He went out into the yard and Ralph lay there, licking his wounds, thinking how close he had come to ending Kurt’s life and wishing that his aim had been a little bit better.
Chapter Eighteen
Ray Of Hope
Agnes came out to Ralph a short while later. She was carrying a bowl of hot water that smelled of antiseptic. She set the bowl down beside Ralph and looked down at him in dismay.
‘Look what a mess you’re in,’ she exclaimed. ‘Arthur says that you attacked Kurt. What on earth was that all about?’
‘I wanted to kill him,’ said Ralph, forlornly.
Agnes looked shocked at this news. ‘Whatever’s got into you, Ralph? You’ve always been such a gentle dog.’
‘Kurt has made me like this. I hate what he’s done to the farm. I thought if I killed him, maybe everything would go back to the way it was.’
Agnes dipped a cloth into the bowl and began cleaning a wound on Ralph’s neck, making him whimper.
‘It can’t ever go back,’ she wistfully. ‘It’s what people call progress.’
‘A funny kind of progress,’ said Ralph bitterly. ‘Hundreds of chickens slaughtered in minutes. If that’s progress I don’t want any part of it.’
‘People want cheap chickens,’ said Agnes defensively. ‘Arthur’s just going to supply the demand. There are plenty of others doing it.’ She transferred her attention to a wound on Ralph’s leg.
‘And you don’t think that Farmer Morton has changed?’ Ralph asked her.
She looked awkward. ‘He has changed, yes, but. . .’
‘And you know why he’s changed, don’t you?’
Agnes couldn’t seem to look him in the eye.
‘Don’t you?’ repeated Ralph.
‘The Dobermans,’ she said after a pause. ‘Yes, I know what you’re saying. Ever since they came here, he . . .’
‘He’s been under their spell,’ said Ralph. ‘Especially under Kurt’s spell. But Agnes, you know and I know that dog is pure evil.’
Agnes looked at him reproachfully. ‘He’s not evil,’ she protested. ‘He’s just . . . misguided.’
‘You don’t believe that. And I don’t believe you agree with the kind of changes that are being made here.’
‘We’ll make a lot more money,’ Agnes told him. ‘We could end up rich.’
‘And that’s what’s important, is it?’ Ralph winced as she pressed the wet cloth to a wound on his side. ‘I think you preferred Morton’s Farm as it used to be, before Kurt started passing on his ideas. I think you were happier then. We all were.’
Agnes sighed. ‘I can’t pretend that’s not the case,’ she admitted. ‘But in the end, Arthur is in charge
here. I can’t go against him. I’m his wife. But I do worry . . .’
‘About what?’
‘The Dobermans. When they first came here, Arthur promised me he was going to sell them. So I tolerated them. I thought it would only be for a short while, you know? But he didn’t sell the dogs. I asked him many times why he didn’t do that, but he never gave me a straight answer. It was almost as if they put some kind of spell on him. Then the next thing I knew, they had moved from the barn into the house and there really isn’t room for them. I tried arguing until I was blue in the face, but he just didn’t seem to listen to me. And then of course, the puppies . . . He never told me he was going to buy them. I mean, what is the point of having so many dogs? Dogs that don’t do a blessed bit of work around the place, just lie around and eat. I do wonder where it’s all going to end.’
‘You know where it’s going to end,’ said Ralph. ‘Unless we do something about it.’
Agnes laughed nervously. ‘What can we do?’ she asked. ‘I’m just a farmer’s wife. Who would take any notice of what I have to say? Certainly not Arthur. He doesn’t seem to listen to anything I say these days.’
‘Other people,’ Ralph assured her. ‘Other people would listen. I think . . . I think you need to tell them what’s happening here. People outside of the farm. People who might be able to do something about what’s going on here. If . . . if you told them what’s happening. . .’
‘What people? Oh Ralph, I don’t think you know what you’re asking! You can’t expect me to go spreading stories about Arthur. He . . . he’s invested all the money we have in this idea. He says it’s our future. A bright and wonderful future.’
‘And what about the animals’ future? Look at what’s happened over the last few weeks. Kurt won’t be happy until every last chicken in the country is gone. He’s had a grudge against them ever since that day when he ran into the chicken coop. Something happened to him that day, something that made him . . . bad.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Couldn’t you . . . write a letter or something?’
Agnes shook her head. ‘I don’t know who I’d write to,’ she said. ‘I don’t know who’d listen to me.’ She checked Ralph over and shook her head. ‘Well, that’s the best I can do for you,’ she said. ‘Those wounds are going to be painful. Try and keep out of the way of the Dobermans from now on. Don’t give them an excuse to attack you again.’ She gathered up her bowl of water and stood up to leave.
‘What makes you think you and Farmer Morton are safe from them?’ asked Ralph and she looked troubled.
‘At the end of the day,’ she said, ‘they’re just dogs. And we’re still their masters. They have to do what we tell them.’
‘You think so?’ Ralph laughed bitterly. ‘They get stronger every day. You know, I had one ally in all this. Poor old Jonah. And now even he’s gone.’
‘Gone?’ Agnes looked surprised. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, Farmer Morton didn’t tell you? They used him to test out the meat processing machines. He’s dead.’
‘Jonah?’ Agnes looked stunned by this news. ‘But . . . why would they do a thing like that? That poor old creature never harmed anybody in his life. And it’s not like you can eat goat meat, is it?’
‘It happened because he tried to stand up to Kurt,’ said Ralph. ‘And he paid the price. One day, Agnes, it could be you that Kurt is whispering about. And the day that happens, heaven help you.’
Agnes looked quite pale in the gloom of the barn. ‘It would never come to that,’ she said.
She turned away and walked quickly out of the barn.
Ralph lay there feeling the pain of his wounds spreading throughout his body. He hoped that he’d managed to get through to Agnes. He prayed that she would agree to help him. When all was said and done, she was the only hope he had left.
Now there were big changes at the farm and Ralph could only watch in dismay. The animal factory began to operate around the clock. Every morning workers arrived and the latest consignment of chickens was herded out of the enclosure and in through the open doors of the factory. Every afternoon more trucks arrived bringing a new batch of chickens, stored in wooden crates, and they were taken into the big enclosure. Each evening a coach would arrive with a new team of workers and the morning crew would climb wearily onto the coach to head home while the new team took up their positions in the animal factory. The machines ran throughout the night, the tall chimney belching smoke at the sky and Ralph would fall asleep in the barn with the sounds of the chickens’ screams ringing in his ears.
He still went out every day with Farmer Morton, but there was a distance between them now and they rarely spoke to each other. Ralph, still aching from the wounds inflicted by the Dobermans, was expected to herd the sheep and nothing more. He received no affectionate pats from his master, no kind words – and the little treats that he used to be given when he had been working particularly well were now a thing of the past.
There were other changes. Farmer Morton bought himself a new car, a big, shiny black thing and in the afternoons he often took Mrs Morton out in it, for trips into town. They had both taken to wearing expensive clothes and they would come back from town laden with bags of shopping; but Ralph noticed how pale Agnes looked and how when she returned she always s
melled of drink. Once a jolly and good-natured woman, now she seemed quiet and sullen and whenever Farmer Morton spoke to her she would answer with a nod or a shake of the head. It was as if all the life had been snuffed out of her.
When the Mortons were away Kurt and his followers patrolled the farm and that was when Ralph had to keep himself hidden, knowing that if they caught him out in the open they were likely to take revenge for his attack on their glorious leader. Ralph knew they were simply awaiting an opportunity and he also knew it was pointless to try and stand up to them alone. Ralph sometimes thought about running away from the farm, seeking a new beginning somewhere else, but he told himself that if he did that then the other creatures that remained here would have nobody on their side.
He looked for opportunities to speak to Agnes, but she rarely came out on her own. One afternoon when Farmer Morton and Agnes were getting into the car for one of their regular trips out, Farmer Morton remembered he’d left something in the house and went back inside, leaving Agnes sitting in the car. Ralph, watching from the safety of the barn, saw his opportunity and took it. He ran over to the car and looked in at her through the open driver’s door.
‘Agnes,’ he said.
She looked up at him. She seemed dazed, as though she’d just woken from a deep sleep. But she gave him a feeble smile. ‘Hello, Ralph,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re feeling a little better.’
As he looked at her, she did something strange. She opened the handbag that was sitting on her lap and took out a white envelope, which she let him see. It was a letter and he noticed a stamp in one corner, but he could not read and so could not tell who it was addressed to. Just as quickly, Agnes slipped the letter back into the bag, because now Farmer Morton was coming back out of the house. He strode around to the driver’s side, saw Ralph sitting there and gave a scowl.
‘What do you want?’ he growled.
‘I was just saying hello to Agnes,’ said Ralph.
‘Well, don’t,’ said Farmer Morton. ‘You’ve said enough to her already, filling her mind with crazy notions.’
‘I was only–’
Ralph broke off as Farmer Morton lifted a leg and swung a savage kick into his ribs, making him howl in pain. ‘Get back in the barn,’ snarled Farmer Morton. ‘I don’t like you hanging around all the time. Perhaps I should have let the Dobermans finish you off.’
Ralph limped away but not before he had seen tears brim in Agnes’s eyes and run down her cheeks. Farmer Morton got into the car, slammed the door and drove away. Ralph began to walk sadly back towards the barn, but stopped in his tracks when he heard a familiar voice.
‘Not such a favourite these days,’ said Kurt and Ralph turned to see him sitting on the front step of the farmhouse as though he owned the place. The wound on his neck had not healed and there was a livid red scar against the jet black of his coat. ‘You’ll have to be very careful, Ralph. Farmer Morton is the only thing that stands between you and me, and judging by what just happened you’re only just hanging on. The day he gives me the word, you’ll be history.’
Ralph glared at Kurt for a moment. ‘At least I’ll die with a clean conscience,’ he said.
Kurt sneered. ‘My conscience is clear,’ he said. ‘When I am gone I shall be remembered for what I have done. Who will remember you, Ralph? Who will think that you’ve ever achieved anything worth remembering?’
‘People always remember the bad things that happen,’ said Ralph.
And he walked to the barn without looking back.
Nothing surprised him any more. Taking a walk out by the pigsties, he noticed how strangely quiet it was. He jumped up onto the wall of Marmaduke’s enclosure and looked down to see that it was now completely empty. Not one of the pigs, adult or baby, remained.
Later, walking back towards the farmhouse, he became aware of an appetising smell issuing from the open door of the kitchen. He peeped in and saw something that made him want to cry. Farmer Morton was sitting at a brand new kitchen table and he was surrounded, not by dinner guests, but by the eight adult Dobermans. They were actually sitting up on chairs as though they thought themselves human.
Mrs Morton, a pale, silent ghost of her former self, was carrying a huge platter of sausages to the table. She set it down and quickly left the room as though she could no longer stand to be in her husband’s company. Mr Morton began to heap the thick, glistening sausages onto dishes, setting them down in front of his ‘guests,’ as though it was the most normal thing in the world. Then he lifted a glass of whisky in a toast to Kurt and the others.
‘To my business partners!’ he roared and Ralph could see that he was already quite drunk. ‘And to the future of the animal factory!’
At this, the Dobermans began to eat, tearing wolfishly at the sausages.
‘Delicious,’ observed Kurt, in that treacly voice, that Ralph had learned to despise. ‘Who would have thought that those fat, stupid creatures could be quite so tasty?’
At this, the other Dobermans began barking with laughter.
Farmer Morton leaned over the table and poured a generous measure of whisky onto Kurt’s sausages.
‘That’ll put hairs on your chest!’ he bellowed and there was more laughter as Kurt lapped it all up.
‘I could get a taste for this,’ he observed.
‘If business keeps up like this I’ll buy you crates of it,’ Farmer Morton promised. ‘Do you know, in just a few weeks we have already amassed a small fortune? It makes me weep to think of all the years I wasted selling eggs.’
‘Didn’t I tell you my idea was a good one?’ said Kurt. He lowered his head a little and gave Farmer Morton a sly look. ‘You know, everything I’ve done has been for you, Farmer Morton. It’s kind of you to reward us like this, but my greatest reward is seeing your well-deserved success.’ He glanced up from the table and noticed Ralph standing by the open door. ‘Ah, it looks as if we have an extra dinner guest,’ he said. ‘Come inside, Ralph. Come inside and try one of these excellent sausages. I think you’ll enjoy the flavour.’
Ralph shook his head. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Oh, so you think you’re better than us, do you?’ snarled Kurt. ‘Too much of a saint to enjoy the fruits of our success.’
‘I’m not a saint,’ Ralph told him calmly. ‘But at least I still know the difference between right and wrong.’
At that Farmer Morton snatched up a sausage from the platter and hurled it through the open door. It landed at Ralph’s feet.
‘Eat it, damn you!’ he roared. He was so drunk he had to put one hand on the table to support himself. ‘Eat it, you ungrateful wretch.’
Ralph ignored the food. ‘Marmaduke and the others were friends of mine,’ he said and turned to walk away. But he froze as he heard Kurt speaking to Farmer Morton.
‘Look how he disrespects you! How he spurns your gift. Why not let us have him, Farmer Morton? Why not let us teach him the true meaning of respect?’
There was a long silence and Ralph waited, his heart thumping in his chest. Farmer Morton sighed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, we still need him. Somebody needs to bring the sheep in later and there’s nobody else here who can do it.’
There was a pause before Kurt spoke again. ‘I’ve been thinking about the sheep,’ he said. ‘I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about them.’
‘What’s on your mind?’ Farmer Morton asked.
Just then a breeze caught the door and it swung shut, cutting off the rest of the conversation. Ralph let out a long sigh of relief and walked away.
That evening, Farmer Morton did not come out to help Ralph with the sheep as he usually did. Ralph wasn’t surprised, he had seen how drunk Farmer Morton had been earlier and the chances were he had carried on drinking after that. There was nothing for it but to do the work by himself. He managed to herd the sheep down from the high pasture all right, but when it came to closing the gate, he simply could not manage it and there was no human around to ask for help. He was uncomfortable abou
t this, aware that there were now young lambs in the flock who might wander off and come to grief, but he didn’t know what else he could do. When darkness fell he walked back to the farmhouse with the intention of telling Farmer Morton about the situation.
The farmhouse door was closed and although he scratched at it for quite some time and barked to try and get the attention of whoever was inside, nobody came out. In the end, there was nothing he could do but creep into the barn to his bed.
Chapter Nineteen
Snares
The following morning Ralph waited for Farmer Morton in the yard as usual. He tried to ignore the various things going on around him: the factory workers arriving for their shift, the thundering sound of the engines from within the animal factory, the awful stench of burned flesh that seemed to hang about the place at all times. When Farmer Morton finally appeared at the door of the house he looked pale and drawn and it was obvious that he was suffering from a hangover. His eyes were rimmed with red and his face had a sickly, greenish hue.
‘Listen, Ralph, I’m not feeling too clever this morning,’ he croaked. ‘Must have gone down a dose of the flu or something.’
‘The flu?’ said Ralph.
‘Yes, the ruddy flu! You can manage by yourself, for once, can’t you?’
‘I had to last night,’ Ralph told him. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t manage to shut the gate of the sheepfold. I came looking for you, but. . .
‘Yes, yes.’ Farmer Morton waved a hand in irritation. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. Damned sheep are more trouble than they’re worth anyway. I’m thinking about getting rid of the flock.’
Animal Factory Page 11
