The Plague Dogs: A Novel Page 27

  Rowf, with the tod at his side, plodded on through the wide vacuity. He was tired out, but less with exertion than with the strain of ignorance, doubt and uncertainty. Some three hours earlier, as soon as darkness had fallen, he and the tod had descended into Lickledale, leaving Snitter, who was once more rambling and evidently confused as to where he was, alone in the shelter of the shaft. Rowf, still weary after his long search on Harter Fell and the rescue from the shed, had felt unequal to hunting sheep with no more help than the tod could give him, and they had decided to go for poultry at best, with dustbins as a last resort. Upon the outskirts of Broughton Mills and the threshold of what seemed likely to prove a hopeless business among too many houses, cars, men and dogs, the wet fog had crept down from the tops like an accomplice and they had smashed (or rather, Rowf had smashed) a length of slack wire netting, snatched two hens and disappeared into the grey density amid a clamour of guinea-fowl and the shouted curses of an invisible man not twenty yards away, whose torch showed him nothing but a motionless, all-enveloping curtain of fog.

  The tod put down its hen and sat breathing smokily into the surrounding cold. “Ye canna beat a bit mist, if yer liftin’ hens or ducks. We’d have been oot half th’ neet forbye, an’ mebbies got wor hint-ends full o’ lead atop o’ thet.”

  The wire had re-opened Rowf’s wounded nose and it was beginning to sting abominably.

  “Whit are ye rakin’ aboot efter noo?” asked the tod irritably.

  “A puddle,” answered Rowf, vanishing into the fog. “A good, cold one, too.” There was a muffled sound of lapping and he reappeared. “That’s better.”

  “By, ye’re reet mucky.”

  “Tod, how do you find the way? I’ve no idea where we are.”

  “Groond,” answered the tod. “It gans up an’ gans doon. Ye divven’t need mair. We’re goin’ up noo.”

  “Are we near home? Oh, damn these cobwebs!”

  “Pluff ‘em off, hinny. Ay, we’re nigh noo. Ye can tell fro’ the groond. Up ahight th’earth’s lighter. Mind, yon snout o’ yours luks weel brayed aboot. Ye’ve torn it bad.”

  “It’ll be all right. Tod, what about Snitter? How does he seem to you?”

  “He’s weel away wi’d, yon. He wez on agen this mornin’ aboot not bein’ left inside his aan heed. Daft as a brush.”

  “Yes, he’s bad right enough—worse than I’ve ever seen him. These turns of his pass off, though—or they always have. It’s a nuisance, but he’ll have to stay where he is for the time being. We’ll have to hunt without him.”

  “He canna bide there, hinny. None of us can. If yon mist howlds doon, we’ll hev to be off b’ th’ morn.”

  “Again, tod? He’ll never do it. D’you want to go far?”

  “This tale o’ his aboot killin’ yon chep wiv a gun—d’ye think thet’s reet, or is it just his daft crack?”

  “It’s true. As far as I can make out the man had caught him on his way back alone from that last sheep we killed on Hard Knott, and either Snitter startled him, so that he let the gun off himself, or else Snitter got his paw caught in it. Either way the man’s dead.”

  “An’ foond?”

  “He’s found all right.” Rowf told the tod of the shot that had missed him at Cockley Beck. The tod listened silently, and before replying set off once more up the hillside.

  “By, he’s th’ dabbest hand ye iver saw, yon wee fella. Shoot a man? Whey, ye wadden’t credit it. Mind, it’s bad, yon, bad. The’ll be huntin’ noo till they find th’ pair o’ yez, ne doot aboot that. If Ah had th’ sense Ah wes born wi’, Ah’d be off an away mesel’ an’ leave ye t’id.”

  “That’d be the end of us, tod. Without you we’d have been finished a long while back.”

  “Ay, ne doot aboot thet neether. Whey …” (the tod paused), “Whey, Ah’ll not be tekkin mesel’ off yit. But mind—Ah’m tellin’ ye—gan where Ah tell ye te, an’ ne muckin’ aboot, or Ah’m away like a shot an’ ye can fend fer yersels.”

  “How far, tod?”

  “A lang way—it’ll be two neets gettin’, Ah warr’nd. We’ll lie up o’ Bull Crag till th’ morrer morn, if th’ wee fella can get that far.

  Then through b’ Wyth Born an’ Dunmail Raise. Best te cross th’ Raise be neet—ay, an’ duck across sharp when there’s ne bit cars or lights shinin’ o’ th’ road.”

  “But where are we going? Have you ever been there before?”

  “Helvellyn range. Nowt but th’ once. Mind, it’s high groond—wild and blowed lonely forbye. ‘Sennuf to blaw yer lugs off there, noo an’ agen. But there’s ne other chance for ye, with aall them booggers oot huntin’.”

  “If you think we’re as badly off as that, why are you staying on with us?”

  “Mebbies Ah’m sorry for thon wee fella.” The tod paused. “Mebbies.”

  “I don’t believe that, you smelly—” Rowf broke off, choking and coughing, and again clawed at his muzzle. Up here, on the higher ground, the mist was so thick that they could scarcely see one another.

  “Ah warr’nd ye divven’t, ne kiddin’.”

  “Why don’t you talk straight for once?” Rowf, infuriated by his enforced dependence on the tod to guide him through the mist, growled dangerously, and at once the tod became obsequious.

  “Give ower, hinny. Divven’t gan on se. Taalk strite? Aall reet, thin. Ye’ll nivver leave yer marrer, noo will ye? An’ ye’re th’ one that fells th’ yows, reet? Noo, there’s wor place yonder, an’ th’ wee fella’s got th’ wind o’ ye—d’ye not hear him yappin’ inbye? Howway doon an’ give ‘m thon chicken.”

  “ ‘Pasteurella pestis,’ “ said Digby Driver happily. “Ah ha-ha-ha-ha HA! A flea! Ha, ha, ha HAH! A flea! Well, well! Who’d a thought it? Now read on! This disease is primarily one of rats and other rodents, but wherever rats live in close proximity to man there is the chance of an outbreak through rodent fleas which transfer their attention to man,’ Splendid! And so? Don’t miss next week’s smashing instalment! Transmission may be mechanical, involving simply the contamination of the mouth-parts of the insects, or it may involve regurgitation of infected blood into the puncture. Most infected fleas develop blockages in their digestive tracts as a result of the multiplication of bacteria, so that, when they try to feed, the blood simply flows back into the host, taking with it some of the germs from the gut. Because no food can get past their blockage, the fleas become “hungry” and try to feed more frequently than they otherwise would. The result is that the disease spreads more rapidly.’ Excellent! Then there’s—er—let’s see—murine typhus, ‘a less severe form of ordinary typhus fever, carried by rodent fleas—’ well, never mind that, we can do better. Find out where the worthy doctor resides, and off we go. A wolf am I, a wolf on mischief bent.”

  Friday the 12th November

  The Under Secretary stared owlishly across his desk, contriving to suggest that not the least unfortunate aspect of the matter was that he himself had had to initiate inquiries which otherwise would not have been pursued at all.

  “And what did your Master Boycott say?” he asked.

  “Well,” replied the Assistant Secretary, “not more than he could help. I began by asking him whether they’d lost any dogs and he said why did we want to know.”

  “ ‘I will also ask you one thing, and answer me.’ Well?”

  “Well, I could have had a shot at the baptism of John,” said the Assistant Secretary, who liked to show that he could at least nail the Under Secretary’s quotations, “but I hesitated a moment on that. I saw no reason specifically to drag the Parly. Sec. into it, so I simply said that we’d seen this press item and what could they tell us about the dogs. Then Boycott said that it hadn’t been proved that the dogs were theirs—”

  The Under Secretary clicked his tongue and frowned peevishly.

  “—so I said, well, at that rate why had Powell gone chasing over to Dunnerdale with the police; and Boycott said that Powell had taken it entirely on himself to do that—no one else ha
d been in the place when the police called. And then he said—off his own bat, this was—that in any case there was nothing to prove that the dogs seen at the Dunnerdale shop premises were the ones who’d been killing sheep. He got rather aggressive, as a matter of fact.”

  The Under Secretary, now that he had learned that the conversation had taken this unproductive turn, allowed his manner to suggest contempt, dislike and patience sorely tried.

  “But did he say, Michael” (with the air of bringing an undisciplined mind back to the only question that mattered), “did he say whether or not they’d lost any dogs?”

  “He didn’t, and I couldn’t get him to.”

  (A frown, implying, “You must have mishandled him—upset him.”) “You didn’t mention the Parliamentary Secretary’s probable interest?”

  “No.” (My line didn’t work, so it ipso facto becomes wrong.) “Maurice, why should one fortify a request for information by mentioning any particular member of the Department, Minister or officer? If the Department want to know, then the Secretary of State wants to know, or so I was always taught.”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem to have worked very well on this occasion, does it?”

  At this moment the telephone rang and the Under Secretary picked it up.

  “Yes, Jean, put him through. Good morning, Edward. No, not yet. Have you? Did Lock say that? Did he? All right, I’ll come over and join the party. A bientôt.” He put the telephone down.

  “Well, Michael, more heavy affairs supervene. But we shall have, I think, to press this matter a little further.” (That means I must. How?) “Someone up there must be found who will say a resounding Yea or Nay about these predatory hounds. Can you please try again, and let me have half a sheet of paper to put to the Parliamentary Secretary this evening?”

  He left the room without waiting for an answer.

  “Begin then, sisters of the sacred well

  That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring …”

  “Oh Rowf—Rowf, wait a minute—I know where we are—we’ve been here before. That first night—the very first night after we escaped. It was misty, like this, only it was almost dark—after we’d left those sheep-dogs who got so angry with us, d’you remember?—and then we changed—changed into wild animals. It was here.”

  “D’you think we’re wild animals, tod?” Rowf sat on the lonely waste of Levers Hause and listened to the invisible streams below. A crow rarked somewhere in the mirk above. It was cold and raw, with cat-ice on the puddles among the rocks. Both dogs’ coats were sodden and the tod’s brush dragged dark and heavy.

  “Wild animals? Whey, mair like two aald cluckers runnin’ loose i’ th’ paddock! Cum away noo sharp! We’ve a lang lowp yet te Bull Crag.” The tod looked impatiently at Rowf, its breath steaming round its head in the still air.

  “Plenty of time, surely?” said Rowf. “Let him rest a bit.”

  “Nar, nar. Yon mist’ll be lifted afore mid-day an’ some clever boogger on th’ fell’ll spot us. Th’ whole idea o’ goin’ t’Helvellyn is that nebody sees us goin’ an’ nebody knaws we’ve come.”

  Rowf stood bristling over the tod, which cowered down but made no move to run.

  “You’re so damned clever, aren’t you, you little sneaker? As long as I do all the hard work and get hurt killing your meals—”

  “Howway, steady, noo, steady, bonny lad! Ne need te gan on so. Give ower! Listen, d’ye knaw why, though there’s nowt but th’ three of us, w’ still alive, wi’ hundreds—mebbies thousands—o’ men that’d be glad te kill us?”

  “I know.” Snitter lifted his leg against a rock and sat down again with the flap of one ear falling rakishly into the cleft in his head. “I’ve just realized why. They wouldn’t dare. I’ve only to go and drown, or jump under a lorry, and the sky will fall down and all the men will die. Have you ever thought of that, Rowf? That puts us one ahead of them all right.”

  Rowf made no answer.

  “The mouse went down a gully in the floor,” went on Snitter. “That’s why he’s alive. D’you know where that gully is? I do. Sometimes, if I shut my eyes quickly, I can actually catch a sight of his tail. He’s made of newspaper, you know—a boy puts him through the hole in the door—I mean the floor—every morning. The whitecoats made the hole—a long, narrow one—with their knives. Right? Well, now then—”

  “Aa’ll tell th’ pair on yez why.” The tod’s harsh whisper silenced Snitter. “Them menfolk—the’ aall mistrust an’ cheat each other-aye shovin’ an’ fightin’. Us tods knaw that. Divven’t ye turn thet way, an’ mebbies we’ll fettle th’ booggers yet. Yor ne wild animals—if ye wor, ye’d knaw th’ same as Aa knaw, wivoot th’ need te be telt. Ah’m not lettin’ ye bide here fer a start—yon mist’s ganna lift, an’ b’ then we’ve te be up on th’ Crinkles, up ahight there, where none’ll spy ye oot—neether ye nor him, wiv ‘is bonny magpie jacket. Noo, ne messin’, let’s away!”

  They set off once more along the Hause. Snitter brought up the rear, singing to himself in a quiet whine.

  “The whitecoats dyed a mouse bright blue

  And stuffed his ears with sneezing glue.

  They shone a biscuit in his eye

  To see what lay beyond the sky.

  The mouse, he knew not what he did,

  He blew them up with a saucepan lid.

  So they were drowned in blackest milk—”

  “Will you shut up about drowning?” said Rowf. “Singing nonsense—”

  “It passes the time.” Snitter was apologetic.

  “There are other ways to pass the time.”

  “And to pass these rocks too. But not before I’ve passed this turd.”

  Snitter crouched trembling in the cold, and then hurried after the two trotting shapes already disappearing into the mist over Great How Crags.

  “But how on earth could they have found that out so quickly?” asked Mr. Powell, handing back the press cutting from the Orator which Dr. Boycott had laid on his desk without a word.

  “There’s very little there, actually, when you come to boil it down,” answered Dr. Boycott. “Nothing they couldn’t have got from the police at Coniston. In fact, that’s almost certainly where they did get it from.”

  “But I never even told the policeman my name—”

  “He may know it anyway—it’s a very small point, however they got it. The real awkwardness is that you ever went over to Seathwaite at all.”

  “How could I avoid it? The policeman said he’d come on purpose—”

  “And you instantly dropped what you were doing and went off with him almost as though we’d been expecting him to come. It’s a great pity you were in the place so early.”

  “But damn it, what else could I do? The policeman said the dog had a green collar—”

  “You should have said that the station saw no reason to send someone rushing off to Dunnerdale and that you’d report the matter to the Director as soon as he came in.”

  “I did say that—the last bit, anyway—and the policeman wouldn’t have it.”

  “He couldn’t have compelled you to go with him, Stephen. Now it looks as though we acknowledged our connection with the matter instantly—which is exactly what you did do, in effect.”

  “Surely it’d have looked a lot worse, chief, if the police had gone there alone and then brought the dog back here themselves?”

  “Not at all. Indeed, one might well say, ‘If only they had!’ In that case, we could simply have said thank you very much, taken the dog in, destroyed it and burnt the body. It’s not an offence to possess a dog that raids a dustbin, and in the absence of any proof that it had been killing sheep, that would have been the end of the whole business and we’d have been home and dry, without even a body that anyone could identify.”

  “Well, I’m sure I meant to act in the best interests of the station—”

  “No doubt. Well, it can’t be helped now, Stephen. What I wanted to say was this. In the light of these recent develo
pments—the Ministry were on the telephone yesterday evening, you know—”

  “Oh, were they?”

  “They were indeed. I fended them off fairly briskly as far as yesterday goes—but I’ll come back to that in a minute. What I want to say is that the Director has now decided that in all the circumstances our best course will be to take the bull by the horns and make a short announcement, simply to the effect that two dogs escaped, and the date when they did so. We can’t go on saying we won’t say a word-not if Whitehall are determined to poke their noses in and make a fuss. For the life of me I can’t see why they should be, though. We’re situated in the locality—obviously we didn’t want locals knowing dogs escaped if we could help it. But a few sheep—and even that poor fellow’s death, though they never succeeded in pinning it on the dogs—why ever should Whitehall bother? Those things are surely very local, even if they are unfortunate.”

  “P’raps some old worry-guts up there’s afraid of a local M.P. digging up the Sablon Committee’s recommendations and the planning permission and all that.”