The Plague Dogs: A Novel Read online

  It will have been about an hour later that their bedraggled forms were seen, lurking at the bottom of his garden, by Roy Greenwood, former Himalayan mountaineer and Outward Bound instructor, the vicar of Ulpha-with-Seathwaite. Roy, as was his practice, had got up in the dark of the winter’s morning to pray for two hours before breakfast and a full day’s work; and as he knelt in intercession for the sins and grief of the world and the misery of its countless victims, human and animal, he caught sight, through the window, of two furtive shapes beneath the bare ash trees, where Japanese-faced tomtits swung on a bone suspended from a branch and brown, sea-trout-harbouring Duddon overflowed its banks below.

  Harter Fell

  Roy knew little or nothing of the Plague Dogs, for he could not afford the London Orator and had in any case more urgent and important things to do than read it—such as visiting the sick, lonely and afflicted, or giving one or other of the local farmers a hand out with yows. He had, indeed, vaguely heard some local talk, but this did not now return to mind. He could see that the dogs were famished and in distress, so he went outside and tried to get them to come to him, but they would not. Then—having precious little else to give them—he went in and got the greater part of what had been going to be his own breakfast, together with all he could find edible among the scraps (which was not much). This he put outside and, since he still could not induce the dogs to approach, went back indoors. When, an hour and a half later, he set out for Seathwaite, largely breakfastless, the food was gone and so were the dogs. This (it is interesting now to record) was the last person to have any real contact with the dogs before the end and the only person, apart from Mr. Ephraim and Vera Dawson, who showed them any kindness throughout the time that they were at large.

  Exactly where they spent that stormy Friday, while the sodden, cursing soldiers searched for them from Walna Scar to the Grey Friar and over to Wreynus Pass, is uncertain and perhaps not really important. But during some of the daylight hours—those of the afternoon, perhaps—they must have crossed, unseen by anyone in the dismal weather, the deserted wastes of Ulpha Fell and Birker Moor, and so come down into Eskdale. Probably they went almost as far north as Harter Fell and then down by Kepple Crag, crossing the swollen Esk by the bridge near Penny Hill, for Rowf would hardly have faced the thunder of Dalegarth Force, or even Birker Force in spate after twenty hours’ continuous rain. At all events, we know that by nightfall they were not far from the Woolpack—that justly illustrious pub, with its excellent beer, slate flagstones and snug, draughtless rooms—for here, only a short while after closing time, they committed their last depredation when, appearing suddenly out of the darkness, they pushed past Mrs. Armstrong, the licensee, as she was about to close the back door, grabbed a tongue and a cold roast chicken from the kitchen table and made off with them in a matter of seconds. If Mrs. Armstrong were not a most competent and practical lady, the Woolpack would not be the pub it is; but black Rowf, snarling like a wolf, was an alarming sight and in addition had all the advantage of surprise. Snitter, with his green collar and cloven skull, would by now have been recognized anywhere from Barrow to Carlisle. As he followed Rowf at a run along the steep, zig-zag path leading from the back of the Woolpack up to Great Barrow and the Eel Tarn, Mrs. Armstrong was already—and very understandably—on the telephone. Before midnight Major Awdry, second-in-command of the 3rd Parachute Battalion and officer in charge of Operation Gelert, had appreciated the situation and drawn up his plan; and soon after dawn on Saturday morning the two companies of airborne soldiers, browned off at the shortage of sleep but consoled by the prospect of a quick end to the business, were already moving into their allotted positions.

  “—so I’m afraid that’s really the long and short of it,” said Dr. Boycott.

  Mr. Powell remained standing by the window in silence. His face wore a puzzled expression and he had something of the air of a man who, having just been stopped in his tracks by a bullet or a heavy blow, has not yet begun to feel the pain. He seemed not to know what to make of Dr. Boycott’s news.

  “There’s really no need to let it upset you,” went on Dr. Boycott after a pause. “In fact, you know, it might very well turn out to be a blessing in disguise. We don’t want you to think of it as a dismissal; you’re not being dismissed at all, you’re being transferred in your grade. I don’t know where, yet. It might be Porton Down, it might be somewhere else.”

  “There’s still the question of why me and not anyone else,” said Mr. Powell, looking out at the gulls circling above the fell in the rainy, silver sunset.

  “Well, obviously we can’t discuss the matter in those terms,” said Dr. Boycott, with the matter-of-fact briskness of one prepared to do anything reasonable but to entertain nothing foolish.

  “Has there been some sort of report and if so can I see it?” asked Mr. Powell.

  “Now, Stephen, you really must be sensible about this,” said Dr. Boycott. “You know very well that even if there were a report you couldn’t see it. You’re quite entitled to an interview with the Director if you wish, but he’ll only tell you the same as I’m telling you. And I repeat it: this is a transfer in your grade. It will mean no loss of pay and no loss of prospects. It’s primarily an unfortunate matter of expediency—an experiment in retrenchment, if you like, that we’ve been told we’ve got to carry out. That’s the right way to look at it. One has to think of the job first. We all do.”

  “An experiment. Yes, well, I can see that.” What Mr. Powell could actually see were the outspread, barely moving wings of the gulls, at one and the same time gliding and remaining, like a spiralling eddy in a beck. He had not in fact been enabled by Dr. Boycott’s last utterance to arrive at any new way of looking at the matter, and this was not surprising, since that utterance added nothing whatever to what he had already been told. But he was not by temperament a fighter, being naturally disposed to respect his superiors and to proceed upon the assumption that their wishes were probably right and justified. His. normal inclination was to co-operate with them and accept what he was told.

  Suddenly he blurted out, “Only—only you see, chief, I—er—well, I didn’t really want to make a move just at the moment. I mean, the upheaval of a move—all the—well, I mean, the disturbance and that. It’s—er—someone—well, I mean, personal reasons, sort of, you know—”

  Dr. Boycott looked down at his blotting-pad in silence. What might this be—a mistress—some crypto-homosexual friendship? He knew Mr. Powell to be immature and ingenuous. He hoped he was not about to say anything embarrassing. Mr. Powell, however, seemed to have come to a full stop.

  “Well,” replied Dr. Boycott at length, “I can only repeat, Stephen, that you’re quite entitled to see the Director if you like. I’m sure he’d welcome a chat in any case. You’ve done us all a good turn, you know, that’s quite clear. You must never think anything else. We all wish you well and I’m sure you’ll go on to do great things. Anyway, you certainly don’t have to get up and go this minute: you do appreciate that, I hope.” He smiled. “We’ve got to find you a job commensurate to your abilities and potential, you know. You really mustn’t let it worry you. Think it all over this week-end and if you like we’ll certainly have another word on Monday; although I don’t honestly know whether there’s anything I shall be able to add.” After a pause he went on, “By the way, we’ve got another dog to spare now for that water immersion experiment, so we’ll be able to make a fresh start on that before you go. Could you be looking out the papers on the first dog—you know, the former number seven-three-two? And now good night; and mind you have a really good break over the week-end.”

  “Yeah, righty-o. Thanks, chief. Thanks very much. Good night.”

  Mr. Powell went out into the long corridor and walked slowly down it, hands in pockets, rocking first on one foot and then on the other, toe-heel, toe-heel, like a man lost in thought. Yet what his thoughts were he could not have said. The boy Tom came towards him, carrying a long wire cage of guinea-p
igs, and he moved to one side to let him pass. At the far end of the corridor he paused for a time by the window, looking down at the beck, which had risen to submerge the tussocks of grass and tufts of bog myrtle growing along its banks. There was a trailing branch which dipped continually into the water, was swept backwards and out again by the force of the current and then, rebounding from the extremity of the thrust, once more sprang forward and plunged itself under the surface. He wondered how long it had been doing this and when its pliancy would be exhausted: then idly took a stop-watch from his pocket and timed the little cycle. During a full minute, it did not vary from a regular three and two fifths seconds. Well done, branch. Still plenty of resilience and no sign of letting up.

  After a while he went across to Lab. 4, took off his white coat, washed his hands and made preparations to go home, packing into his despatch case his newspaper, a nasal spray and pen left on his desk, a phial of corrosive acid for his domestic do-it-yourself kit (the habitual misappropriation of which from laboratory stock saved him a trifle) and some papers which he had intended to look at over the week-end.

  Suddenly he threw down his mackintosh, walked quickly across to the balance cupboard and opened it. The cylinder, secured by its clip, was standing in the far corner. There were no sounds of movement, but he noticed some condensed drops of moisture round the ventilation holes. The slate showed 41+ days. Mr. Powell unclipped the heavy cylinder, lifted it out with both hands, carried it over to a bench and unscrewed the top.

  The monkey was crouching in a foetal posture, knees drawn up to chin and head bowed between them. It did not move as he peered in. There was a stench of ordure mixed with disinfectant.

  Mr. Powell reached in and lifted the monkey out by the scruff of the neck. It made no resistance and he thought it must be unconscious, but as he gently raised its head with one finger and thumb it opened its eyes and immediately closed them once more against the unaccustomed light. Mr. Powell tucked it under his coat, screwed down the top and put the cylinder back in the balance-cupboard, draped his mackintosh over his shoulders and went out to his car.

  Saturday the 27th November

  It was about half past seven and the rain had ceased. On the open gravel in front of the Woolpack, Major John Awdry, M.C., stood briefing company and platoon commanders in the first light. It was a mild enough morning, though very wet underfoot, and at least one thrush could be heard from a mountain-ash down by the Esk, as well as two robins who were asserting themselves to one another from opposite ends of the Woolpack garden.

  “O.K., now just to recap,” said Major Awdry. “The dogs were seen here, on these premises, hardly more than eight hours ago. They’re almost certainly not far away, and if that’s correct the nature of the area should enable us, with the help of the helicopters, first to surround them and then—well, to shoot them. B company will go three miles down the valley to Eskdale Green, where they’ll deploy two platoons north of the Esk and two south; got the northern and southern extremities of the line of advance marked, haven’t you?”

  Captain Cranmer-Byng, commanding B company, nodded.

  “Then at 08:30 hours you begin moving eastward up the Esk valley in an unbroken line, maintaining lateral communication by whistle, Very light, eyesight and anything else you like. You search any cover that might conceal the dogs; copses, of course, thoroughly, but also sheds, recesses in river banks, sheepfolds, bloody paper bags—the lot. And you do NOT repeat NOT on any account break the line of advance. You’re a drag net, got it? Between 11:00 and 11:30 hours the company will halt on the line Boot-Eskdale Church and company commander reports to me, unless of course the operation’s finished earlier. O.K.?”

  He glanced round. The B company platoon commanders, together with the C.S.M., who was commanding a platoon in substitution for a subaltern on leave, nodded.

  “Fine. Now meanwhile, C company will disperse its platoons to the four map references already given; at Gill Bank on Whillan Beck; Stony Tarn; Taw House; and the foot of Hard Knott Pass. There they’ll deploy as widely as practicable and at 08:30 hours they’ll start patrolling back down the lines of the Esk and the respective tributary streams, until they get here.

  “While everybody’s doing that, operational H.Q. will remain here, in R/T contact with both company H.Q.s and in ground-to-air contact with the helicopters. The two helicopters are due over fifteen minutes from now, and they’ll maintain a continuous watch on the northern and southern fells above the Esk valley, flying backwards and forwards along the 1,000-foot contour lines. If they spot the dogs anywhere along the tops, they’ll inform this H.Q. and I shall issue further orders as appropriate.

  “Now one last thing, gentlemen, and this is of the greatest importance. No one, but no one, below the rank of platoon commander is to open fire. Is that quite clear?”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Captain Reidy, “but at that rate why are the blokes carrying live ammo?”

  “I’ll tell you why,” answered Major Awdry, “and this is not to go any further. Because this damn’ Cabinet Minister, Secretary of State, whatever he is, won’t let us alone; and unless I’m very much mistaken, he sees this operation primarily as a publicity stunt for his own benefit. So orders are to carry live ammo. Intrepid paratroops—yes, real live paratroops, gentlemen, think of that—are combing the fells for the wicked Plague Dogs, all armed to the balls. And he’ll probably be here in a minute, along with the B.B.C. television, talking to private soldiers and grinning into cameras. And he knows as much about the blokes as I know about Esquimau Nell—less, I should think.

  “Yesterday afternoon, on the Grey Friar, some bloody man saw a perfectly harmless sheep-dog on a crag and popped off on his own initiative. He missed it, thank God. That dog was rounding up sheep and it belonged to a local farmer who quite rightly played merry hell. One more incident like that and we’re all in the shit. The place is stiff with newspaper reporters. Apart from that, you realize that bullets can travel three miles and ricochet off stones and God knows what? Once we get blokes like Private Lawes and Corporal Matthews loosing off at their own sweet will—” He left the sentence unfinished.

  “What’s the form then, Major, if someone spots the dogs?” asked Cranmer-Byng.

  “Keep them in sight and inform the section commander, who informs the platoon commander,” replied Awdry. “Platoon commanders are authorized to fire in person only if they’re absolutely certain that it’s safe to do so and that the dogs are beyond doubt the ones we’re looking for. Any questions?”

  “Will there be anything for the blokes to eat when they get back here, sir?” asked a platoon commander.

  “Yes, Admin, are laying on a meal for 12:00 hours, but you appreciate that that’s dependent on whether some or all of us have got to go chasing from here to Ravenglass or something.”

  “Sir.”

  “No other questions? O.K., let’s get cracking.”

  The platoons embussed and departed up and down the valley. John Awdry sat down on the bench under the sycamore tree which stands in the middle of the gravel and accepted a cigarette from the R.S.M.

  “Well, sir, doesn’t look like it’ll be much longer now,” said the R.S.M., “unless the dogs got out of the valley during the night, which ‘ardly seems likely. I don’t see how a rat could get through that lot. We ought to be back in Catterick by this evening.”

  “You’re probably right,” answered the Major. “I only wish I felt a bit more enthusiasm for the business, that’s all.”

  “Well, it’s not much, but at least it gets the lads out on a real job, sir. They’ve all been keen enough, in spite of the rain.”

  “You feel sorry for the dogs, I expect, Major, don’t you?” asked Travers, the H.Q. subaltern. “I know I do.”

  “Frankly, yes,” said Awdry. “I dislike the whole business of experiments on animals, unless there’s some very good and altogether exceptional reason in a particular case. The thing that gets me is that it’s not possible for the animals to und
erstand why they’re being called upon to suffer. They don’t suffer for their own good or benefit at all, and I often wonder how far it’s for anyone’s. They’re given no choice, and there’s no central authority responsible for deciding whether what’s done in this case or that is morally justifiable. These experimental animals are just sentient objects; they’re useful because they’re able to react; sometimes precisely because they’re able to feel fear and pain. And they’re used as if they were electric light bulbs or boots. What it comes to is that whereas there used to be human and animal slaves, now there are just animal slaves. They have no legal rights, and no choice in the matter.”

  “Well, of course, those are big questions, sir,” said the R.S.M. “But these ’ere two dogs ‘ave consumed a dead man’s body and goodness knows what.”

  “They’re animals and they were starving,” said the Major, throwing his cigarette away and rising to his feet. “They can still suffer, can’t they?”

  “Well, we don’t know how much, sir, do we?” said the R.S.M. comfortably.

  “No, not really, but it just occurs to me that creatures living entirely in the immediate present, through their physical senses, may suffer more rather than less intensely than we do. Still, I suppose you may be right about the need to shoot them, sarnt-major—public concern and all that. What I don’t like about this particular lark is what you might call the Spartacus set-up.”

  “That was a film, wasn’t it, sir? About ancient Rome?”

  “Well, the film was a lot of balls, really,” said John Awdry. “The real Spartacus was a bloke who led a slave rising in ancient Italy and got away with it for a bit because there didn’t happen to be an adequate Roman force in the country at the time. They had to bring an army back from Spain. But my point is that in the event these slaves, whose grouse was that most of them had been brought to Italy against their wills and made to exist entirely for other people’s benefit and not their own, hadn’t really got a chance. They were ignorant and disorganized. All that happened was that they went wandering about the country until they were smashed up, which is exactly what these dogs have done. Apparently one of them was being drowned in a tank of water every day, or something; so it didn’t like it and acted accordingly. And now we’re called in to shoot it at a public cost of thousands of pounds. I find that depressing. Still, you’re right about one thing, Mr. Gibbs. It’s bound to be over quite soon now. Where the hell have those R/T blokes got their feet under the table?”