The Plague Dogs: A Novel

by Richard Adams

  MR. BUGWASH: You ought to.

  CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: The hon. and learned Member says that I

  ought to. With respect, I cannot agree with him. I wish—

  MR. BUGWASH: Because you are deliberately blind to what is–

  CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: At any rate I am not a lackey of the gutter press.

  MR. BUGWASH: Who is the hon. and gallant Member suggesting is a lackey of the gutter press? Would the hon. and gallant Member care to say plainly who he suggests is a lackey of the gutter press?

  CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: I am afraid the hon. and learned Member for Lakeland Central is going to burst a blood vessel in a moment. If the cap fits he can wear it.

  MR. SPEAKER: I am afraid the cap will not fit. That was an unparliamentary expression. The hon. and gallant Member for Keswick must withdraw it. It is desirable to keep the temper of the House down, if possible.

  CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: Is it only the hon. and learned Member with the brain of a fox and the manners of a dog who is entitled to your protection, Mr. Speaker? Am I not to be given any protection—

  HON. MEMBERS: Withdraw!

  CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: It is often said by Mr. Speaker that he is conveniently deaf.

  SEVERAL HON. MEMBERS rose—

  MR. SPEAKER: Order. The hon. and gallant Gentleman is entitled to complete his speech. But he must withdraw that expression.

  MR. MICHAEL HAND (Oban): On a point of order, Mr. Speaker. If we are considering manners and the pot is calling the kettle black–

  MR. SPEAKER: That is not a point of order.

  HON. MEMBERS: It is!

  MR. SPEAKER: No, it is not. I do not take my orders from back benchers. I have said that the hon. and gallant Gentleman must withdraw, and no doubt he is waiting to do so.

  CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: I withdraw the words that I used and I apologize to every lackey of the gutter press in this country for bringing him down to the level of the people who sit on the opposite side of the House.

  MR. SPEAKER: I am obliged.

  MR. BUGWASH: I accept the hon. and gallant Gentleman’s withdrawal, but not his apology. Our sympathy should perhaps go out to the Secretary of State for the company he keeps today.

  CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: I will conclude by simply saying what I have been prevented from saying for the last five minutes. I sincerely hope that my rt. hon. Friend will be able to include in his reply some undertaking about ensuring the safety of the public when carrying out work on dangerous things of this nature which ought not to be done in places where there is the minutest risk of infection getting out. I hope my rt. hon. Friend will have something to tell us about that.

  Up in the Strangers’ Gallery, Mr. Anthony Hogpenny turned to Mr. Desmond Simpson.

  “Let’s go out and have a couple across the way, shall we? They’ll be happy for at least half an hour yet. Then we can come back and hear whatever Hot Bottle Bill can find to tell them. One thing’s certain, he’ll have to concede something—quite a lot, I’d say, considering that he’s under fire from his own back-benchers as well as from the Opposition. Should be an interesting spectacle.”

  When they returned, they found that the debate had evidently folded rather more quickly than Mr. Hogpenny had expected, for Hot Bottle Bill was already on his feet and had apparently been on them for some little time.

  -I have already stressed to the House that I take a most serious view of the public anxiety brought about by the escape of these dogs. Let me say at once that I have every confidence in the people who run Animal Research. They are extremely good at their job.

  MR. HAND: What is it?

  MR. HARBOTTLE: Their job is scientific research by means of experiments upon animals, and I repeat, they are very good at it. I am satisfied that, in saying nothing initially about the dogs’ escape, their aim was to avoid giving rise to public anxiety in a manner which might have proved alarmist and worse in its effect than silence. I want to assure the House that for all practical purposes there is no risk whatever of bubonic plague. That has been made far too much of in certain quarters and by certain people. There is a possible chance in ten thousand—in fifty thousand—that the dogs might have encountered an infected flea, and that is why the station, quite rigntly, would not say that such a thing was out of the question. I repeat, they are men of science, not public relations officers.

  MR. GULPIN MCGURK (Adlestrop) rose—

  MR. HARBOTTLE: I am sorry, Mr. Speaker, but what I have to say is of the greatest importance and I cannot give way now.

  The hon. and learned Member for Lakeland Central spoke of public expenditure at Lawson Park. A balance sheet for the past three years will be laid on the Table of the House within the next two days. I do not accept for one moment that there has been any excessive expenditure. I am sure that there has not and the balance sheet will prove it—

  MR. BUGWASH rose—

  MR. HARBOTTLE: I must continue, Mr. Speaker. I am sorry. (Interruption.) This sort of thing only wastes time—

  MR. BUGWASH: Better than wasting money.

  MR. HARBOTTLE: I intend personally to examine the research programmes, staffing and costs at Lawson Park for the current year and next year, and see whether economies cannot be made. I will let the House know my conclusions.

  “Christ!” muttered Mr. Hogpenny to Mr. Simpson.

  I come finally to the matter of the distressing tragedy which occurred on the Dow Crag two days ago. It would be pointless for me or anyone to try to allot blame for a thing of this kind. The point is, what is going to be done and how quick and effective will it be? What I have to tell the House is that if time has been lost, we are making up for it now. With the co-operation of my right hon. Friend the Secretary of State for Defence–

  MISS JOYCE O’FARRELL (Abergavenny): Where is he?

  MR. HARBOTTLE: The hon. Lady asks where he is. That is irrelevant. The point is that he has already made a decisive contribution to this problem. Two companies of the 3rd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment, are at this moment on their way to the Lake District. Tomorrow they will begin an intensive search of the most likely areas and they will continue until the dogs are found and killed, which I hope will be quickly. Also taking part in the search will be two Royal Naval helicopters, which will be directly in touch with the ground force by radio.

  There is one more thing I want to say. It is important and I hope it will be widely reported. Members of the public who have no real business there positively must keep out of the area. Anything in the nature of rubber-necking, taking photographs, sight-seeing, and so on would certainly be a hindrance to the soldiers and could also be dangerous to the sight-seers themselves. We are not going to close the roads. That might create serious difficulties for doctors, veterinary surgeons, farmers and others. We rely on people’s good sense to stay away.

  I myself am going to the area tomorow. I shall be in personal touch with those conducting the hunt and it will not be called off until it is successful.

  MR. BUGWASH: I am sure I am expressing the feelings of the entire House in thanking the Secretary of State for his speech and for the action he is initiating in various different spheres. It is a case of better late than never. We on this side of the House welcome his co-operation.

  “Hell’s bells!” said Mr. Hogpenny, as he and Mr. Simpson left the Strangers’ Gallery en route for Mr. Bugwash’s room in the House, “talk about grovelling! Harbottle makes it too easy. A penny a kick and twopence a brick and sewage was threepence a bucket, eh?”

  “He knows what he’s doing, though,” said Mr. Simpson. “Don’t you see, the implicit line is that his chaps have clanged, he’s too decent to say so and now he’s Honest Joe acting like lightning to clean up the mess that wasn’t brought to his notice earlier. A head will roll, as sure as fate, you mark my words. Give it forty-eight hours.”

  “Well, the Plague Dogs racket has certainly proved very successful from the Orator’s point of view, all things considered,” said Mr. Hogpe
nny. “In fact, far better than I expected. How to make good use of our four-footed friends. A Cabinet Minister gravely embarrassed, some sort of junior resignation, if you’re right, and circulation up more than half a million. Your Driver fellow has done very well. However, I think we need to be looking for a really resounding dénouement of some kind now. Fearsome dogs shot by gallant lads’ll be about the size of it, I suppose. But I hope Driver may be able to contrive some unexpected conclusion that pays us and pleases the public.”

  “Don’t worry,” replied Mr. Simpson. “If anyone can, he will.”

  “Snitter! Wake up, blast you! Wake up, Snitter!”

  Snitter was lying asleep on the shale. He woke, rolled over, turned towards the patch of daylight at the distant opening and sniffed the flow of air. It was late morning, cloudy but without rain.

  Rowf ran a few yards, stopped and turned his head.

  “Come and look. Take care, though—keep well out of sight. You’ll see why.”

  When they were about fifteen or twenty feet from the mouth of the cavern, Snitter gave a yap of surprise and flung himself down on the stones.

  “Oh my dam! How long—how long have all those people been up there, Rowf? What a—”

  “I don’t know. I only looked out myself just now. We’ve never seen anything like that, have we? What are they all doing and what do you think it means?”

  “Such a lot of them!”

  A mile away, on the opposite side of the Moss, the ridge of the Dow Crag was covered with human figures, black against the sky. Some were standing still, while others could be seen moving along the undulant top, trailing down towards Goat’s Hause and thence out of sight beyond the brow. Rowf growled.

  “I can hear them talking—can you?”

  “Yes—and smell them—clothes, leather, tobacco. I was afraid yesterday—I said, didn’t I?—I was afraid they’d come: but I didn’t think there’d be all those.”

  “Do you think they’re looking for us? They’re not farmers, are they?”

  “No. They look more like the sort of people I remember my master talking to, in the old days. There are women up there, as well as men. They all seem to be peering over the edge, look, and some of them are going down to where—to where the man was.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Rowf.

  “So am I; but we can’t risk going out now. We’ll have to wait-wait—what was I saying? The tod said—everything’s so confused—the garden—oh, yes, we’ll have to wait till—till it’s dark. They mustn’t see us, not a mouse.”

  “Starve, then,” said Rowf, scratching his staring ribs against the rock wall. “We’ve done that often enough. Getting easy, isn’t it?”

  A drizzle began to fall from the clouds drifting up Dunnerdale from the west. In half an hour mist had blotted out the mile of moss and fell lying between the sight-seers on the Dow Crag and the watchers in the cavern. Rowf stretched, and shook himself.

  “Hope they get wet. It might be worth going across there tonight, when they’ve gone. A crowd of people like that’s sure to have left some bits of bread or something. But we’ll have to take care. There might be men still watching. They hate us, don’t they? You said so.”

  Snitter, staring into the blown rain, made no immediate answer. At last he said slowly, “I—know. And yet—I don’t understand. My—my master’s out there somewhere.”

  “What on earth d’you mean? Talk sense, Snitter! Your master’s dead—you told me so. How can he be out there?”

  “I don’t know. The mist blows about, doesn’t it? I’m so tired of it. I’m tired of being a wild animal, Rowf.”

  Snitter ran outside, lapped from a shallow puddle in the turf and sat upon his hind legs, begging.

  “The gully in the shed floor—the lady with the gloves. It’s all different since the second man died, and the poor tod. I must have dreamt the tod, because I saw him—after he’d gone—they tore him to pieces. It’s the mist that makes everything so confused. And the tod said something very important, Rowf, that I was to tell you, but I’ve forgotten—”

  “That’s a change,” said Rowf brutally. “Listen! Isn’t that the sound of a man’s boots? No, somewhere over there. We’d better get a good long way back inside. This is no good, is it? We shan’t be able to go on like this—not for long.”

  FROM SNACKET J. MOREE, THE WONDER KING

  Twenty-Seven Eighty-Four, Okmulgee

  Oklahoma 74447

  Dear Sirs,

  I am a promoter and exhibitor of wide experience and distinction, having worked in this profession for many years in three continents and now sole director of the celebrated Three Continents Exhibitions Inc. I enclose a brochure relative to the work of this company, from which you will observe that its exhibits have been tributized by the Sultan of Nargot, President Amin of Uganda and others of worldwide note and fame. Exhibits during the last five years include the triple-breasted priestess of Kuwait, “Doghead” Slugboni, a former associate of Al Capone, and Mucks Clubby, the boy evangelist who at the age of eight convinced thousands in Texas that he was a reincarnation of Jesus Christ. These are only a few of the high-class exhibits characteristic of world-famous Three Continents service to the public.

  It is my view that the “Plague Dogs” would constitute an exhibit of superior quality and on the assumption that they are still legally the property of your Research Station I am prepared to offer four thousand dollars for their outright purchase in good condition. Please wire your reply or if you prefer call collect to myself at the above address. Trusting to talk to you soon,

  Best,

  Snacket J. Moree

  (The Wonder King)

  “We’re going to be inundated with this sort of thing and all manner of other rubbish, I dare say,” said Dr. Boycott, endorsing a direction at the foot of the letter and throwing it into his OUT tray. “I don’t know why that should have come here. It should have gone straight to Admin., and they’re welcome to it.”

  “I’ve had two or three loopy phone calls this morning already,” said Mr. Powell. “We really need someone put on to deal with that sort of thing until public interest dies down a bit. It’s such a fearful interruption to work, you know.”

  “I’ll mention it to the Director,” replied Dr. Boycott, “but I can tell you now that we’re not going to get anyone extra just at the moment. You know the Secretary of State’s called for an urgent memorandum listing practicable reductions and economies throughout the station—apparently he intends to give some sort of undertaking in his speech in the debate tonight. There’ll probably be drastic changes both in work and staff. Goodner’ll be moving, almost certainly, but that’s very much for your private ear just at the moment.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Powell. “Anyway, chief, can you countersign this report on the kittens experiment—the lung-worm infections? That was what I really came in for. I’m afraid none of the experimental forms of treatment were successful; and most of the subjects died, as you’ll notice.”

  “Oh dear,” said Dr. Boycott, reading. “What a shame! ‘Death of almost entire group’—h’m—’preceded by’—h’m, h’m—’excessive salivation, impairment of locomotion and vision, muscular twitchings, panting, respiratory distress, convulsions’—how disappointing! Are the experimental treatments concluded now?”

  “ ‘Fraid so, for the time being. They’ve all been given a very fair trial. Davies says it would be pointless to continue without further consultation with Glasgow, and anyway we haven’t any kittens left, not until next month. That’s why I’ve completed a report at this stage.”

  “I see,” said Dr. Boycott. “Well, it can’t be helped. Anyway, more painful matters seem to be looming all round just at the moment. What about the monkey, by the way? How long has it done now?”

  “Forty and a half days,” replied Mr. Powell. “I believe it’s going to die. I wish—I wish to God—”

  “That’s very unlikely,” interrupted Dr. Boycott swiftly, “if it’s been fed and wat
ered in accordance with the schedule. But obviously it’s the worse for wear. You must expect that. It’s a social deprivation experiment, after all.”

  “Rowf! Rowf—the rhododendrons, can you smell them?”

  Amid the stirrings of glabrous leaves and the glitter and hum of summer insects, Snitter recognized with excitement the old, familiar spot where his body had made a hollow in the peaty soil. Rowf, awake instantly, bristled, sniffing and peering in bewilderment and darkness.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “That damned cat’s been here again, too. I’ll cat it! I’ll chew its tail off, you see if I don’t!”

  “Snitter, lie down! Go to sleep.”

  “I’m going to, don’t worry. When the sun gets round just a bit more it strikes right in here, do you see, between those two branches? I tell you, it’s the most comfortable place in the whole garden. I’m glad you’re here too, Rowf: you’ll like my master; he’s a really good sort.”

  Snitter wriggled carefully along the shale, flattening his back to squeeze under one of the stouter branches.

  “The leaves flash in your eyes, don’t they, when they catch the light? Used to make me jump now and then, until I got used to it.”

  And now it really did seem to Rowf that they were both surrounded by a grove of dark-green leaves, cernuous on their short, tough stems; by brown, fibrous, peeling branches and great speckle-throated, rosy blooms. Yet all these he perceived as figmentary and as it were in motion, present while forever slipping away in the edge of the nose and the tail of the eye, superimposed upon the shale and the rock walls, covering them as a shallow, flowing stream its bed; or still more insubstantially, as smoke from a bonfire drifts over the trees and bushes of a garden. His hearing, too—or so it seemed—had become clouded; nevertheless a faint, sharp call, like an audible recollection of a human cry rather than the sound itself, came to his ears from a distance and he jumped up, turning towards the cave-mouth, where moonlight and stars showed faintly luminescent beyond and outside the ghostly den of foliage.