The Plague Dogs

by Richard Adams

  It is learned from an official source in Gainesville, Florida, that Mr. Greg Shark, the well-known scuba-diver, is to descend into the day before yesterday in an attempt to discover the Plague Dogs' whereabouts. Mr. Shark, interviewed at a depth of two atmospheres in fresh water--

  "That rings a bell," muttered Driver, half-awake. "Rings a bell. I can almost--almost hear--" He opened his eyes and sat up sharply. A bell was ringing--a real bell. A moment more and his awakened faculties, closing over the dream like mud over a flung stone, had recognized it as the telephone. He got out of bed and picked up the receiver.

  "Driver Orator."

  "It's Quilliam, Kevin."

  "Who?"

  "Quilliam--Skillicorn. Got it? Come on, dear boy, come on! You were asleep, I suppose?" (Mr. Skillicorn did not, of course, run to an apology.)

  "Of course I--yeah--yeah, I was actually. Nice to hear you, Quilliam. Where are you, in the office?"

  "No, I'm down at Sir Ivor's. Tony Hogpenny's here too. We've been having a talk with Sir Ivor about a lot of things, including this dogs business. Haven't been to bed yet, actually." (So that's the explanation of the malicious glee in the bastard's voice, thought Driver, shivering.) He said nothing and waited.

  "Well, look, anyway--Sir Ivor thinks you've done very well on the dogs job. Are we right in thinking that it can't possibly go on much longer? They're bound to be killed within a couple of days at most, aren't they?"

  "Yeah, bound to be. Well, I mean, there's two companies of paratroops after 'em, isn't there?" (Digby Driver, like far too many otherwise quite sensible people, habitually used the term "paratroops.") "They'll be shot to bits--I couldn't alter that with a million bloody pounds, and nor could anyone else."

  "Yes, Kevin, I know that all right, but this is the point. Sir Ivor thinks you've done very very well, and you may like to know that it's rumoured that Basil Forbes is resigning--there's glory for you! But the thing is, before we switch the story off and put you on to child prostitution in the Home Counties yum yum, he thinks there might be a chance to discredit Harbottle by some means. Harbottle's coming up your way tonight, you know, on purpose to be in at the death. The death can't possibly be averted, can it? Because if it could, Sir Ivor says we'd back you with everything, to make Harbottle look a fool--"

  "Oh, have a heart, Quilliam! You know there's not a hope in hell--"

  "All right, all right, dear boy, keep it cool! Well, now, look, next best thing. Can you watch out for a chance to show Harbottle in a bad light? You know, bullet-riddled dog screaming in agony and Harbottle grinning, or something? The public wouldn't dig that, however much they've been upset by the Westcott business. If you could manage it, Sir Ivor would be enormously pleased. Just do your best, laddie. I'll have to go now. Good luck, my boy!"

  Click.

  "O my God!" said Driver, banging down the dead receiver and turning to stare out of the window at the moonlit fell. "Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the bloody world, eh? Who'd be a reporter?"

  He made a cup of tea and then, thoroughly depressed, dialled the London number of the young woman who had played the part of Chubby Cherub in Out for the Count. (Digby Driver was currently "between girls.") If Susie was in a good temper, and in her bed, and if there did not happen to be anyone else in it, perhaps she might chat with him for a bit. No man is an island, and it was only by force of circumstance that Digby Driver was continent.

  "Soldiers aal ower bluidy fell," said Dennis Williamson, "chasin' hither and yon and frittenin' yows to booggery, tha knaws. Newspaper chaps bangin' on't door hafe th' day, an' folk in cars drivin' oop an' down t' lonnin, oppenin' gates and crooshin' wire fences when they reverse. Ah reckon forty pounds' worth o' damage. Ah'll tell thee, Bob, theer's soomone's goin' to get a bang from me before this lot's doon with."

  "Ay, an' yon helicopter scann' cows--they've all been gallopin' oop an' down field fit to bust theirselves. An' theer's joost nowt ye can do, owd lad, so ye can set yeself down and thank your stars as theer's political chaps to stand oop for British farmer."

  "Theer were soldier fella saw one of my dogs ont' fell, tha knaws, Bob, when Ah were tryin' to get yows down out o't waay. Dog were oop top o' Blaake Rigg an' I were down below, like, an' this basstard took a shot at it an' missed."

  "Oh, 'ell!" said Robert.

  "Ay, that's about soom of what Ah said an' all. He only took the one."

  "Ah'll tell thee what," said Robert. "We've joost got bluidy noothing out of this lot, owd lad. Science chaps an' newspaper chaps an' political chaps--they've all been joost pain int' neck. Dogs have doon no harm at all compared with them, that's about it. Ah wouldn't mind seein' dogs get clean awaay, would you?"

  "Well, that's one thing ye'll not see, Bob," said Dennis. "The booggers have got no more channce now than tick in a sheep-dip, tha knaws."

  He nodded grimly and drove on down the valley, while Robert went to drive the cows into the cowshed to be out of the way of the helicopter.

  Thursday the 25th November to Friday the 26th November

  The assurances given by the Secretary of State in the House had been as effective as he had intended. There could be no possible doubt in the minds of the vast majority--if not of all--the newspaper-reading public that the drama of the Plague Dogs was now hastening--rushing--to its catastrophe. The sagacious power of hounds and death drew closer every hour. Certainly the dogs seemed to have vanished from the vicinity of the Dow Crag, and since the discovery of Westcott's body no one had reported seeing them elsewhere. Obviously, however, it could not be long before one or other of the patrolling helicopters spotted them, or else, as heretofore, some motorist or farmer would encounter them on one of their nocturnal forays. Once their approximate whereabouts was known the soldiers would close in and that would be that. Like the journeyings of King Charles after Naseby, the dogs' movements had become, though they might not themselves be aware of it, those of hunted fugitives. Their death was now a foregone conclusion--indeed, an anticlimax--and public interest was, if anything, on the wane.

  Where did they wander that night, when they had left the fields of Long House in the Tarn Beck valley of Dunnerdale, soon after Hot Bottle Bill had uttered his winged words to the Commons and the airborne soldiers had begun moving into billets at Coniston? They went southward, heading into a wind that bore the smells of salt, sheep and seaweed, the only communication reaching them out of all the encompassing miles of darkness. A cold rain had begun to fall, and before they passed above Seathwaite church and rounded the Newfield this had become a heavy downpour, so that Rowf, jibbing at the roaring, boiling beck beyond the old school-house, turned downstream along its right bank, following it to where it runs under the Ulpha road. Slinking down that long, exposed road in almost pitch blackness, they sought what shelter they could from the flanking stone walls; and in a mile came, cold and clemmed with hunger, to Hall Dunnerdale. But here Robert Lindsay's dogs began to bark, and on they went once more until they reached the Duddon bridge by Phyllis Dawson's. They could see almost nothing and the smell of the rain weakened all smells else, so that they did not recognize the scene of Snitter's escape from Mr. Powell and the inside of his own head. But indeed, they were now oppressed by a sense of hopelessness and dread which, as it continued during hour after hour of the stormy night, weighed upon them more heavily than their own rain-sodden coats, so that for much of the time they were conscious of little but the wind and rain. Not one car met or overtook them all night, yet they did not stop or look for shelter. The continuous sound of flowing water, from the chattering rills along the verges under his paws to the distant commotion of the Duddon, troubled Rowf like an evil dream of fear and suffering revived, while to Snitter it seemed that the wind carried grim echoes--heavy, hound-like pantings and far-off squeals of desperation and death. Not until dawn began to reveal, little by little, the dull shine of the sodden grass and the tugging of the bushes in the wind, did they rest at last for a time, behind Jenkinson's tombstone opposite
the door of Ulpha church, from the pelting of the pitiless storm.

  It will have been about an hour later that their bedraggled forms were seen, lurking at the bottom of his garden, by Roy Greenwood, former Himalayan mountaineer and Outward Bound instructor, the vicar of Ulpha-with-Seathwaite. Roy, as was his practice, had got up in the dark of the winter's morning to pray for two hours before breakfast and a full day's work; and as he knelt in intercession for the sins and grief of the world and the misery of its countless victims, human and animal, he caught sight, through the window, of two furtive shapes beneath the bare ash trees, where Japanese-faced tomtits swung on a bone suspended from a branch and brown, sea-trout-harbouring Duddon overflowed its banks below.

  Harter Fell

  Roy knew little or nothing of the Plague Dogs, for he could not afford the London Orator and had in any case more urgent and important things to do than read it--such as visiting the sick, lonely and afflicted, or giving one or other of the local farmers a hand out with yows. He had, indeed, vaguely heard some local talk, but this did not now return to mind. He could see that the dogs were famished and in distress, so he went outside and tried to get them to come to him, but they would not. Then--having precious little else to give them--he went in and got the greater part of what had been going to be his own breakfast, together with all he could find edible among the scraps (which was not much). This he put outside and, since he still could not induce the dogs to approach, went back indoors. When, an hour and a half later, he set out for Seathwaite, largely breakfastless, the food was gone and so were the dogs. This (it is interesting now to record) was the last person to have any real contact with the dogs before the end and the only person, apart from Mr. Ephraim and Vera Dawson, who showed them any kindness throughout the time that they were at large.

  Exactly where they spent that stormy Friday, while the sodden, cursing soldiers searched for them from Walna Scar to the Grey Friar and over to Wreynus Pass, is uncertain and perhaps not really important. But during some of the daylight hours--those of the afternoon, perhaps--they must have crossed, unseen by anyone in the dismal weather, the deserted wastes of Ulpha Fell and Birker Moor, and so come down into Eskdale. Probably they went almost as far north as Harter Fell and then down by Kepple Crag, crossing the swollen Esk by the bridge near Penny Hill, for Rowf would hardly have faced the thunder of Dalegarth Force, or even Birker Force in spate after twenty hours' continuous rain. At all events, we know that by nightfall they were not far from the Woolpack--that justly illustrious pub, with its excellent beer, slate flagstones and snug, draughtless rooms--for here, only a short while after closing time, they committed their last depredation when, appearing suddenly out of the darkness, they pushed past Mrs. Armstrong, the licensee, as she was about to close the back door, grabbed a tongue and a cold roast chicken from the kitchen table and made off with them in a matter of seconds. If Mrs. Armstrong were not a most competent and practical lady, the Woolpack would not be the pub it is; but black Rowf, snarling like a wolf, was an alarming sight and in addition had all the advantage of surprise. Snitter, with his green collar and cloven skull, would by now have been recognized anywhere from Barrow to Carlisle. As he followed Rowf at a run along the steep, zig-zag path leading from the back of the Woolpack up to Great Barrow and the Eel Tarn, Mrs. Armstrong was already--and very understandably--on the telephone. Before midnight Major Awdry, second-in-command of the 3rd Parachute Battalion and officer in charge of Operation Gelert, had appreciated the situation and drawn up his plan; and soon after dawn on Saturday morning the two companies of airborne soldiers, browned off at the shortage of sleep but consoled by the prospect of a quick end to the business, were already moving into their allotted positions.

  "--so I'm afraid that's really the long and short of it," said Dr. Boycott.

  Mr. Powell remained standing by the window in silence. His face wore a puzzled expression and he had something of the air of a man who, having just been stopped in his tracks by a bullet or a heavy blow, has not yet begun to feel the pain. He seemed not to know what to make of Dr. Boycott's news.

  "There's really no need to let it upset you," went on Dr. Boycott after a pause. "In fact, you know, it might very well turn out to be a blessing in disguise. We don't want you to think of it as a dismissal; you're not being dismissed at all, you're being transferred in your grade. I don't know where, yet. It might be Porton Down, it might be somewhere else."

  "There's still the question of why me and not anyone else," said Mr. Powell, looking out at the gulls circling above the fell in the rainy, silver sunset.

  "Well, obviously we can't discuss the matter in those terms," said Dr. Boycott, with the matter-of-fact briskness of one prepared to do anything reasonable but to entertain nothing foolish.

  "Has there been some sort of report and if so can I see it?" asked Mr. Powell.

  "Now, Stephen, you really must be sensible about this," said Dr. Boycott. "You know very well that even if there were a report you couldn't see it. You're quite entitled to an interview with the Director if you wish, but he'll only tell you the same as I'm telling you. And I repeat it: this is a transfer in your grade. It will mean no loss of pay and no loss of prospects. It's primarily an unfortunate matter of expediency--an experiment in retrenchment, if you like, that we've been told we've got to carry out. That's the right way to look at it. One has to think of the job first. We all do."

  "An experiment. Yes, well, I can see that." What Mr. Powell could actually see were the outspread, barely moving wings of the gulls, at one and the same time gliding and remaining, like a spiralling eddy in a beck. He had not in fact been enabled by Dr. Boycott's last utterance to arrive at any new way of looking at the matter, and this was not surprising, since that utterance added nothing whatever to what he had already been told. But he was not by temperament a fighter, being naturally disposed to respect his superiors and to proceed upon the assumption that their wishes were probably right and justified. His. normal inclination was to co-operate with them and accept what he was told.

  Suddenly he blurted out, "Only--only you see, chief, I--er--well, I didn't really want to make a move just at the moment. I mean, the upheaval of a move--all the--well, I mean, the disturbance and that. It's--er--someone--well, I mean, personal reasons, sort of, you know--"

  Dr. Boycott looked down at his blotting-pad in silence. What might this be--a mistress--some crypto-homosexual friendship? He knew Mr. Powell to be immature and ingenuous. He hoped he was not about to say anything embarrassing. Mr. Powell, however, seemed to have come to a full stop.

  "Well," replied Dr. Boycott at length, "I can only repeat, Stephen, that you're quite entitled to see the Director if you like. I'm sure he'd welcome a chat in any case. You've done us all a good turn, you know, that's quite clear. You must never think anything else. We all wish you well and I'm sure you'll go on to do great things. Anyway, you certainly don't have to get up and go this minute: you do appreciate that, I hope." He smiled. "We've got to find you a job commensurate to your abilities and potential, you know. You really mustn't let it worry you. Think it all over this week-end and if you like we'll certainly have another word on Monday; although I don't honestly know whether there's anything I shall be able to add." After a pause he went on, "By the way, we've got another dog to spare now for that water immersion experiment, so we'll be able to make a fresh start on that before you go. Could you be looking out the papers on the first dog--you know, the former number seven-three-two? And now good night; and mind you have a really good break over the week-end."

  "Yeah, righty-o. Thanks, chief. Thanks very much. Good night."

  Mr. Powell went out into the long corridor and walked slowly down it, hands in pockets, rocking first on one foot and then on the other, toe-heel, toe-heel, like a man lost in thought. Yet what his thoughts were he could not have said. The boy Tom came towards him, carrying a long wire cage of guinea-pigs, and he moved to one side to let him pass. At the far end of the corridor he paused for a ti
me by the window, looking down at the beck, which had risen to submerge the tussocks of grass and tufts of bog myrtle growing along its banks. There was a trailing branch which dipped continually into the water, was swept backwards and out again by the force of the current and then, rebounding from the extremity of the thrust, once more sprang forward and plunged itself under the surface. He wondered how long it had been doing this and when its pliancy would be exhausted: then idly took a stop-watch from his pocket and timed the little cycle. During a full minute, it did not vary from a regular three and two fifths seconds. Well done, branch. Still plenty of resilience and no sign of letting up.

  After a while he went across to Lab. 4, took off his white coat, washed his hands and made preparations to go home, packing into his despatch case his newspaper, a nasal spray and pen left on his desk, a phial of corrosive acid for his domestic do-it-yourself kit (the habitual misappropriation of which from laboratory stock saved him a trifle) and some papers which he had intended to look at over the week-end.

  Suddenly he threw down his mackintosh, walked quickly across to the balance cupboard and opened it. The cylinder, secured by its clip, was standing in the far corner. There were no sounds of movement, but he noticed some condensed drops of moisture round the ventilation holes. The slate showed 41+ days. Mr. Powell unclipped the heavy cylinder, lifted it out with both hands, carried it over to a bench and unscrewed the top.

  The monkey was crouching in a foetal posture, knees drawn up to chin and head bowed between them. It did not move as he peered in. There was a stench of ordure mixed with disinfectant.

  Mr. Powell reached in and lifted the monkey out by the scruff of the neck. It made no resistance and he thought it must be unconscious, but as he gently raised its head with one finger and thumb it opened its eyes and immediately closed them once more against the unaccustomed light. Mr. Powell tucked it under his coat, screwed down the top and put the cylinder back in the balance-cupboard, draped his mackintosh over his shoulders and went out to his car.