The Plague Dogs: A Novel Page 15

  “Where are we?” he asked, shivering and looking up at the black top outlined against the flying, eastern clouds.

  “Under Caw. Yer not feelin’ femmer? Think nowt on’t. There’s not se far to go noo.”

  “I’m not femmer,” answered Snitter, “unless it means mad.”

  In the next mile they climbed and crossed a broad ridge, but had hardly begun to descend the other side when the tod stopped, casting one way and another over the short turf. Finally it turned to Snitter.

  “This is Broon Haw. Yon’s Lickledale, doon yonder. There’s th’ shaft straight afore ye. Mind, it’s gey deep. We can bide safe there, se lang as th’ big feller doesn’t gi’ us away wi’ mair o’ his fond tricks.”

  Snitter, more than ever puzzled at the vast extent of the land which the men, for some inscrutable reason, had desolated and refashioned with rocks, ling and thorn, felt no surprise to find himself once more at the mouth of a deep cavern. It was similar to that which they had left, but less imposing and lofty. Tired now, despite his chilly sleep on the fell, he followed his companions into the dry, windless depths, found a comfortable spot and soon slept again.

  Friday the 29th October

  “Th’ very saame,” said Robert Lindsay. “Th’ very saame way as thine, Dennis, and joost way you told it me an’ all. Joost.”

  “It moost be dog,” said Dennis. “Cann’t be nowt else.”

  “Oh, ay. Bound to be. Bound to be, Dennis. Noo doubt about it whatever. An’ Ah’ll tell thee, Ah’m not so sure as there weren’t two o’ th’ booggers. That were yoong sheep, real strong—a good ’un, ay—an’ it had put oop real bluidy fight, like—theer were blood all ower, an’ boanes dragged down int’ beck, strewed all about, joost like yours. Ah doan’t believe woon dog could a’ doon it.”

  “Basstard things,” said Dennis. “Ah were oop Tarn neet before lasst, int’ moonlight, tha knaws, Bob, took dogs an’ gun an’ hoonted all about t’ plaace, like, an’ on to Blaake Rigg, but Ah nivver saw noothing—not a bluidy thing.” He trod out his cigarette and lit another.

  “Ay, weel, they’ll have shifted, joost, Dennis. That’ll be it. They’ve coom down valley. They have that.”

  “But wheer d’ y’ reckon they started out from?” persisted Dennis. “Pratt, Routledge, Boow—an’ Birkett over to Torver, Ah roong him oop—no woon’s lost dog.”

  “Ay, weel, Ah joost had ideea, Dennis. An’ it is only ideea, but Ah were thinkin’. Doost tha mind old ‘Arry Tyson—him as used to do rooads for Council a year or two back?”

  “He’s over’t Coniston, isn’t he? With Research Station at Lawson Park?”

  “Ay, that’s right, he is. Well, he were down int’ bar at Manor Hotel i’ Broughton a few days back, and seems he were sayin’ as they’d lost two dogs out of Research Station. Cut an’ run, ay. Gerald Gray—him as keeps Manor, tha knaws—told chap int’ bank, an’ this chap were sayin’ soomthing about it this morning when Ah were in theer.”

  “Did ye’ assk him about it?”

  “Noo, Ah nivver did, Dennis. Ah were in reet hoorry, that’s why, an’ Ah nivver thowt about it at all until Ah were outside. But then it joost stroock me—”

  “It’s not like finding th’ boogger, though, an’ killing it, is it?” said Dennis. “Ah mean, even if we assked Research Station an’ they said they’d lost dog, likely they’d not do owt to get bluidy thing off fell. They’d say it couldn’t be saame dog—all that caper—”

  “Well, happen they’d have to take notice, tha knaws,” returned Robert, his blue eyes regarding Dennis intently over the knob of his stick. “Ay, they might that. That’s Goov’ment Department-controlled, old boöy, oop at Lawson Park, an’ if they had t’ admit they’d let dogs goo, like, an’ couldn’t tell wheer they’re at, we could put Member o’ Parliament on to them—”

  “An’ have doozen an’ hafe more bluidy sheep go while they’re arguing!” Dennis detested Government Departments in general and the Ministry of Agriculture in particular, and the very thought of them provided a vicarious object for his anger over the slaughtered sheep.

  “It’s serious matter, though, to be in possession of dog that kills sheep, Dennis. Legal offence. And if that were Goov’ment Department as doon it, that’d be real embarrassing. They’d not like it at all. Even the possibility—”

  Robert, who read the papers attentively and had both an extremely wide outlook and also a natural gift for seeing things as they were likely to appear to other people, was already letting his mind run on the potential for embarrassment that the sheep-killings represented—always provided that what he had overheard in the bank proved to be true. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him that they might very well have in their hands a really stout stick for beating people who, collectively, usually did the beating themselves as far as hill-farmers were concerned—that was to say, Government chaps and officialdom in general. Harry Tyson, whom he had known off and on for years, was neither unreliable nor foolish. It would certainly be worth finding out from him what, if anything, had really happened at the Research Station. Robert was of a circumspect and deliberate nature, and not given to seeking straight rows unless heavily provoked. It had not occurred to him that he might actually telephone the Research Station and ask them point-blank about the dogs.

  Dennis, on the other hand, was a great man for direct rows, especially where his own financial interests were concerned. He was, in fact, fearless, with a long string of victories to his credit. The idea of telephoning the Research Station had already occurred to him.

  Mr. Powell, having seen to the monkey isolated in the cylinder and, as instructed, chalked up on the slate its current score—thirteen days plus—was looking over the interim reports on the smoking beagles and considering the terms of a draft letter to I.C.I. The search for a safe cigarette, an enterprise of great scientific interest and potential benefit to the human race, was, he felt, entirely worthy of British scientific endeavour, and possibly also of the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome. (For example, the Emperor Nero had, for his own purposes, after compelling slaves to eat large quantities of food and then to act in various ways, e.g., lie down, walk gently about, run fast and so on, cut them open to examine the effects on their digestive organs; but the results, unfortunately, had not survived in any detail.) Of course, it was open to people to give up smoking, but this would plainly be an intolerable demand to make, as long as experiments on living and sentient animals held out a chance of something better. The experiments had, in fact, been described by I.C.I. themselves as “the ultimate safeguard” for humans—which proved that they were a much better safeguard than not smoking.

  The dogs, trussed and masked, were ingeniously compelled to inhale the smoke from up to thirty cigarettes a day. (Mr. Powell had once shown his wit at a conference by remarking, “They’re lucky-more than I can afford.”) The plan was that after about three years they were to be killed for dissection and examination. At the moment, fortunately, I.C.I. were holding a firm line against the sentimental nonsense put about by Miss Brigid Brophy and the Anti-Vivisection Society. Only the other day I.C.I, had been reported as saying, “Smoking is a fact of life in present-day society. It is also acknowledged by the Government to be damaging to health. In recognition of this fact research is endeavouring to produce smoking materials that will demonstrably reduce the risk to health. The use of animals for experiments is always going to be a moral problem, but within the realms of our present knowledge it is impossible to ensure that chemicals and drugs are safe unless they are tested on animals.” This was so well expressed that it had escaped Mr. Powell (until the maddening Miss Brophy had fastened on it) that tobacco smoke could scarcely be held to lie within the definition of “chemicals and drugs.” Every care was taken, went on I.C.I., to ensure that the animals did not suffer unnecessarily and lower species, such as rats, were used whenever possible.

  “That’s clever,” murmured Mr. Powell to himself, as he glanced thr
ough the papers on the file. “ ‘Course, rats are actually very intelligent and sensitive, only nobody likes rats. Pity we can’t import some smoking jackals or hyenas or something; we’d be all right then—no one’d mind.”

  The trouble was, everything you said in this field was explosive. You could never feel sure that a letter might not, somehow or other, leak into quarters where parts of it were likely to be twisted against you. On full consideration, it might be more prudent to suggest to Dr. Boycott that they should arrange a meeting with I.C.I. to talk over results—especially as the last batch of dogs dissected had—

  At this moment the telephone rang. Mr. Powell had never been able to overcome his dislike of the telephone. If there was one thing, as he put it, that really bugged him about the job at Animal Research, it was being on the end of somebody else’s line and liable to be summoned to go and see one or another of his superiors at a moment’s notice. The present probability was that Dr. Boycott wanted to talk to him about the smoking beagles before he himself was ready to do so. Trying to console himself, as was his wont, with the thought that after a lot more experiments he would be a Boycott himself, he picked up the receiver.

  “Powell here.”

  “Mr. Powell?” said the voice of the switchboard girl.

  “Yes, Dolly. Is it an incoming call?”

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Powell. I have th’ gentleman on the line.” (This was, as Mr. Powell at once understood, a covert warning to watch what he said. Everyone at Animal Research watched what he said, and never more closely than on outside lines.) “He’s assking for the Information Officer, but I have no one listed under such an appointment.” (Too right you haven’t, thought Mr. Powell.) “I didn’t know whether you’d wish to take th’ call. Th’ gentleman says he wants to talk to soomone about dogs.”

  “Well, what about dogs? Who is the gentleman and where’s the call from?”

  “I think he’s a local enquirer, Mr. Powell. A private person. Will you speak?”

  Whoever he is, she’s evidently very anxious to pass him on, thought Mr. Powell. He pondered quickly. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know. If he did not take the call, it would look evasive and the caller would be referred to someone else. Also, if he did not take it and it turned out to be a matter within his responsibility, it would only come back to him in the end; whereas if it were not within his responsibility, he would have found out someone else’s business without being any the worse off himself.

  “All right, Dolly. I’ll be glad to help the gentleman if I can. Please put him through.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Powell!” (Quite a ruddy lilt in the voice! thought Mr. Powell.) Click. “Putting you through to Mr. Powell, sir.” Click. “You’re through!” (Wish we were!)

  “Good morning, sir. My name’s Powell. Can I help you?”

  “Have ye lost any dogs?”

  “Er—who is that speaking, please?”

  “My name’s Williamson. Ah’m sheep-farmer at Seath’t, Doonnerd’l. Ah’m assking have ye lost any dogs?”

  “Er—could you tell me a little more about your problem, Mr. Williamson? I mean, how you come to be asking us and so on?”

  “Ay, Ah will that. Theer’s sheep been killed in Doonnerd’l, three or four o’ ‘em, an’ Ah’m not th’ only farmer as reckons it’s stray dogs. Ah’m joost assking for a straight annser to a straight question—have ye lost any dogs?”

  “I’m sorry I can’t tell you the straight answer just off the cuff, Mr. Williamson, but I—”

  “Well, can Ah speak to th’ chap who can? Soomone moost know how many dogs ye’ve got and whether owt’s missing.”

  “Yes, that’s quite right, but he’s not here just at the moment. Mr. Williamson, may I ring you back quite soon? I assure you I will, so don’t worry.”

  “Well, Ah hope it is soon. Theer’s chaps here as has to work for their living, and sheep’s money, tha knaws—”

  Mr. Powell, despite his bleak misgivings, decided to try a counterattack.

  “Mr. Williamson, have you or anyone actually seen these dogs?”

  “If Ah had they’d not be alive now, Ah’ll tell thee. Do your dogs wear collars?”

  “Yes, they do—green plastic ones with numbers on.”

  “Ay, well, then you’ll joost know if there’s any missing, wayn’t ye?”

  Dennis gave his own number, reiterated his hope for an early reply and rang off. Mr. Powell, with a sinking heart, went to seek audience of Dr. Boycott.

  “—Assa, what a sad carry-on an’ aall, mind,” said the tod. “Rakin’ aboot aall ower th’ place, bidin’ oot o’ neets from here to yon. But mark ma words, ye must kill away from hyem, aye kill away from hyem, else it’s th’ Dark for ye, ne doot at aall. Nivver muck up yer aan byre, like ye did back yonder.” It became expansive. “Lukka me now. There’s none se sharp. Ah wez littered a lang step from here, far ahint th’ Cross Fell. Ah’ve waalked aall ower, an’ Ah’m as canny off as th’ next, fer aall th’ chasin’.”

  “Ay, yer canny, ne doot,” said Snitter, rolling comfortably on the shale to scratch his back. “I’d never say you’re—er—wrang.”

  “Nivver kill twice ower i’ th’ same place, and nivver kill inside o’ two mile o’ yer aan byre. An’ nivver bring nowt back wi’ ye. There’s mony a tod has gone to th’ Dark wi’ chuckin’ guts an’ feathers aboot ootside its aan byre.”

  “Hitty-missy faffin’,” murmured Snitter lazily. “I say, tod, I’m getting rather good, don’t you think?”

  “Mebbies we’ll kill ower b’ Ash Gill beck or some sich place th’ neet,” went on the tod, ignoring Snitter’s sally. “But farmers is sharp te find bodies an’ it’s us that’s got ter be sharpest. So eftor that it’ll be Langdale—or Eskdale—ten mile’s not ower far. Aye roam te th’ kill, an’ ye’ll see hyem still.”

  “I’m game,” said Rowf. “I’ll go as far as you like, as long as we do kill.”

  “If ony boogger says Ah’s not clivver, whey Ah’s still here an’ that’s eneuf to prove it.”

  “You can join the club,” said Snitter. “The Old Survivors—very exclusive—only three members, counting you. And one of them’s mad.”

  “That was Kiff’s joke—he knew what it meant—I never did,” said Rowf. “What is a club?”

  “It’s when dogs get together—run through the streets and piss on the walls; chase the bitches, scuffle about and pretend to fight each other—you know.”

  “No,” said Rowf sorrowfully. “I’ve never done that—it sounds good.”

  “D’you remember when they took Kiff away, and we all barked the place down singing his song?”

  “Yes, I do. Taboo, tabye—that one?”

  “That’s it—d’you remember it? Come on, then!”

  There and then, in the darkness of the shaft, the two dogs lifted up their muzzles in Kiff’s song, which that gay and ribald tyke, before his death by cumulative electrocution, had left behind him in the pens of Animal Research as his gesture of defiance, none the less valid for remaining uncomprehended by Dr. Boycott, by old Tyson, or even, come to that, by I.C.I. After a little, the tod’s sharp, reedy voice could be heard in the burden.

  “There happened a dog come into our shed. (Taboo, taboo)

  He hadn’t a name and he’s sure to be dead. (Taboo, taboo, taboo)

  He wagged his tail and nothing he knew

  Of the wonderful things that the whitecoats do.

  (Taboo, tabye, ta-bollocky-ay, we’re all for up the chimney.)

  “I heard the head of the whitecoats say, (Taboo, taboo)

  ‘We’re getting another one in today.’ (Taboo, taboo, taboo)

  The tobacco man needn’t waste his grub,

  We’ll sling him into the pickling tub.’(Taboo, tabye, ta-bollocky-ay, we’re all for up the chimney.)

  “So they laid him out on a nice glass bench. (Taboo, taboo)

  His entrails made a horrible stench. (Taboo, taboo, taboo)

  And this next bit w
ill make you roar—

  His shit fell out all over the floor. (Taboo, tabye, ta-bollocky-ay, we’re all for up the chimney.)

  “O who’s going to stick him together again? (Taboo, taboo)

  His ear’s in a bottle, his eye’s in the drain, (Taboo, taboo, taboo)

  His cock’s gone down to the lecture hall,

  And I rather think he’s missing a ball. (Taboo, tabye, ta-bollocky-ay, we’re all for up the chimney.)

  “When I’ve gone up in smoke don’t grieve for me, (Taboo, taboo)

  For a little pink cloud I’m going to be. (Taboo, taboo, taboo)

  I’ll lift my leg as I’m drifting by

  And pee right into a whitecoat’s eye. (Taboo, tabye, ta-bollocky-ay, we’re all for up the chimney.)

  “It you want to know who made up this song— (Taboo, taboo)

  ‘Twas a rollicking dog who didn’t live long. (Taboo, taboo, taboo)

  His name was Kiff, he was black and white,

  He was burned to cinders—serve him right. (Taboo, tabye, ta-bollocky-ay, we’re all for up the chimney.)”

  “Good old Kiff—he was a hard case. If he were here now—”

  “Wish he was,” growled Rowf.

  “If he were here now, I know what he’d say. He’d ask what we meant to do in the long run.”

  “Long run?” asked Rowf. “Hasn’t it been long enough for you?”

  “How long do you suppose we can keep it up—running about in this empty, man-made place, killing fowls and animals and dodging guns? I mean, where’s it going to end—where’s it going to get us?”

  “Where it gets the tod—”

  “Why ay, hinny—let’s be happy through th’ neet—” “But they’re bound to get us in the end, Rowf. We ought to be planning some way out. And you know very well there’s only one way—we’ve got to find some men and—and—what was I saying?” Snitter scratched at his split head. “Milkman, rhododendrons, newspapers—linoleum smells nice too—and sort of tinkling, windy noises came out of a box—used to make me howl, then rush out of the garden door—cats cats quick quick wuff wuff!”