The Plague Dogs: A Novel Page 42

  “That’s only the paraffin man,” said Snitter, settling himself comfortably. “He usually comes round about now. Can’t you smell him and his van? Fairly stinks the place out, doesn’t it?”

  A spectral odour of paraffin stole through the vault, indistinct yet undeniably present, like the twinking of bats at twilight. Rowf trembled where he crouched. His very senses seemed outside his own body. He heard a car pass by, over the curve of the world and down the other side. Above him an invisible flock of starlings flew cackling on their evening way, an impalpable bluebottle settled on his ear, and always the long, oval, glittering leaves nodded and rustled about him.

  “Here he comes,” whispered Snitter gaily, “out of the door, look, old brown coat, scarf and all. On his way to poke some paper into the red box, you bet! Look—no, through here—see him? Come on, let’s give him a surprise!”

  But now Rowf could perceive nothing. There was only the glimmer of the rocky wall and something like a bank of mist blowing nearer and nearer across a desolate, windy field.

  “Here he comes!” said Snitter again. “Can’t see him now for the bushes, but you can hear him, can’t you? He’ll go right past us in a moment.”

  Rowf turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of the approaching footsteps crunching on the gravel with a sound faint as that of blown leaves.

  “O tallywack and tandem!” whispered Snitter, quivering with mischievous excitement. “Here we go! You can jump the gate all right, can’t you? It’s not a high one, you know. Don’t be nervous—he always loves a joke.”

  The mist enveloped Rowf completely. He lay tense in a directionless, scentless obscurity where there was neither up nor down, a void in which a raindrop would become lost on its way from clouds to earth. He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth to break the windless silence.

  Suddenly Snitter’s body struck violently against his own. He fell to one side and found himself struggling and kicking on the floor of the cavern.

  “Rowf! Oh Rowf, it’s the huntsman, the huntsman with his red coat! They’ve torn the poor tod to pieces! They’re coming! They’re coming!”

  As the spare, bent-kneed huntsman came panting through the rhododendrons, knife in hand, Snitter tried to burrow under Rowf’s flank and then, in frenzy, bit him in the haunch; a moment after, he fled yelping out of the cave, away from the smoke-breathed, shadowy hounds bounding into it through the cleft in his head. By the time that Rowf, cursing and bleeding, had picked himself up and followed him outside, he had already reached the upper end of the tarn.

  When sheer exhaustion brought him to a halt at last by the beck above Long House Farm, he did not at first recognize Rowf, turning on him, as he came up, with bared teeth and white, staring eyes. Rowf, still half-stupefied by the illusion which he had shared and by his two-mile pursuit of Snitter down the hillside, dropped, panting, on the other side of the beck, and after a time Snitter came hesitantly across to him, sniffing him over like a stranger, but saying nothing. Little by little—as though his sight were clearing—he returned to the surrounding realities of night, of the fell, the chattering beck, the clouds and starlight; and an hour later the two got up and wandered away together, refugees without destination or purpose, except never to return to the cavern.

  Thus it was that when, on the following afternoon, a section of No. 7 Platoon, B Company, 3rd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment, patrolling the southern and eastern faces of the Grey Friar, entered and searched the old coppermine shaft, they found no more than either No. 9 Platoon, patrolling the Goat’s Water area, or No. 10 Platoon, searching from Walna Scar across to the fellside north of Dow Crag. The mysterious Plague Dogs had vanished once again.

  CONFIDENTIAL

  To: The Director, A.R.S.E.

  Your confidential instruction, reference KAE/11/77, of yesterday’s date, relating to and covering a copy of the Secretary of State’s personal letter to yourself about the necessity of effecting, as an urgent and immediate matter, reductions in expenditure throughout the station, asks heads of sections to submit two reports by close of play tonight: the first to deal with experimental work and projects (both “going concerns” and those “in the pipeline”) which can practicably be either deferred or dropped altogether; the second with feasible reductions in staff, either by transfer to other scientific establishments or alternatively by outright dismissal. This report deals with the second of those matters.

  It is recommended first, that it would be both prudent and practicable to dispense with the supernumerary post of “assistant” to Tyson, the livestock keeper and shed warden. This “assistant” is a local school-leaver of sixteen named Thomas Birkett, who was engaged more or less casually last August on the suggestion of Tyson himself. The post is surplus to establishment and this in itself may be felt to constitute a good and sufficient reason for terminating it forthwith, since it might well come under criticism in the event of station staffing becoming subject to any kind of independent examination from outside. In addition to that consideration, Birkett has not shown himself, during the few months he has been here, to be much of an asset, and it seems doubtful whether even Tyson would be likely to put up much resistance to his departure. The matter has not, of course, been mentioned as yet to Tyson, but I will discuss it with him if the proposed dismissal is approved. It will be appreciated that one effect of retrenchment throughout the station will be to diminish Tyson’s work, and the departure of his “assistant” could undoubtedly be justified to him on those grounds.

  After prolonged and careful consideration, I have concluded that we should also part with Scientific Officer Class II, Mr. Stephen Powell. Mr. Powell has been with the station since early this year and has shown himself capable of honest work of an average standard. While he certainly cannot be said to be a liability, at the same time his capacity is in no way outstanding. On at least one occasion he has allowed himself to express inappropriately emotional feelings about a proposed experimental project, although in fairness one should add that this was shortly after he had been ill with influenza. More disturbingly, he has displayed unsound judgement in handling an unexpected crisis, and on his own admission spent working time drinking with a newspaper reporter in a public house while returning from an official errand (which he would have done better not to have undertaken at all) on behalf of the station. It is possible- and I wish to emphasize that it is no more than a possibility—that he may on that occasion have been guilty of a breach of security. This is a matter which I would in the normal way have pursued with him, but since it came to light only recently, it seems better to leave it over, pending the decision on his proposed dismissal. What is indisputable is that an embarrassing breach of security occurred, and that shortly before it occurred Mr. Powell was drinking in a pub with the newspaper reporter who was responsible for it. I am, of course, ready to discuss further if desired.

  I wish to stress that in the normal way no question of Mr. Powell’s dismissal would arise. Both as a man and as a scientist he is somewhat immature, but capable of acceptable work. However, his ability is in no way outstanding, his “copy-book” is not entirely “unblotted,” and you have said that we are positively required to recommend staff reductions at the level of scientific officers of his class. He is unestablished (by a few weeks) and can therefore be transferred or dismissed without raising any serious establishment problem. In a word, he is expendable.

  I should find it difficult, even in the state of play envisaged for the future, to recommend further staff reductions. It is, of course, as I realize, a case of seeing how little we can get away with. May I conclude, however, by saying that I will be very ready to go over the ground, as far as my section is concerned, at the Heads of Section conference convened for 2:30 p.m. tomorrow?

  (signed) J. R. Boycott

  Friday the 26th November

  In the darkness of the early small-hours, Digby Driver lay sleeping the sleep of the unjust, his dreams flickering upwards from the incongruously honest, but
cryptic and therefore unheeded, caves of the unconscious like marsh-gas rising through the ooze of a bog. Images and even phrases capered within his sleeping skull like lambent, phosphorescent corkscrews. Miss Mandy Pryce-Morgan—an animal given to him (or to somebody) for his pleasure—clad in a gown of transparent airline tickets and a bullfighter’s red cape, was reading to him from a silver-mounted copy of the London Orator.

  “POLITICIAN CHEWS WRITER’S MEMORY ON FELL,” read Miss Pryce-Morgan. “SCUBA DIVERS PROBE TARN IN BID TO ESTABLISH DOGS’ INNOCENCE.”

  “Poet Wordsworth, celebrated Lakeland sheep, got a shock yesterday.” She paused.

  “The reason?” moaned Digby Driver automatically, tossing and turning where he lay.

  “He found one of his odes had been chewed up by Mr. Basil Forbes, the Parliamentary Secretary. Mr. Forbes, in an exclusive press statement to the Orator, said, ‘I ode him nothing. Anyone alleging otherwise is up the Walpole. In any event, Mrs. Ann Moss has now sold herself to Animal Research for experimental purposes, and a dog has bitten the Secretary of State. Cet animal est très méchant. Quand on l’attaque, il se défend:

  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 beyo
nd 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.