The Plague Dogs: A Novel Read online

  “I know where I ought to be,” said Rowf. “Back with the whitecoats, like the other dogs. All right, I’m a deserter. I’d like to be a good dog, but I can’t—I can’t go near another tank.”

  “The whole place seems to be covered with these great tanks,” said Snitter. “How often do the men put animals into them, and what sort of animals? They must be huge!”

  The tod glanced shrewdly from one to the other, but answered nothing.

  “You’re a wild animal, aren’t you?” said Rowf. “You never have anything to do with men?”

  “Ay, noo an’ agyen.” The tod showed its teeth. “Ducks an’ new lambs.” It rolled on one side, licking briefly at a long, white scar on its belly. “An’ kittens i’ th’ barn, wad ye think it, noo?”

  “Kittens?” asked Snitter, astonished.

  “Th’ aald cat come, so Ah teuk off wi’ th’ one.”

  “Teuk off with the one?” Snitter was at a loss.

  “Ay, just th’ one.”

  “I mean to live here as a wild animal, that’s the long and short of it,” said Rowf. “Snitter can go and look for men if he wants to. I’m a mouse and this is my drain.”

  “Wivoot me, bonny lad, Ah’ll gi’ ye ne mair than three morns.”

  “Go on,” said Snitter, “why not?”

  “Ah’ve seen nowt dafter, th’ pair on yez, lyin’ flat oot o’ th’ fell like wee piggies full o’ grub, like there wez neether dergs nor shepherd aboot. Ye fells th’ yow, bolts it doon ye, kips ye doon a spell an’ comes back like a pair o’ squallin’ cubs. Ye took ne heed at aall o’ shepherd’s gun or dergs. Ah’d think shame o’ ye, ye pair o’ daft nowts.”

  Rowf’s hackles rose at the sardonic mockery in the sharp, thin voice, and at once its tone changed to one of open, honest admiration.

  “By, mind—ye pulled yon yow doon clever, though. By, hinny, yer a hard ’un. There’s none like ye. Hard as th’ hobs ye are—a fair mazer!”

  “It knocked me about,” said Rowf. “I’m bruised all over.”

  “Hinny, there’s ways. Wi’ me ye’ll sharp knaw hoo te duck an’ dodge. There’s ways o’ gettin’ stuck in hard, an’ ways o’ duckin’ oot. Wi’ me aside ye, a greet, hard boogger like ye’ll hev ne bother. Ye’ll sharp larn th’ ways, an’ a sharp tod like me’s th’ one te larn ye hoo.”

  “Do you kill sheep, then?” asked Snitter in surprise, thinking that the tod was, if anything, smaller than himself.

  “Whey, mebbies a bit young lamb i’ th’ spring if th’ chances come. But yon derg’s a mazer for th’ yows,” replied the tod, keeping its eyes on Rowf with a look of great respect. “Come te that, ye cud bowth be dab hands.”

  “Do you want to stay here with us—is that what you’re saying?” asked Snitter, once more feeling, as he had felt in the night, a mysterious and exciting affinity with this devious, insinuating creature, whose every word and movement seemed part of the spinning of some invisible net of stratagem.

  “Ah, whey, ye’ll hev ne bother wi’ me. Ah do nowt but pick at me meat,” said the tod. It got up, slunk quickly to the cavern’s opening, peered round one corner into the falling rain and returned. “Us tods, we nivver stop runnin’, nivver till th’ Dark cums doon. An’ yon’s a bonny way off yit—th’ Dark—for Ah warr’nd they’ll hev te move sharp te catch me.”

  “And that’s what you’re offering—you share what we kill and in return you’ll teach us how to survive here and help us not to be seen or caught by men?”

  “Ay. Noo yer taalkin’. Otherwise th’ Dark’ll be doon on ye, ne time at aall. Yon farmer’ll hev yer hides full o’ lead an’ it’ll be off an’ away into th’ Dark wi’ yez.”

  The tod rolled on its back, tossed the knuckle-bone into the air, caught it and threw it towards Snitter, whose clumsy, late-starting grab missed it by inches. Annoyed, Snitter jumped across to where the bone had fallen, picked it up and looked around for the tod.

  “Ahint ye!” It had passed him like a shadow and was hovering light-footed on the shale at his back. “Hill bide ye, an’ fern hide ye, an’ stream drown yer scent aside ye!”

  “What’s your name?” asked Snitter, having, as he spoke, a curious illusion that the tod was hanging poised on the stones as the buzzards on the wind-currents above the fell.

  For the first time the tod seemed at a loss.

  “Your name?” repeated Snitter. “What do we call you?”

  “Why, ye knaw, ye knaw,” answered the tod, with the hesitant lack of conviction of one unwilling to admit that he does not understand a question. “Mind, yer aye a canny ’un. Reet pair o’ dazzlers.”

  There was a pause.

  “He hasn’t got a name,” said Rowf suddenly. “Neither had the mouse.”

  “But how can he—”

  “Dangerous thing, a name. Someone might catch hold of you by it, mightn’t they? He can’t afford a name—that’s my guess. He hasn’t got one. He’s a wild animal.”

  Suddenly a great flame of abandonment crackled up in the thorny tangle of Snitter’s mind. He could be done with care. He too could become burdened with no name, no past, no future; with no regret, no memory, no loss; no fear but caution, no longing but appetite, no misery but bodily pain. No part of his self need be exposed except his awareness of the present and that gone in an instant, like a fly snapped at and missed on a summer afternoon. He saw himself, bold and wary, floating on life, needing nothing, obedient only to cunning and instinct, creeping through the bracken upon the quarry, vanishing from pursuers like a shadow, sleeping secure in hiding, gambling again and again until at last he lost; and then departing, with a shrug and a grin, to make way for some other trickster nameless as himself.

  “Stay!” he cried, jumping on Rowf like a puppy. “Let him stay! Wild animals! Wild animals!”

  Frolicking, he rolled over, scratching his back on the shale, and began clawing and worrying in earnest at the tattered dressing on his head.

  “It seems most unfortunate,” said Dr. Boycott, looking up at Mr. Powell over his spectacles. “And I’m afraid I still can’t make out, from what you’ve told me, how it came to occur.”

  Mr. Powell shifted his feet uneasily. “Well, I certainly don’t want to put the blame on Tyson,” he answered. “He’s a good bloke as a rule. But as far as I can make out, he didn’t notice on Friday evening that there was a length of wire netting loose along the bottom of eight-one-five’s pen, and some time that night eight-one-five must have worried its way through to seven-three-two’s side.” He stopped, as though to suggest that there was no more to be said. Dr. Boycott continued to look at him as though there were, and after a pause Mr. Powell continued.

  “Well, then the spring of the catch of seven-three-two’s door happened to break and that’s how they both got out.”

  “But if the door had been shut properly, it would stay shut, wouldn’t it, even if the spring of the catch did break? It wouldn’t move of its own accord.”

  Mr. Powell was undergoing the embarrassment and confusion not infrequently suffered by young officers who, having failed, through nervousness, inexperience and a certain misplaced respect, to press older (and gruffer) subordinates with awkward questions, later find themselves confronted with the same questions from their own seniors.

  “Well, that occurred to me, too, actually; but the spring’s broken all right—he showed it to me.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t break it himself?”

  “I don’t see why he’d do that, chief.”

  “Well, because he realized on Saturday that he hadn’t shut the door properly on Friday, of course,” said Dr. Boycott, allowing Mr. Powell to perceive his impatience at his subordinate’s having failed to think of this for himself.

  “We can’t be sure of that, no,” replied Mr. Powell. “But if he did, he’d never admit it, would he?” This answer, he felt, must surely end that particular line of inquiry.

  “But did you ask him?” persisted Dr. Boycott, neatly reappearing, as it were out
of the bracken, at a fresh point along the line.

  “Well, no—not exactly.”

  “Well, either you did or you didn’t.”

  Dr. Bovcott stared over his glasses and under his raised eyebrows. The thought crossed Mr. Powell’s mind that it was a pity that one could not, as in chess, resign, and thereupon at once resume a life in which the blunders leading to the resignation, however foolish, became mere fragments of a concluded parenthesis.

  “Well, anyway,” resumed Dr. Boycott at length, with the air of one obliged to struggle patiently on in a situation rendered virtually impossible by another’s incompetence, “the two dogs got out of seven-three-two’s pen. What happened then?”

  “Well, then they must have run right through the block, ‘cause they’d knocked over a box of mice in the pregnancy unit—”

  “And you’ve told Walters about that, have you?” asked Dr. Boycott, with a sigh suggestive of a state of mind to which no further revelations of folly could come as any surprise.

  ‘Oh, yes, first thing,” answered Mr. Powell, catching at this straw for an opportunity to speak in a matter-of-course tone, as though it had never occurred to him that his efficiency or reliability could come under criticism.

  “I’m glad to hear that, anyway,” countered Dr. Boycott, suggesting, like an Impressionist painter, with one stroke, a host of things, unnecessary to define, which he had nor been glad to hear. “How did they get out of the block and where?”

  “Nobody knows,” said Mr. Powell expansively, as though, having referred the matter in vain to New Scotland Yard, the Colditz Society and the staff of Old Moore’s Almanack, he had been reluctantly compelled to abandon an enigma more baffling than that of the Mary Celeste.

  Dr. Boycott clicked his tongue once, loudly, with the air of a super-camel which, while daily enduring the unendurable, can surely be excused if some momentary plaint involuntarily escapes its lips as the last straw is piled on.

  “You mean you and Tyson don’t know?”

  “Well, yes,” replied the toad beneath the harrow.

  “You’re sure they didn’t get into Goodner’s place?” asked Dr. Boycott, suddenly and sharply.

  “Certain,” replied Mr. Powell with equal promptitude.

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Yes, and so is he. I’ve already spoken to him. He says the cultures—”

  “All right,” said Dr. Boycott, raising one hand to stem the tedious flood of unnecessary and time-consuming detail, the purpose of which—his tone conveyed—he perceived to be nothing but a feeble attempt at ingratiation. “He’s content, then. Thank goodness for that.” He got up, put his hands in his pockets, walked across to the window and sat on the radiator. The actions suggested that Mr. Powell, while by no means off the carpet, was no longer, as it were, so completely on it—his superior now having need (faute de mieux, of course) of his advice.

  “You’ve made quite certain, have you, that they’re not hiding in the block or anywhere about the place?”

  “As certain as we can be. Tyson and I have both been all over, independently. Of course, they might show up. I mean, they might come back—”

  “Yes, they might,” said Dr. Boycott reflectively, “and they might be brought back. It’s a pity their collars don’t carry the address of the station. Perhaps that ought to be changed. Still, it’s too late in this case.” He paused, and then, in a sharp tone, as though Mr. Powell had failed to reply to a question and already kept him waiting more than long enough, asked, “Well” (Mr. Powell started), “what do you think we ought to do?”

  Mr. Powell had, as a matter of fact, got this bit fairly well stitched up. After all, he was required only to have thought of all the possibilities and to proceed to say what they were. He would also need to express some sort of preference, but once he had done this the decision (and the responsibility) would be someone else’s.

  “We could do nothing at all, or we could go out and search for the dogs ourselves, or we could give a description to all occupants of neighbouring dwellings and farms and ask them to keep a look-out, catch the dogs if they see them and then ring us up; or we could report the thing to the police. We could do all of the last three things,” added Mr. Powell sagaciously. “They’re not mutually exclusive, of course.”

  “And what would you do?” persisted Dr. Boycott.

  “Well, quite honestly, chief, I think I’d be inclined to do nothing, for the time being. It’s ten to one they’ll either come back or else turn up somewhere where we can go and collect them; and if they don’t, well, then we just have to write them off. The alternative’s raising a hue-and-cry all round the neighbourhood, and then we’ve given ourselves a bad name, possibly all for nothing—I mean, they’ve been gone more than sixty hours, they may be miles away by now—half-way to Kendal—”

  “Suppose they start worrying sheep?” asked Dr. Boycott.

  “Then either some farmer shoots them and saves us further trouble, or else he catches them, realizes where they’re from and rings us up; in which case we only have to pacify one bloke instead of spilling the beans to the whole district,” answered Mr. Powell.

  “Well, perhaps that might be best,” said Dr. Boycott reflectively. “I don’t really want to bother the Director with a thing like this just now. I think it’s more than likely either that they’ll turn up of their own accord or that someone will bring them in. What did Fortescue say when you told him about eight-one-five?”

  “Well, he said it was a nuisance and a lot of time and work down the drain.”

  “So it is. If they don’t show up today,” said Dr. Boycott, apparently unconscious that his decision not to sully the fair name of the station by publicizing the escape appeared, on the face of it, to be inconsistent with the high value he was ascribing to the missing subjects of experiment, “the work already done on them will probably be at least partly invalidated. It certainly will in the case of seven-three-two, since that’s a conditioning experiment and the immersions were programmed for regular intervals. I don’t know about eight-one-five, but I suppose Fortescue wanted to start it on tests today.” A sudden thought struck him. “You don’t think it’s possible that Tyson might have stolen the dogs himself?”

  “Well, it did cross my mind, actually, chief, but if he was going in for that sort of thing I don’t think he’d start by picking on those two. I mean, he’s no fool, and one’s had brain surgery and the other’s notoriously savage and bad-tempered.”

  “H’mmm. Well,” said Dr. Boycott briskly, going back to his desk and picking up some papers, to mark his dismissal of the matter for the time being, “we’d better get on with something else. Is there anything besides that that you want to talk about?”

  “Well, yes, two other things I think I ought to mention,” said Mr. Powell, with some slight relaxation of manner. “The first one’s that humane trap for grey squirrels that Ag. and Fish, sent us for trial.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, it’s not turning out all that humane, really,” said Mr. Powell, with a giggle of embarrassment. “I mean, it’s supposed to kill them outright, isn’t it? Well, about four times out of ten, it’s just sort of slicing—look, I’ll try and draw it for you—”

  “I’m not really interested in that, to be perfectly honest,” replied Dr. Boycott. “It’s not work involving any kind of scientific advance or fresh knowledge. Anyway, it’ll be several weeks before Ag. and Fish, start asking us for anything. The squirrels won’t be pressing them, you know,” he added with a slight lightening of tone which drew a relieved smile from Mr. Powell. “You’d better try to work out some kind of modification yourself, to make it reliably lethal, but remember it’s got to go on the market at an economic price. Anything else?”

  “One other thing, yes, and this will be of interest to you,” said Mr. Powell, with an air of “You want the best seats, we have them.” “Those dogfish—the ones you wanted for experiments on how they’re able to change their coloration
to match their backgrounds, remember? Mitchell rang up about half an hour ago to say he’s got them and should he deliver them today? I said I’d ask you and let him know later this morning.”

  “Can Fortescue spare someone this week to carry out the destruction of the selected areas of their brains and the removal of their eyes?” asked Dr. Boycott.

  “Yes, he told me Prescott would be available to do it Wednesday.”

  “Fine. Well, get them sent along right away and see that the necessary tank-space is ready. Oh, and draw up a test programme.”

  “Right. Er—and about the other thing, chief,” said Mr. Powell, hopeful of retrieving some part of his name at least by showing willing despite his lapse.

  “Yes?” asked Dr. Boycott, without raising his eyes from his papers.

  “Would you like me to let you have a written report? Only I do realize that there certainly are one or two questions outstanding—”

  “Don’t bother,” said Dr. Boycott, maintaining his air of detachment. “I’ll have a word with Tyson. What about that monkey, by the way?” he added, changing the subject rapidly enough to suggest that even he felt this last remark to have been a little too insulting and painful to one who could not answer back.

  “Well, it went into the cylinder Friday evening, like you said: so it’s done two and a half days.”

  “How’s it reacting?”

  “It’s been thrashing around a bit,” replied Mr. Powell, “and—and sort of crying from time to time. Well, making noises, anyhow.”

  “Is it eating?”

  “Tyson hasn’t told me otherwise.”

  “I see,” said Dr. Boycott, and returned to his papers.

  Tuesday the 19th October

  “How far away from them are we now?” whispered Snitter.

  “Aye creep an’ peep, hinny, creep an’ peep.” The tod, it seemed, had not spoken at all, but conveyed its reply into Snitter’s mind in a telepathic silence. They crawled three feet closer to the edge of the chattering Tarnbeck.