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It was bad luck that landed Ralph in Changi Prison. Sheer, rotten, bloody bad luck.
If he hadn't been on that tramp steamer coming back from Penang when the war started, if he hadn't joined up straightaway, if the Japs hadn't attacked when they had… the possibilities were uncountable. What all of it boiled down to was Ralph Lanyon sitting in a Japanese prison hospital in Singapore, sweat pouring down his brow, wondering whether an old school friend would ever come out of his coma.
God alone only knew how Laurie had got there, for he was telling no tales. It was not so unusual for British officers to be brought to Changi. If Ralph had not stopped into the hospital for other reasons, he might never have heard of the arrival of the slight young man who lay so silently in a narrow, stinking hospital bed.
Whether Laurie had ever recognised him, Ralph hadn't the slightest idea. He'd come to Changi already in the grips of delirium, his leg blown away at the knee.
Sorry, dearie, some other time. Ralph turned the words over in his mind, wondering whether Laurie could have recognised him, even briefly, or whether he had been speaking instead with some figment of his imagination.
Perhaps back home the leg could have been saved. Not in Changi. In the humidity of the tropics, and without antibiotics, no doctor would call it anything less than a death sentence. Not that one would have had to ask a doctor.
Even now the prognosis did not look good.
Ralph felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was Steven, the hospital orderly, who had helped to make Laurie as comfortable as anyone could be in such a place.
"It's such a waste," said Ralph bitterly. "Such an awful, bloody waste. Last time I saw him we were in school together and now, for want of nothing more than sulfonamide powder…"
"We've done all we can, darling. We simply don't have it, not for him or for anyone."
"I know," said Ralph, feeling the bitterness seeping deep into his bones. "Not for love or money."
Steven paused. "Well… possibly for money… but you haven't got that, have you?"
"Who would be selling sulfa drugs in this hellhole?"
"Clearly you haven't met the King."
The question had to be asked but this was not the moment for it. There was the creaking of footsteps as someone entered the ward.
Ralph instinctively pulled away from Steven's hand, then wondered why he had bothered. He had known men like Steven at school, at sea, on every shore, and had always rather prided himself on distinguishing himself from their ranks. Here, though, the futility of pride seemed at last rather obvious.
In Changi it was difficult to tell one man from another. Clothes deteriorated in the ceaseless humidity, and hunger and privation wore the same lines into everyone's faces. But the man who walked into the ward stood just a little straighter than most. One could tell at a glance that he was an officer, even though he was not wearing an armband.
"Mac is much better," said Steven to the newcomer.
Ralph got suddenly to his feet. "Marlowe. It is Marlowe, isn't it? I'm—"
"Lanyon," said the other man.
"We were at school together," said Ralph to Steven by way of explanation.
They shook hands in the awkward manner of English schoolboys who find themselves a long way from home.
"I wish we could have met again under better circumstances," said Marlowe.
"Likewise," said Ralph, feeling as though he were a guest in some macabre cocktail party. "Don't you know Spud? Odell, rather? Or was he after your time?"
Marlowe hardly spared a glance for the man who lay unconscious in the bed. "I think he must have been."
"Well," interrupted Steven, "I'll just leave you boys to get reacquainted, shall I?"
It was a choice between the dim, close stink of the hospital or the burning sun of midday. They went outside and stood leaning up against a corner of the hospital, trying to stay in the few inches of shade available to them. Men passed back and forth on errands but no one seemed to have the energy for even a curious glance.
"Cigarette?" said Marlowe.
Ralph raised an eyebrow at that. "Where d'you get those?"
"A friend."
Smoking, they exchanged the sort of tales that all men tell when they first find themselves in such circumstances. Ralph listened as Marlowe told his story: the Battle of Britain, a posting to the Far East, an air raid in Java. Destined for the service from boyhood, Marlowe had taken the loss of his plane on the ground as a personal affront.
"How did you wind up in the R.N.V.R.?" asked Marlowe eventually.
"Long story. I went to sea in the merchant marine; left school rather under a cloud."
Marlowe studied him closely. "Oh. Yes. That. I had heard."
A long silence. Ralph remembered why he had never much liked Marlowe.
Finally Marlowe dropped his cigarette end, and ground it into the dirt. Men stopped and openly stared at that.
"Remember you're not back at school," he said. "No one likes a man who goes native."
Marlowe had it all backwards, thought Ralph. No need to go native. He was native already, and still, despite two years' attempt to put on the trappings of civilisation (so called). The leopard didn't change its spots so easily.
***
Back in his hut Ralph found that everyone else knew all about the King and Marlowe.
"Thick as thieves, those two," said one man as he mended his disintegrating mosquito net. "Marlowe is in his pocket."
"That's not all," said another.
"He's a profiteer," said Ralph flatly. He'd seen the man around camp; he had no trouble believing it. "But Marlowe?"
Cracked laughter from the man with the mosquito net. It sounded obscene. "After a year or two in Changi, some men would do anything for a few fried eggs and a packet of fags."
***
After dark the hospital was quiet. Ralph sat alone with his thoughts and watched the big tropical moths flutter around the one dim lamp. Laurie was no better. In fact Ralph wondered whether he would last out the night.
He heard the sound of footsteps and knew that it was Marlowe. The man stood just outside the circle of light from the lamp.
"You told me this afternoon that you spoke Malay," he said without preamble.
"Only a little," said Ralph, reflexively false modesty. He'd shipped out of Aden once with a drunk captain and a mostly Malay crew; he'd learnt the language out of self-defense rather than scholarship. "Hardly better than my French, and you know how bad that is."
"Well, it's enough. I was talking to the King about you. He wants to meet you. We have a little project on the go and we want your help."
"There has to be more to it than that."
Marlowe swallowed. "He thinks he might be able to help your friend."
"Why, is he a doctor too?"
Ralph didn't know what had got into him. He knew perfectly well what Marlowe meant, but he felt a savage desire to make him say it straight out, without dodging.
"He knows someone who might be able to get hold of antibiotics."
There it was.
"How the hell does a man like that get antibiotics when there are none in the hospital?"
"Keep your voice down!" said Marlowe urgently.
The two men stared at one another. Marlowe had moved forward into the light. The lamp cast shifting shadows across his face.
"This isn't England," he said. "Things here don't work the way they would at home."
"Just this morning you told me not to go native."
"I meant—you know goddamn well what I meant."
"And I know what you and and what you're playing at." Ralph could feel his fists clenching where he sat. "How many men are dying here, while you and your friend lark about as though you're selling chocolate to fourth formers?"
"How long have you been in Changi? A month? Wait till you've been here a year, Lanyon, two years, and then talk to me about morality. It isn't as simple as you think. Nothing is."
Ralph said nothing, set his jaw and looked away.
"Think about it," said Marlowe. "Don't wait too long. Your friend hasn't any time to spare."
Late into the night Ralph sat by Laurie's side, wrestling with his conscience. By morning he had made his decision.