The Plague Dogs

by Richard Adams

  It took a lot more than this sort of thing to put Digby Driver off his stroke. As a professional bastard, he would not have been unduly troubled by the most adroit manipulation of chairs, ashtrays and lights within the capacity of Mr. Michael Korda himself. Like the great image in Nebuchadnezzar's dream, his belly and thighs were as of brass and his legs as of iron.

  "Well, I'd like to ask you to tell me a little more about these dogs," he began.

  "Now, let me see, which particular dogs are we talking about?" asked Dr. Boycott with a warm smile.

  "Come, Mr.--er--Boycott," said Driver (and now, indeed, they were both smiling away like a couple of hyenas), "I can't help feeling that that's just a shade lacking in--well, in frankness and honesty, if you don't mind my saying so. You know quite well which dogs."

  "Well, I think I do," replied Dr. Boycott, "but what I'm trying to get at is how and in what terms you identify them: your attributions, if one may use the term. So can I, once again, begin as the idiot boy and ask you, 'Which dogs?"

  "The dogs that escaped from here and have been causing all this trouble locally."

  "Ah," said Dr. Boycott triumphantly, with the air of a Q.C. who has now in very sooth extracted from a witness for the other side the fundamental piece of disingenuous bilge which he intended to extract. "Now that's precisely the point. What locality and what trouble?"

  Deliberately, Driver knocked the ash off his cigarette and sipped some of his foul tea.

  "Well, O.K., let's start from scratch, then, if that's the way you want it. You're not denying that some time ago two dogs got out of this place and that they've been running wild on the fells?"

  "We're certainly not denying that two dogs got out. As I think you know, we said as much in an early press statement we issued. What happened to them after that I'm afraid I can't tell you. They may very well have been dead for some time."

  "And it can't be denied that these dogs may quite likely have been in contact with bubonic plague?"

  "It's improbable in the last degree that they were" said Dr. Boycott.

  "But you can't give a definite assurance that they weren't?"

  "When we say something here" answered Dr. Boycott, with radiant cordiality, "it's always one hundred per cent reliable. That's why we haven't given any such assurance. But I repeat, for all practical purposes it's improbable in the last degree that--"

  "Would you like to amplify that a little? Explain why?"

  It did not escape Dr. Boycott that Digby Driver had been stung into interrupting him.

  "No, I--er--don't think I--er--would" he said reflectively and with a musing frown, as though giving a lunatic suggestion every possible benefit of fair consideration, "because, you see, that's really a matter between the local health authority and the responsible Government Department. We have, of course, been in close touch with those bodies and complied with the appropriate statutory requirements. And if they're not bothered, then I think it follows--"

  "You say they're not bothered? That you let two dogs escape?"

  "I say they're not bothered about any public health risk of bubonic plague. If you want to know more than that, I should ask them. They're the statutorily appointed custodians of public health, after all."

  Digby Driver, fuming inwardly, decided to come in on another beam.

  "What experiments were these dogs being used for?" he asked.

  Oddly enough, this took Dr. Boycott unawares. It was plain that he had not expected the question and was unable to decide, all in a moment, whether or not there was likely to be any harm in answering it.

  "I don't see why you shouldn't know that" he replied at length, thereby inadvertently suggesting that there were things which he thought Digby Driver should not know. "One was taking part in certain tests connected with physiological and psychological reactions to stress; and the other was a brain surgery subject."

  "What specific benefits were expected to result from these tests-experiments--whatever you call them?"

  "I think the best way I can answer that," replied Dr. Boycott, "is to refer you to paragraph--er--270, I think--yes, here it is--of the 1965 Report of the Littlewood Committee, the Home Office Departmental Committee on Experiments on Animals. 'From our study of the evidence about unnecessary experiments and the complexity of biological science, we conclude that it is impossible to tell what practical applications any new discovery in biological knowledge may have later for the benefit of man or animal. Accordingly, we recommend that there should be no general barrier to the use of animal experimentation in seeking new biological knowledge, even if it cannot be shown to be of immediate or foreseeable value.' "

  "In other words there wasn't any specific purpose. You just do these things to animals to see what's going to happen?"

  "The specific purpose of a test," said Dr. Boycott, with an air of grave responsibility, "is always the advancement of knowledge with a view to the ultimate benefit both of man and of animals."

  "Such as forcing animals to smoke to see how safely humans can?"

  Like George Orwell's inquisitor O'Brien, when Winston Smith burst out that he must have tortured his mistress, Dr. Boycott shrugged this irrelevant remark aside. In any case Driver did not want to pursue it.

  "So anyway, these dogs get out," he said, "and you do nothing about it--"

  "We haven't got people to spare to go chasing all over the countryside looking for dogs on spec," replied Dr. Boycott crisply. "We've complied with the law. We told the police and the local authorities. For the matter of that, dogs round here sometimes run away from farmers who own them, and those farmers sometimes lose track of them altogether. We've done the same as a farmer does."

  "But these dogs--first they kill sheep: then they actually cause the death of a man; then they begin attacking shops and farmyards--"

  "Ah," said Dr. Boycott again, "I thought you might be going to say something like that. Do they? I need convincing. With regard to the death of poor Ephraim, it's the merest conjecture that any dog was involved--ours or anybody else's. A dog--no one knows what dog--was seen running away in the distance; and that's all. Put two and two together and make five. Again, no one's ever actually identified these particular dogs in the act of worrying sheep--"

  "The Miss Dawsons at Seathwaite saw their green collars--"

  "Certainly. That is almost the only occasion on which dogs wearing green collars have been indisputably identified. Tipping over a dustbin is not the same thing as sheep-worrying. And on that occasion we had an officer at the premises within two hours," added Dr. Boycott, conveniently forgetting that he had originally blamed Mr. Powell for going on his own initiative.

  "What about the farmer at Glenridding and the attack on Westcott's car near Dunmail Raise? Have you forgotten that this matter is going to be raised in a Parliamentary debate in the House tomorrow night? If I may say so, Mr. Boycott, you're being grossly irresponsible!"

  "If anyone is being irresponsible," replied Dr. Boycott gravely, "it is popular newspapers who alarm the public with totally unfounded tales about bubonic plague--"

  "Yes," said Mr. Powell, weighing in for the first time, "and with regard to that, I think we'd like to ask by what unauthorized means you obtained information about work being done here on bubonic plague which you later twisted and used all wrong for sensational purposes--"

  "Why, you told me yourself!" answered Driver instantly, with raised eyebrows and an air of surprise.

  "I told you?" cried Mr. Powell, with a great deal too much indignation in his voice. Dr. Boycott turned and looked at him. "I most certainly did not!"

  "Come, come, Mr. Powell, you won't have forgotten that I gave you a lift back from Seathwaite on the morning you went over to see the Miss Dawsons, and that on the way we went to the bar of the Manor Hotel in Broughton and met your friend Mr. Gray over a few pints of beer. And then later, you told me all about Dr. Goodner and his secret defence work."

  Dr. Boycott was frowning, his face expressing surprise and perplexit
y. As Mr. Powell drew fresh breath to struggle and splash, the telephone rang. Dr. Boycott nodded to him and he picked it up.

  "Hallo? Yes. Yes, I'm an officer at Animal Research. O.K., carry on, then." There was a pause as he listened. "Under the Dow Crag? He's dead? I see. The dogs--you--you say they'd what? They'd--oh, my God! A green collar? You're sure? You've got it down at the station now? Oh, my God! Yes, all right--oh, God, how awful!--Yes, I'll ring you back--anyway, someone will--very quickly. Yes, very quickly indeed. Yes, I'm sure someone will come straight down. Good-bye."

  Mr. Powell, staring and open-mouthed, put down the receiver.

  "Chief," he said, half-whispering, "I think you and I had better have a word outside."

  Five minutes later Digby Driver was belting on his way to the police station.

  FIT 10

  Thursday the 25th November

  PLAGUE DOGS DEVOUR SECOND VICTIM! APPALLING TRAGEDY OF YOUNG HILLWALKER BODY DESECRATED ON MOUNTAINSIDE

  The Plague Dogs--escapees from the Government-owned Animal Research Station near Coniston--who for some time past have been terrorizing Lakeland with their ruthless sheep-killing and poultry raids on farms and domestic premises, have committed a culminating deed of horror at which the whole British public will shudder, wondering whether this country has been plunged back into the Dark Ages. If you are squeamish DO NOT READ ON!

  Yesterday, in the early afternoon, the body of Geoffrey Westcott, 28, a bank employee of Windermere, Westmorland, was found at the foot of one of the steep gullies below the east face of the Dow Crag, near Coniston, famed mecca of Lakeland mountaineers. Mr. Westcott had evidently fallen to his death from the top of the gully, three hundred feet above, for on the grass not far from the summit of the Crag were found his binoculars and prismatic compass, customary equipment of the hillwalker.

  THE BODY HAD BEEN TORN TO PIECES AND LARGELY DEVOURED BY CARNIVOROUS ANIMALS.

  NEAR IT WAS FOUND A SEVERED DOG COLLAR MADE OF GREEN PLASTIC.

  "Terrible Sight"

  Mr. Westcott's body was found by Dennis Williamson, a sheep farmer of Tongue House, Seathwaite, who was up the fell with his dogs looking for stray sheep. "It must have been about two o'clock in the afternoon and I was on Dow Crag," Mr. Williamson told Digby Driver, the Orator's reporter, "when I caught sight of something dark lying at the foot of one of the steep gullies running down from the summit area. The weather was a bit misty, but after I'd moved back and forth for some time to get the best sight of it I could and shouted without getting any reply, I felt sure that it must be someone who was either dead or unconscious. I went round by Goat's Hause, got down to the bottom and after a bit I found the body. It was a terrible sight--worse than I can tell you. I left everything as it was and went back at once to inform the police. I'm glad it was their job and not mine. I shan't forget it in a hurry, I can assure you."

  Revenge

  Superintendent Malcolm, in charge of the case, told our reporter, "The discovery of a damaged Winchester .22 rifle in the gully, together with a severed dog-collar made of green plastic, suggested to us at once that the dead man must have been attempting to shoot one of the so-called Plague Dogs from the top of the gully when he fell to his death and his body became their prey."

  Inquiries subsequently made of his landlady, Mrs. Rose Green of Windermere, have corroborated that Mr. Westcott had told her that he intended to track down and shoot the dogs in revenge for their attack upon his car two days previously, after he had stopped for a few minutes on a lonely part of the Grasmere-Keswick road. Mr. Westcott was particularly upset that the dogs should have terrified Mrs. Green and torn her week's shopping of meat and groceries out of the car in order to devour it.

  "Practical--Determined"

  Handsome, middle-aged Mrs. Green, interviewed by the Orator yesterday evening, described Mr. Westcott as a practical and very determined young man, and an experienced and capable hillwalker. "He told me his mind was made up to find and kill those terrible dogs," she said. "I only wish he had. This terrible tragedy has upset me deeply, especially as I feel that in a way Geoffrey was doing what he did for my sake. He was terribly upset about the dogs taking the groceries and also about the terrible way they had spoilt his car. I shall miss him terribly. We were great friends. He was almost like a son."

  No Comment

  Senior officers at Animal Research, Coniston, refused to comment last night. Dr. James Boycott, a spokesman, said, "This is a very serious matter and neither we nor anyone else ought to try to anticipate the proper investigational procedures. We are, of course, ready to give evidence to the Coroner if he requires it and we are in close touch with the Secretary of State. I cannot pronounce on whether or not there will be a Government inquiry--that is for Ministers to say. We are as much appalled as other members of the public." (Leading Article, page 10.)

  "Yes, well," said Digby Driver, happily pronging another forkful of egg and bacon and lifting the Orator from its place against the coffee-pot in order to turn over the front page, "by all means let's have a look at page 10. Good grief, black, what on earth?--"

  HOW LONG, OH LORD?

  Yesterday's shocking tragedy in the Lake District, when the body of a young hillwalker was desecrated and actually devoured by the murderous brutes who have come to be known as the Plague Dogs--from the strong probability that they are carrying the infection of deadly bubonic plague--must surely arouse and unite public opinion to demand that the Government act NOW to put, an end to a menace that has already lasted too shamefully long. Are we living in some remote part of India, where women going to wash clothes in the river run the risk of becoming the prey of a tiger lying in wait? Or in Utah or Colorado, where a rattle-snake may end a straying child's life? No, we are in England, where savage killer animals are at large and the authorities stand by and do nothing.

  Mr. Geoffrey Westcott, the hillwalker who died, had, apparently, courageously taken it upon himself to try to rid the land of these foul beasts. Why did he feel he had to do it? He acted for the same reasons as William Wilberforce, Lord Shaftesbury, Florence Nightingale and a host of other British patriots of the past: because he knew there was wrong to be righted, and knew, too, that the authorities would do nothing. Does the shade of Sir Winston Churchill, greatest of Englishmen, stretch out his hand from the shadows to this young man, whose life has been so evilly forfeited in taking up the responsibility which others, sitting in the seats of power, will not exercise in the course of their plain duty? That is why today the Orator proudly and mournfully edges its centre page with black--

  "And they damn' well have, too," said Driver admiringly. "Wonder whose jolly little idea that was? Very snazzy, very snazzy."

  --in homage to a PATRIOT. TO those who let him go to his lonely death instead of taking the action it was their solemn, bounden duty to take, it says, in the words of the psalmist of old, "How long, oh Lord? How long?"

  "Excuse me, how long will you be wanting the table, Mr. Driver, sir?" asked the waitress. "Only breakfast goes off at ten o'clock and I'm just clearing up."

  "Not another minute, Daisy," answered Driver happily, "not half a mo. Everything in the garden is distinctly tickety-boo. Yeah, thanks, clear away the day bree by all means. I wonder," said Mr. Driver to himself, strolling out of the breakfast room, "I wonder whether old Simpson Aggo means to be at the debate in the House tonight? Hogpenny'll have been helping to brief Bugwash, that's for sure. I'll put a call through and see whether someone can ring me from Bugwash's room in the House as soon as the debate's over. That Boycott bloke's face! Ha ha ha ha ha HA! A flea!"

  Wednesday the 24th November

  It was noon of the day after the death of the tod. Rain had begun to fall before dawn and continued during most of the morning, so that now the becks were running even more strongly. A dog's ears could catch plainly the minute, innumerable oozings and bubblings of the peat, gently exuding like a huge sponge, rilling and trickling downward. There was a faint, clean smell from the broken half-circle
of yellow foam which had formed at the infall to Goat's Water. Mist was still lying, but only upon the peaks, where it moved and eddied, disclosing now the summit of the Old Man, now Brim Fell or the conical top of Dow Crag. The wind was freshening and the clouds breaking to disclose blue sky.

  "Rowf, we can't stay here. Rowf?"

  "Why not? It's lonely enough, isn't it? There's shelter from the rain, too."

  "They're bound to come and find the man, Rowf. They'll see us."

  "I don't care. He hurt my neck. It still hurts."

  Snitter struggled upwards through the baying of the hounds and the terrified, staring eyes of the tod.

  "You don't--you don't understand, Rowf! The men will never rest now, never, until they've killed us; not after this. They'll come, any number of them. They'll have horns and red coats to stop us running fast enough. They'll pull us down and hurt us dreadfully-like the tod."

  "Because of the man? We were starving. They can't--"

  "Yes, they can, Rowf! I know more about men than you do. They will!"

  "I bet they'd do it if they were starving. Probably have."

  "They won't see it like that. Rowf, we're in the worst danger ever--I can hear it barking, coming closer--great, black-and-white lorries with drooping ears and long tails. We must go. If the tod were here, he'd tell you--"

  "You say he's dead?"

  "I told you, Rowf, I told you how they killed him--only I forgot to tell you what he said about you. He said--he said--oh, I'll remember it in a moment--"

  Rowf got up stiffly and yawned, pink tongue steaming over black, blood-streaked lips.

  "No one'd speak any good of me--least of all the tod. If men come here trying to hurt me, I'll tear a few of them up before I'm done. I hate them all! Well, where are we to go, Snitter?"

  "Up there into the mist, for a start. Listen, Rowf; the poor tod said I was to tell you--only I can't think--it was all so dreadful--"