Free King Rat by James Clavell Page B

his face deeply — that and hard liquor and hard playing and bouts of fever.
    “Mahlu senderis,” Peter Marlowe said, squatting happily. The Malay obscenity always delighted him. It had no absolute translation into English, though “puki” was a four-letter part of a woman and “mahlu” meant “ashamed.”
    “Can’t you bastards speak the King’s English for once?” Colonel Larkin said. He was lying on his mattress, which was on the floor. Larkin was short of breath from the heat and his head ached with the aftermath of malaria.
    Mac winked at Peter Marlowe. “We keep explaining and nothing can get through the thickness of his head. There’s nae hope for the colonel!”
    “Too right, cobber,” Peter Marlowe said, aping Larkin’s Australian accent.
    “Why the hell I ever got in with you two,” Larkin groaned wearily, “I’ll never know.”
    Mac grinned. “Because he’s lazy, eh, Peter? You and I do all the work, eh? An’ he sits and pretends to be bedridden — just because he’s a wee touch of malaria.”
    “Puki mahlu. And get me some water, Marlowe!”
    “Yes, sir, Colonel, sir!” He gave Larkin his water bottle. When Larkin saw it he smiled through his pain.
    “All right, Peter boy?” he asked quietly.
    “Yes. My God, I was in a bit of a panic for a time.”
    “Mac and me both.”
    Larkin sipped the water and carefully handed the water bottle back.
    “All right, Colonel?” Peter Marlowe was perturbed by Larkin’s color.
    “My bloody oath,” Larkin said. “Nothing a bottle of beer couldn’t cure. Be all right tomorrow.”
    Peter Marlowe nodded. “At least you’re over the fever,” he said. Then he took out the pack of Kooas with studied negligence.
    “My God,” said Mac and Larkin in one breath.
    Peter Marlowe broke the pack and gave them each a cigarette. “Present from Father Christmas!”
    “Where the hell you get them, Peter?”
    “Wait till we’ve smoked them a bitty,” Mac said sourly, “before we hear the bad news. He’s probably sold our beds or something.”
    Peter Marlowe told them about the King and about Grey. They listened with growing astonishment. He told them about the tobacco-curing process and they listened silently until he mentioned the percentages.
    “Sixty-forty!” exploded Mac delightedly. “Sixty-forty, oh my God!”
    “Yes,” said Peter Marlowe, misreading Mac. “Imagine that! Anyway, I just showed him how to do it. He seemed surprised when I wouldn’t take anything in return.”
    “You gave the process away?” Mac was appalled.
    “Of course. Anything wrong, Mac?”
    “Why?”
    “Well, I couldn’t go into business. Marlowes aren’t tradesmen,” Peter Marlowe said, as though talking to a child. “It’s just not done, old boy.”
    “My God, you get a wonderful opportunity to make some money and you turn it down with a big fat sneer. I suppose you know that with the King behind the deal, you could have made enough to buy double rations from now until doomsday. Why the hell didn’t you keep your mouth shut and tell me and let me make —“
    “What are you talking about, Mac?” Larkin interrupted sharply. “The boy did all right, and it would have been bad for him to go into business with the King.”
    “But —“
    “But nothing,” Larkin said.
    Mac simmered down immediately, hating himself for his outburst. He forced a nervous laugh. “Just teasing, Peter.”
    “Are you sure, Mac? My God,” said Peter Marlowe unhappily. “Have I been a fool or something? I wouldn’t want to let the side down.”
    “Nay, laddie, it was just my way of joking. Go on, tell us what else happened.”
    Peter Marlowe told them what had happened and all the time he wondered if he had done something wrong. Mac was his best friend, and shrewd, and never lost his temper. He told them about Sean, and when he had finished he felt better. Then he left. It was his turn to feed the chickens.
    When he had gone Mac said to Larkin, “Dammit — I’m sorry.