And it mayn't work. Depends how much of the toxin's already in his system."
Timsen got up. "Sometime tonight. Oh yes, an' the equipment'll cost another five hundred."
The King exploded. "What equipment, for Chrissake?"
"Hypodermics and bandages and soap. Jesus!" Timsen was almost disgusted. "You think hantitoxin's a pill you stick up 'is arse?"
The King stared after Timsen sourly, kicking himself. Thought you were so clever, didn't you, finding out what cured gangrene for a cigarette and then, nut-head, you forget to ask what the hell you did with the stuff once you got it.
Well, the hell with it. The dough's committed. And Pete's got his arm back.
And the cost's all right too.
Then the King remembered the foxy little hijacker and he beamed. Yes, he felt very pleased with the day's work.
Chapter 21
That evening Peter Marlowe gave his food away. He did not give it to Mac or Larkin as he should, but to Ewart. He knew that if he had given it to his unit they would have forced him to reveal what was the matter. And there was no point in telling them.
That afternoon, sick with pain and worry, he had gone to see Dr. Kennedy.
Again he had almost been crazed with agony while the bandage was ripped away. Then the doctor had said simply, "The poison's above the elbow. I can amputate below, but it's a waste of time. Might as well do the operation in one time. You'll have a nice stump — at least five inches from the shoulder. Enough for an artificial arm to be strapped to. Quite enough."
Kennedy had templed his fingers calmly. "Don't waste any more time, Marlowe," and he had laughed dryly and quipped, "Domani e troppo tardi,"
and when Peter Marlowe had looked at him blankly without understanding, he had said flatly, "Tomorrow may be too late."
Peter Marlowe had stumbled back to his bunk and had lain in a pool of fear. Then dinner had come and he had given it away.
"You got fever?" Ewart said happily, filled by the extra food.
"No."
"Can I get you anything?"
"For Christ's sake leave me alone!" Peter Marlowe turned away from Ewart. After a time he got up and left the hut, regretting that he had agreed to play bridge with Mac and Larkin and Father Donovan for an hour or two. You're a fool, he told himself bitterly, you should have stayed in your bunk until it was time to go through the wire to get the money.
But he knew that he could not have lain on his bunk, hour after hour, until it was safe to go. Better to have something to do.
"Hi, cobber!" Larkin's face crinkled with his smile.
Peter Marlowe did not return the smile. He just sat grimly in the doorway.
Mac glanced at Larkin, who shrugged imperceptibly.
"Peter," Mac said, forcing good humor, "the news is better every day, isn't it? Won't be long before we're out of here."
"Too right!" Larkin said.
"You're living in a fool's paradise. We'll never get out of Changi." Peter Marlowe did not wish to be harsh, but he could not restrain himself. He knew Mac and Larkin were hurt, but he would do nothing to ease the hurt.
He was obsessed with the five-inch stump. A chill dissolved his spine and pierced his testicles. How the hell could the King really help? How? Be realistic. If it was the King's arm — what could I do, however much I'm his friend? Nothing. I don't think there's anything he can do — in time. Nothing.
You'd better face it, Peter. It's amputate or die. Simple. And when it comes down to it, you can't die. Not yet. Once you're born, you are obligated to survive. At all costs.
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 —"