The Plague Dogs (56 page)

"The bloody cow!" he said aloud. "Good God! What did she—? Well, Christ, I'll see her for a start, anyway."

He turned up the collar of his duffle-coat, poked two of the toggles through the loops and pulled on his gloves.

"A line, a line, I gotta think of a line! The good journalist ignores no event that takes place, but turns all to his advantage.' Yes, but what the hell can I do with this?" He stamped his foot on the floor in frustration, and once again the dog barked in the basement. A female voice called soothingly, "Lie down, Honey. Wassa fuss-fuss, eh? There's a girl!"

"Darling doggies!" yelled Digby Driver, in inspiration and triumph. "Stares you in the face, dunnit? And with just a bit of luck it's got everything, Harbottle and all! O God, give me time, just time, that's all! What ho for the great British public!"

He dashed out into the winter dawn. Two minutes later the tyres of the green Toledo were sizzling down the wet road to Dalton-in-Furness.

Ravenglass, on the coast south-west of Muncastcr Fell, has a railway station (other than Ratty), a pub, a post office, two to three hundred inhabitants and a single street two hundred yards long. All round it lie the sands and channels of the estuary of the Irt, Mite and Esk, and it is sheltered from the Irish Sea outside by the low, sandy peninsula of the Drigg nature reserve—two miles of dunes and marram grass—which covers the estuary as its flap a letterbox.

As long ago as 1620 the place was noted for gulls' eggs and for the numbers of waders and sea-birds attracted to the feeding-grounds of these shallow, tidal waters. It is not a spot where strangers can expect to go unremarked for long—not in winter, not in the early morning, not if they happen to be plastered across the newspapers and wanted in three counties. Was it Harold Tonge, perhaps, the landlord of the Pennington Arms, who first saw Snitter dancing in the street at sight of a real lamp-post? Or his trusty henchman Cec., having a look up and down the windy, gull-tumbled street, who recognised the grim shape of Rowf lifting his leg against a white wall below a fuchsia hedge? Or perhaps Mrs. Merlin, the postmistress, emptying a metal waste-paper basket doing-doing against the rim of a dustbin, caught sight of a black-and-white, cloven head looking perplexedly at the stony beach and seaweed-strewn pebbles below the houses? Before the outgoing tide had laid bare the sands of the estuary, conviction and consternation had flooded the village.

Incredible as it might be, these were the Plague Dogs, walking the street in bewilderment and broad daylight. Fasten your gates, lock up the stores, bring all the cats and dogs indoors. Get on the qul vive, the telephone and the stick. Grimes is at his exercise. Those who despise us we'll destroy.

The instant Annie Mossity opened the front door, Digby Driver had his foot in it. At the look on his face she started back. "Mr. Driver—what—what—you're very early—I—"

Digby Driver pushed past her, turned, slammed the door and stood facing her in the hall.

"Mr. Driver, what's the meaning of this intrusion? I can't talk to you now. I'm just going—"

Without a word, Digby Driver drew out the letter and held it up. For a moment she caught her breath and her eyes opened wide. The next, she had recovered herself. Her hand moved towards the Yale lock.

"Mr. Driver, will you please leave my house at—"

Driver put his two hands on her shoulders and spoke quietly.

"You can scream the bloody place down, you cruel, cold-hearted bitch! Now get this—I'm not going to be lied to and messed around any more, see, whatever you do to other people. I haven't got much time; and you're not dealing with a gentleman now, either, so just watch it, because I'm angry. If you try fainting or throwing hysterics, all that'll happen is you'll wish you hadn't, got it? Now, listen.

Your brother knows that that's his dog, and he knows that it's alive. You didn't tell him you'd sold it, did you? You told him it ran away. Why did you let me think your brother was dead? Why? Come on, Mrs.

Bloody Moss, you dirty, lying cow, tell me the truth or I'll break your neck, so help me Christ I will! I'm angry, see, and I might forget myself!"

"Mr. Driver, don't you dare to lay hands on me! You'll regret it—" He stood back.

"Are you afraid of me?"

She nodded, staring.

"So you damn' well ought to be. Well, the remedy's in your own hands. Tell me the truth and I'll go. And mind it is the truth this time. Because if it's not, I'll make the whole blasted country loathe the name of Mrs. Moss, you see if I don't!"

When one rogue has been found out in the deception of another, the scene is seldom an edifying one. Mrs. Moss, sobbing, sank down on a hall chair, while Mr. Driver stood over her like Heathcliff getting to work on Isabella Linton.

"I—I—always hated the dog! I hoped—hoped my brother would get married—he used to make use of the dog to tease me—I know he did—the house always so untidy and—and mud all over the floor—my. brother didn't care! The dog caused the accident—people saw it—they told me—the dog ran on the crossing and my brother ran out after it. I hated the dog—why should I be expected to keep it

— oh!—oh!—"

"Come on," said Driver. "What else?"

"I sold the dog to the research people. They promised me I'd never see it again! They said it would never leave the station alive."

"You took it up there yourself? And you took the money and spent it on yourself, didn't you?

Keep talking."

"When you came to see me, I knew that if I told you my brother was—was alive you'd go and see him and he'd get to know what had happened. And then I realised you thought he was dead, so I let you go on thinking—why shouldn't I?—oh, hoo, hoo! I'm frightened, Mr. Driver, I'm frightened of you

—"

"You needn't be, Mrs. Moss, you rotten, spiteful sow, because I'm leaving your shit-house now.

You'll be delighted to know I'm on my way to see your brother in the hospital. And I can let myself out, thanks."

He left her drawing shuddering breaths where she sat on the chair, closed the front door behind him and strode swiftly down the path to the gate. He was surprised to realise that not all his indignation was for himself. lilt's not possible," said Major Awdry. "Ravenglass? There 'must be some mistake. Two other dogs. Fog of war and that."

"How about asking one of the 'copters to go down, sir?" suggested the R. S. M.

"He can be there in a few minutes and report to us on the R/T. Then if necessary we can call both companies straight in. If it really is our dogs at Ravenglass, they can't 'ardly run no further, and we could be down there by eleven-thirty at latest."

"Yes, good idea," said Awdry, putting down his teacup. "How far is it to Ravenglass by road, Mr. Gibbs?"

"About ten mile I make it, sir," answered the sergeant-major, consulting his map.

"Twenty-five minutes, then, once they're embussed. Sergeant Lockyer, can you call up Lieutenant-Commander Evans, please? I'd like to have a word with him myself."

"That was one of the flies out of my head, Rowf."

"Scared me stiff. I thought it was going to come down and crush us. The noise alone's enough to

—"

"There's nowhere to hide—nowhere to go. What'll we do?"

"Snitter, it's coming back! Run, run!" Bushes flattened in a tearing wind, all else blotted out by the smacking blat-blat-blat of the blades. Terrified, aware of nothing but fear, all senses—smell, sight, hearing—overwhelmed with fear like green grass and branches submerged in a flooding beck, Snitter and Rowf ran across the shifting stones and shingle, on to the pools and brown weed of the tideline and down to the bare ebb-tide sands. "Over here, Snitter, quick!"

"No, not that way! This way—this way!"

"No—that way!" Rowf voiding his bowels with fear. "Away from the people! Look at them up there! They're watching us! I won't go back in the tank! I won't go back hi the tank!" From the shore of Ravenglass across to the Drigg peninsula is a quarter of a mile of water at high tide, but at low tide the Mite and Irt flow in a narrow channel down the centre of the sands and it is possible to cross almost dry-shod. As the helicopter turned and remained hovering a hundred yards away, Rowf, with Snitter hard on his tail, raced down the sands and plunged into the outfall, found a footing, lost it again, struggled, flung up his head, scrambled, clawed and dragged himself out on the further side.

Shaking the water out of his shaggy coat, he looked about him. The sodden body of a dead gull, evidently left by the tide, was lying a few yards away. He himself was bleeding from one hind paw.

Snitter, carried down with the current, had fetched up against a rock and was clambering out. The helicopter had not moved. Ahead rose the smooth, sandy dunes, one behind another, tufts of marram grass blowing against the sky. "No men up there, Snitter! Come on!"

Running again, wet sand cold between the claws, dry sand blowing into eyes and nostrils, sound of-breaking waves beyond the hillocks; raucous cries of gully. "Rowf! Look!"

Rowf stopped dead in his tracks, hackles rising.

"It's the sea, Rowf—the sea the tod told me about that day, after I'd come out of my head! I remember what he said. He said, 'Salt and weeds. It's all water there.' I didn't understand how a place could be all water. Look—it's moving all the time."

"It's not alive, though. It's another of those damned tanks. They've turned the whole world out there into a tank! I wouldn't have believed it."

"The sand's nice and warm, all the same," said Snitter, lying down at the foot of a dune. "No men. Out of the wind."

He curled himself up as the song of the waves stole gently along the shore and through the whorls of his broken skull.

"You have licked clean the bitter bowl And now need wander on no more. The charm's wound up and dosed the scroll, For you have reached the furthest shore. Lie down and rest, poor dog, before Your great sea-change cerulean, ; And sleeping, dream that we restore The lost dog to the vanished man,"

"I wish—I wish I could see my master just once again,". murmured Snitter. "We were always so happy. That poor terrier—I'd have tried to help her if I hadn't been so frightened. I wonder what'll happen to them all now—the terrier and the lorry—the mouse and all the rest of them? I'm afraid they won't be able to manage without me. They'll disappear, I suppose. But I must go to sleep now—I'm so tired. Good old Rowf—I must try to remember —remember what the tod said—"

Rowf, too, had lain down in the sand and was sleeping as a dog sleeps who has wandered for two nights and a day. The tide was still ebbing and the sound of the waves receding, gentler and softer.

The helicopter remained where it was, poised above Ravenglass, for the dogs were in full view through binoculars and there was nothing to be gained by disturbing them as the soldiers drove up, got out of their buses and fell in outside the Pennington Arms.

Major Awdry, having located the dogs, was half of a mind simply to take a rifle and cross the estuary by himself. On second thoughts, however, it seemed best to send a platoon across in extended order, for the dogs had already shown themselves remarkably resourceful and even now might try to escape northward towards Drigg. No .7 platoon, swearing at the prospect of more wet feet and wet boots, crunched down the shingle, deployed on the sands and began crossing the estuary. Awdry and the platoon commander carried loaded rifles.

It was too early for visitors at the hospital and Digby Driver, in the hall, was referred to a notice confirming the hours; however, as the reader will have no difficulty in believing, he knew a trick worth two of that. He spoke forcefully of urgent and pressing business, flashed his press card and offered, if desired, to bring Sir Ivor Stone in person to the telephone. The West Indian sister, an Orator reader, knew his name and found his check rather attractive. The hospital were not altogether unused to bending the rules for visitors on a Saturday and anyway the nurses felt sorry for the nice, gentlemanly Mr. Wood, who had suffered such dreadful injuries and had so few visitors. He was, Digby Driver learned, at present convalescent in a small post-operational ward of only two beds. The other bed was empty at the moment, the patient having been discharged on Friday. Putting out his cigarette and following the directions he had been given, Mr. Driver walked, breathing the familiar hospital smell, along numerous corridors, went up in a lift, and upon getting out found himself opposite the right door.

Mr. Wood, who had ceased to expect any reply to his letter, was surprised and gratified to find Digby Priver at his bedside. He looked wretchedly ill and explained that he still had a good deal of pain in his left leg, which had been broken in two places.

"It'll never be as good as it was, I'm told," he said. "Still, I shall be able to walk again—after a fashion—and drive a car; and I'll be able to get back to work, of course, which'll be everything. But Mr.

Driver, kind of you as it is to come here, I'm sure you didn't make the journey simply to hear about my health. Can you tell me about the dog in the photograph? Is it my dog?"

"You tell me," answered Driver. "There are the originals." And he laid them on the sheet before Mr. Wood's eyes.

"Why, that is Snitter!" cried Mr. Wood. "There's not a doubt of it!" He looked up with his eyes full of tears. "Good God, what have they done to him? However could he have fallen into their hands? I can't bear to look at it. Mr. Driver, please tell me at once—where is the dog? Have they killed him or what?"

"Look," said Driver, "I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid the truth is that they may have. The two dogs were seen in Eskdale late last night and soldiers are searching the valley for them at this moment, with orders to shoot on sight. They certainly wouldn't listen to anything I could say, but if they'll let you out of here, I'll drive you up to Eskdale myself and give you all the help I can."

"Well, they can't legally stop me discharging myself.

Tou're most kind. But it's going to be a hell of a business, can only walk with someone else's help. I can stand e pain, but I get very tired."

"I'm someone else, Mr. Wood."