The Plague Dogs (38 page)

"Firelight—newspapers crackling—my master used to put slices of bread on a sort of stick and brown them in front of the fire—it smelt nice—sometimes he . used to give me a bit—oh look, look, there are the rhododendrons, Rowf! Look, just outside! Come on!" Snitter ran out into the rainy darkness and lay down.

"Now and then that mouse has good ideas, you know. He's very small, but of course he's been ill

—"

He laid his muzzle on his paws and closed his eyes contentedly, while the rain ran in streams over his back.

"Oh, the bees, Rowf—the sun's so warm—"

"Snitter, come back inside, come on! You'd better stay in here tonight. You're not fit to go out hunting. Go to sleep; and don't go lying out in that rain, d'you see? I'll go down and find—well, I'll have a go at the dustbins. I'll bring you something back. If I don't come back by tomorrow you'd better

—you'd better—well, anyway, don't get wandering off, d'you understand?"

There was no reply. After pausing a few moments in the damp, chilly den, Rowf pushed his nose against his friend's belly. Snitter was fast asleep.

Inhabitants of the tiny, quaint lakeside village of Glen-ridding, Westmorland, on the shores of majestic Ullswater, tapped Digby Driver on his typewriter. He paused, seeking a striking and really original turn of phrase:—here in the heart of poet Wordsworth's watery homeland—still it eluded him

—here in the heart of novelist Hugh Walpole's picturesque country—; ah, here it came: got a shock yesterday. The reason? They found themselves next in line for a visit from the dreaded Plague Dogs, who are spreading a reign of terror across this quiet rural area, where hitherto the most dreaded creature for centuries has been the wolf, the last one of which was killed in 1534, the same year in which Anne Boleyn lost her head on Tower Hill while husband Henry was hunting in Richmond Park. (If that's wrong who the hell cares?) While a few are still disposed to make light of this threatening menace, many more already know with creeping dread that it is a matter not to be regarded with such detachment.

Those who think of plague in the same breath as bosomy orange-girl Nell Gwynne and bewigged diarist Samuel Pepys may soon find themselves mistaken, as the Orator'.? quest conclusively shows. Many readers will ask, when was the last outbreak of plague in England? The answer? 1910 to 1918 in Suffolk. Yes, it's true! Between these dates there were no less than 23 identified cases in that old-world county, 18 of whom died. (Clever of old Simpson to dig that one up.) COULD IT HAPPEN AGAIN?

Already, those on the spot are anxiously asking their local government officers (at least, they bloody soon will be when I've finished with them) whether any undisputed cases have yet been confirmed and what safety precautions should be taken. Can the unthinkable repeat itself? (Wonder what they'll do when this really takes hold? Fill the rag up with good stuff like this—push 'em in and let

'em swim—interesting experiment in sociological group reaction, really.) Might the mysterious dogs be about to turn our secret weapons against ourselves? Does a canine Nemesis hang over Lakeland? Farmers at Glenridding have told me personally that they were so terrified by the mere sight of the maddened, snarling brutes who invaded their hen-roosts last night that they actually threw them fowls and flung open their gates to speed their departure, not daring to shoot for fear the infected bodies might spread the ghastly pestilence in the vicinity of their own homes.

SILENCE

Meanwhile, Animal Research at Lawson Park preserves its bureaucratic silence. Yes, they deign to tell us, the dogs escaped. No, replies the Orator, the people of Britain are not satisfied. Today, in YOVR

interest, the Orator asks these questions.
WHO
let the dogs escape?
HOW
close did they come to the fleas of Death? WHY were those fleas allowed to roam at large and uncontrolled?
WHEN
will the public be told the
TRUTH
? Let us see whether the Men of Science, who are continually telling us they know all the answers, can tell us these. If they cannot, and that right soon, then the Orator says, "Write to your M.P." (For an artist's impression of the Plague Dogs, turn to page...)

"Yeah, well, Bob Grisly'd do that in half an hour if old Simpson fancies the idea. Pity we haven't got a photograph. We need a visual image, if we're going to get not just the adults but the kids steamed up about this. Kid-involvement—that's what's needed to get it really on the move. Now," said Digby Driver, looking out of the window at the soft rain drifting across Ullswater in the last light, "the immediate requirements are a telephone and two or three dry Martinis. A large steak'd come in handy, too—or some eggs and bacon, anyway. What I need in this hole just now is some joy dee veever."

Snitter woke hungry. The rain had cleared and beyond.

Ullswater the moon had risen. The waters on this starry night were as beautiful and fair as poet Wordsworth (or even novelist Hugh Walpole, come to that) could have wished. Yet it was not these which caused Snitter to feel a vague, alert uneasiness. He got up, put his head out of the shelter and listened. Something had awakened him—something which was not the ail-too familiar return of the humming in his head. He listened, but could hear nothing except the coming and going of the light wind as it patted gently against the stones of the ruined flue. Cautiously he went outside and stood looking about the empty, moonlit waste. There was still nothing to be heard but the wind and the distant stream. More than a mile to the south-west rose the enormous, symmetrical pyramid of Catstycam, its slopes falling away on all sides from the pointed summit. Remote and calm it looked, soaring, in the moonlight, far above the solitude of masterless, starving dogs. I wonder what it's like up there? thought Snitter. Perhaps it was from there that those sheep flew up into the sky. Kiff might be up there. He always used to say he'd be on a cloud— Suddenly he tensed, listening more intently. This time there could be no mistaking it. Far off it was, and faint, coming and going on the wind like the noise of the beck; a barking sound, a cry as of a dog or fox.

"It's the tod!" cried Snitter. "The tod! He's looking for us!" He leapt up and began running across the long, downward slope toward Glenridding Beck, yapping, "Tod! Tod!"

There was no reply, but still he ran on. After about a quarter of a mile he stopped and, since the wind was from the north and of no use to him, searched with his eyes among the scattered rocks. He was near the beck now; and could see below him, plainly enough, a stone sheep-fold in the angle where a second beck came in from the opposite side. And now, at this close range, he suddenly perceived a stirring in a brake of fern. He barked again and in the same moment saw, quite clearly, a terrier bitch glancing through the covert—a bitch whose appearance recalled others from the days of his old life with his Catrtycam master. Certainly she did not look like a sheep-dog—at all events, not like the unfriendly dogs which he and Rowf had met above Levers Water during the first afternoon of their escape.

"Who are you?" barked Snitter.

The bitch made no reply, but ran a little way towards him. There was something wild and shy in her motion which was puzzling.

What's the matter with her? wondered Snitter. He barked again, "You needn't be afraid of me!

I'm alone!" Then he thought, But is she? and looked round at the hollows and heights about them.

There was no human in sight. What could she be doing here? Surely there can't be a shepherd with her at this time of night?

As he waited for her to come nearer he listened uneasily, but heard neither shout nor whistle.

Whatever is she up to, all by herself? I can't seem to see her properly, either. How strange—but then I never can see anything straight when these humming fits come on, I wish I didn't feel so giddy and queer.

Suddenly the thought came to him: She's no sheep-'dog—that's plain. I wonder, can she possibly be like us—another escaper? We'd have a pack again—how splendid! What a lark for Rowf when he gets back! "Hullo, Snitter, are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, only there's two of me now! I split my head in two and made another dog! Here she is! Wuff wuff! Ho ho!" Snitter rolled on the stones and waved his legs in the air.

At this moment the other stopped in the act of climbing the nearer slope from the beck, stood gazing at him for a few moments and then began to go back by the way she had come.

"Oh, rip it and tear it!" said Snitter. "Now I've put the wind up her by acting so crazily. Wait!"

he barked. "Stop! Stop! I won't do you any harm!"

The bitch—plainly a town-dweller, both from her motion and her general air of being in a strange place—turned and once more stared at him, but then ran on, re-crossed the beck and went a short distance up the course of the tributary.

Well, she M nervous—she's worse than I am, thought Snitter. Unless I can get her to stop I suppose I'll just have to try to overtake her. I believe she has escaped from the whitecoats and they've frightened her half silly. I hope she doesn't turn out to be useless—just another mouth to feed. Still, at least I don't have to be afraid of her. It's lucky Rowf isn't here—he'd scare her all to bits.

He splashed over Glenridding Beck and pushed on up Red Tarn Beck behind his elusive quarry.

From time to time he caught glimpses of her dodging in and out of the bracken, yet whenever he laid his nose to the rain-soaked ground he could not pick up the least scent.

"Funny!" said Snitter. "That's not natural. She's no distance ahead—not as far as my master used to throw my ball. Sn'ff, sn'ff! How odd!"

At this moment he came round a boulder and at once saw the bitch not twenty lengths ahead of him. She was, if anything, rather bigger than himself, with a rough, brown coat that brushed the wet fern as she ran clumsily on.

"This is very strange!" said Snitter. "She's not trying to get away from me, that's plain. She's going quite slowly; but I can't seem to catch her. And her smell, wherever is it? Oh my dam, I believe I know—how shameful! The whitecoats must have done something to her, as they did to me, and it's destroyed her smell! Poor creature—whatever will she do! Can't tell anyone where she's been, can't excite a dog, can't leave traces—or if she can it's no good to her, if she doesn't smell. They are cruel swine—the very worst! Jimjam was right. Whatever happens to me, I'm glad I got out of there. I only wish I could see straight—it's that mouse again. Get your tail out of my eye! Oh, there she goes now!"

He crossed the line of the disused water-cut and held on up the beck. From time to time he barked, but still there was no reply.

I hope Rowf's not back yet, thought Snitter. If he is, he'll be worried to find me gone. Still, he'll be able to follow my scent, that's something. It must be as plain as the paraffin man's used to be at home. Oh, I know where she's going now. We're quite near the big tank that Rowf didn't like—the one we could see down below when I was singing to the moon that night and found the potato crisp bag.

My goodness, it's a long way up here! And that's snow, that white patch in the gully over there. Oh, fanackers, this is too much of a good thing altogether! She's off her head for sure, to lead me all this way and never answer a word.

As he came out on the dreary marsh below the outfall of the Red Tarn, he looked about him at the enormous, cliff-surrounded hollow. He was in a cove, a huge recess, marked here and there by old, snowy streaks among the almost-sheer gullies. In front was the lofty precipice of Helvellyn's eastern face, running round by the south to the gnarled line of Striding Edge black against the moon. At its foot lay the silent tarn, still and grey as a tombstone in a churchyard. When a fish splashed, a hundred yards out, Snitter jumped, nervous as a cat; and not altogether from surprise that a fish should leap at night, though he tried to tell himself that that was the reason.

Not free from boding thoughts, he remained for a while on the shore of the tarn, wondering whether he would do -better, after all, to go back. He was uneasy in this high, desolate place and was becoming less and less keen on the stranger. If she were an honest dog, why did she not behave like one? Also, he himself was beginning to feel as glass-legged as he had on Hard Knott. And if I'm to be taken badly like that again, he thought, I'll try to make sure Rowf's there this time. No more dark strangers with guns for me. Poor man! I didn't want to kill him! No, and I don't want to bring any misfortune on her, either. I'm going back now. He barked, "You're only making a fool of me!" and set off down the beck by the way he had ascended. Yet still he could not help feeling a certain curiosity about his mysterious fern-skulker. He stopped under a low, lichen-covered crag, lapped a long drink and then barked once more, "I'm going back! Can you hear me?"

"I can hear you." The answer, instant as an echo, came from immediately behind him.

Snitter leapt in the air and faced about. The stranger was standing under the crag not three lengths away. Raising a hind leg, she scratched herself a moment and then, being the bigger dog, came forward and sniffed Snitter over, Snitter standing still while she did so. Her nose felt icy cold and oddly dry.

' I was right,'' thought Snitter. ''They have taken away her smell. What a shame! There's nothing they won't do, those whitecoats.'

As the bitch sat back from him he asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Watching."

What? thought Snitter. The answer had reached him as a kind of audible mist drifting into his head. I must pull myself together: she'll think I'm even crazier than I am.

"What?" he asked. "What did you say?"

"Watching."

"Watching what?" The other said no more.

"I'm sorry," said Snitter. "Don't mind me. I believe we're both in the same sort of fix. I got out of that whitecoat place too, but they cut my head open, as you'll have noticed, and I can't always hear properly—or see straight either, come to that. I'm very sorry they've taken your—" He stopped, for it suddenly occurred to him that most likely his fellow-victim would not want to be reminded that she had been deprived of the power to communicate fear, aggression, heat and, indeed, almost everything worthwhile.