Outside Chance (44 page)

The pitch of the growl intensified.

He took another tiny step and, just when he was beginning to think that it was merely waiting for him to come within biting range, the dog gave way and shuffled back.

Ben rejoiced silently. Now the precedent had been set he was reasonably confident that the animal would back up again, and so it did.

Moving like partners in some deadly, slow-motion dance they covered the distance to the central yard, never once taking their eyes off each other. Ben's shirt was stuck to his back with sweat under his thick jumper and fleece-lined jacket, and beads of perspiration rolled down his face.

Now that the dog was in the open Ben could just make out the lithe, deep-chested shape of him, and what little light there was in the sky gleamed on a particularly fine set of bared teeth. The sight shook his resolve.

‘Oh, shit!' he muttered, his step faltering. Perhaps being able to see was a mixed blessing.

What now?

Where now?

In spite of his earlier optimism the nearest doorway was a good fifteen feet away to one side. It led into one of the blocks of barn stabling; could he perhaps get himself inside and leave the Dobe on the outside? It was worth a try. Better not to consider the possibility that it might be locked.

One cautious step sideways, however, wasn't promising. The dog seemed to regard lateral movement as evidence of fear and it advanced, snarling with renewed vigour, until Ben could swear he felt its hot breath on his leg.

Unnerved, he stopped again.

He considered shouting for help, but discounted the thought. Everybody was at the party. Who was there that could help, except Finch? And
he
wasn't likely to, even if he heard; the bungalow was at least 120 feet away and double-glazed.

He considered shouting at the dog, but he didn't think it would scare easily. In fact, shouting might well make it even more aggressive, if that were possible.

It seemed they had reached an impasse. Maybe if he just stood still the animal would eventually lose interest. Ben wasn't hopeful, but with the
brick wall behind him and the slavering dog in front, he didn't have much choice.

He wondered how long Finch was going to let him sweat. If he was correct in assuming that Helen's husband had let the dogs out on purpose, knowing that Ben was coming, surely he would come to find him sooner or later, even if only to crow and send him back to his car. After a moment or two, it occurred to him that Finch might well be waiting somewhere near, listening.

Raising his voice over the dog's continuous growl, Ben swallowed his pride and said, ‘All right, Ray. You've had your bit of fun, mate. Come and get the bloody dog!'

No answer, but there was a movement in the shadows on the other side of the yard, and Ben took his eye off his tormentor just long enough to glance across. It wasn't Ray Finch; it was the second dog.

This was obviously the decisive one of the pair.

No sooner had it spotted its pal with quarry at bay than it accelerated across the open space, skirting the central fountain, and tore at Ben, barking.

Raw instinct took over. He took one look and fled.

Either he or the charging dog activated the sensor and suddenly the area was flooded with light from two halogen bulbs, one on each side of the yard. Expecting to feel teeth closing on some part of his anatomy at any moment, Ben ran for the nearest sliding door, yanked it open and practically fell inside.

Unfortunately the metal door was both heavy
and well-oiled and, having applied such force to get it moving, it was quite another matter to halt the door's progress and send it back the other way. Before he could do so, one Doberman had forced its shoulders through the gap and was immediately joined by its mate, both of them scrabbling and yelping in their eagerness to get at him.

Ben kept up the pressure, self-preservation winning out over animal welfare, but the second dog was evidently a fraction slimmer and it began to slither through, climbing over the trapped one.

The time had come to move again.

Hitting the light switch on the wall beside the door, Ben glanced down the length of the barn and saw that all the horses were staring over their half-doors, alerted by the pandemonium at the end. Just at that moment, the horses didn't interest him. What did were the various items of horse-clothing, headcollars and buckets that were piled neatly against the wall outside each stable. These, quite possibly, represented salvation.

Abandoning his position at the door, Ben raced down the central aisle to the first bundle of equipment. Even as he turned, the Dobes were close behind him, one slightly ahead of the other. He couldn't be sure which was which by now; the latecomer's enthusiasm was catching.

The first thing his fingers closed on was a cooler – the string vest of the horse world, used to prevent a sweaty horse getting a chill while it dried off. Ben pulled it from the pile, opened it out and threw it at the approaching pair like a fisherman of old casting his net. It fell neatly over the first dog, tangling in its running paws and
bringing it down, but the second yelped in fright and dodged, slipping out from under the edge and coming on once more.

Ben scrabbled for something else, but even as his hand found the nylon straps of a headcollar, the dog was upon him.

Forty-odd kilos of Doberman hurtling at top speed is enough to knock most men flying, and Ben was certainly no exception. As the dog hit him he crashed sideways into the wall and went down with all the snapping, snarling fury on top of him.

Instinct told him to curl up, to hide his face and protect his belly and throat. This he did, the movement temporarily dislodging the animal, but it was soon back, fastening its teeth to Ben's upper arm and pulling. Ben tried rolling to loosen its hold.

It worked, but in the process he left his face unprotected. The Doberman lunged at his throat and only by thrusting his forearm between its jaws did Ben save himself.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other dog fight free of the enveloping cooler and he braced himself for a second impact, but for the time being it seemed well occupied in venting its wrath on the cotton netting.

The thickness of Ben's jumper and fleece afforded a certain amount of protection from the Dobe's formidable teeth and the dog, seemingly aware of this, pulled back, tearing a hole in the fibres. It spat fabric and lunged again, but this time Ben managed to get his knees up and, straightening his legs sharply, he threw the animal back several feet.

This only gained him a few precious moments' grace, and it did nothing whatever to improve the beast's temper. Ben got halfway to his feet, reaching for something – anything – with which to defend himself, but was promptly flattened by both dogs landing on him simultaneously.

There seemed to be teeth and paws everywhere. Sleek black and tan coats covered incredibly hard, muscled frames; they felt almost slippery, impossible to hold.

Although there was no time for conscious thought, it occurred to him that their frenzy seemed excessive, even for trained guard dogs. Kaiser and his partner weren't going to be content with pinning him down and standing over him. They wanted him dead.

Ben's ambition narrowed down to trying to keep his face and groin protected. Lashing out was difficult with a large dog hanging on your arm and, perforce, left tender underparts exposed to attack. These dogs were trained, but one thing he was sure they hadn't needed to be taught was which parts of prey were vulnerable. The knowledge was innate, handed down from their pack-hunting ancestors on the plains of Africa.

In that moment, Ben could sympathise with the zebra and wildebeest he'd watched on TV documentaries; pulled down by wild dogs who began their feast whilst the poor creatures were still breathing.

As the Dobermans continued their onslaught, it was all about damage limitation for Ben. He'd got into a position curled, foetus-like, against the wall, face down, resting on his knees and elbows
and concentrating his efforts on resisting the dogs' attempts to get their long snouts through his defences. He had no idea how long he could hold them off but he had to try. The alternative held no attraction at all.

His left side was protected by the wall but he suffered repeated buffetings as Kaiser and his partner pushed one another aside to get at him; every now and then one of them sank its teeth into his shoulder or lower rib area and pulled at his fleece jacket. The powerful jaws easily penetrated the layers of clothing but, strangely, he felt little actual pain.

Endorphins. The word materialised in his brain. Nature's morphine, produced in moments of extreme physical stress. Was that a good or a bad thing? If he couldn't feel the pain, was he in fact more seriously injured than he knew?

Suddenly it occurred to him that the dogs' activity was waning. Unless he was much mistaken, only one of them was actually worrying at him now. A sustained bout of pawing followed, the dog using both front paws in rapid succession to scratch away at his arms and shoulders where they were curled around his head and face, then even that stopped. Ben could feel the animal's hot, panting breath ruffling his hair. After a moment it whined in frustration and he heard its claws on the concrete floor as it padded away and back again.

The situation was a whole lot better but not satisfactory, not by any means. Ben wasn't fooled. He was fairly certain that any attempt to move would be rewarded by an enthusiastic return to hostilities. It was effectively checkmate but, if the
worst came to the worst, he was prepared to stay where he was for as long as it took for rescue to arrive.

Now that the dogs were quiet, he could hear the horses. Spooked by the ferocity of the dogs, they were moving restlessly round their boxes, some banging their doors, one or two whinnying and snorting their alarm.

Not long ago, the proximity of so many horses would have brought him out in a cold sweat; now their presence was somehow comforting.

‘Is anyone there?'

The voice cut through his reflections unexpectedly, coming from the open doorway at the top of the barn.

Mikey's voice!

Fear ballooned again.

‘Mikey, be careful! The dogs are here!' As he spoke, one of the dogs issued a low rumble.

‘Ben?'

‘Mikey, stay back! Go and get help.'

He was too late.

As he cautiously raised his head, one of the dogs was already moving away from him and towards Mikey. Ben opened his mouth to yell at the boy to get out and shut the door. Then, incredibly, he noticed that the Doberman's six inches or so of docked tail was wagging furiously.

The other dog hesitated, took one more long look at Ben, and then followed its mate.

‘Hello Kaiser, hello Rommel,' Mikey said, putting his hand down to them. Now, both tails were wagging as they fawned over him.

Ben sat up, breathing hard.

‘Mikey, can you catch them? Put a couple of lead ropes on them or something. For some reason, they
really
don't like me.'

‘They shouldn't be out, yet,' Mikey commented as he carried out Ben's instructions. ‘I heard them barking, and then I heard the door open and the horses started making a racket, so I came to find out what was going on.'

‘Well, it probably wasn't the most sensible thing to do but I'm bloody glad you did. Why aren't you at the party?'

Mikey made a face.

‘I went down to start with but I don't really like parties, so I thought I'd come back and watch the badgers. There, I've got them.'

‘You make me very happy, little brother,' Ben told him, thinking that it was probably time he stood up, but his body was reacting to its sudden deliverance from danger with a violent bout of shaking, and his legs didn't feel as though they belonged to him.

When Ben finally made it to his feet with the help of the wall the dogs growled a warning, their heads and hackles up.

‘Hey! Quiet boys,' Mikey said.

‘How about you take them outside and I'll follow?' Ben suggested, moving stiffly forward. Another downside to the ebbing adrenalin was that he was beginning to feel the damage the Dobes had done.

‘Are you all right, Ben?' Mikey was regarding him doubtfully as he came out into the light.

A sarcastic retort was on the tip of his tongue but it wouldn't have been fair on Mikey.

‘I will be, don't worry,' he said. ‘Look, I need you to do something.'

‘Yeah?'

‘I want you to go and put the dogs away, then go back to the cottage and throw some pyjamas and stuff in an overnight bag as quick as you can and then wait for me in the car.'

‘Yes, but –'

‘No questions, Mikey, please,' Ben cut in. ‘I'll explain later.'

‘OK.' He moved away, the dogs trotting happily beside him on their makeshift leads, their stumpy tails still wagging.

Ben shook his head briefly in wonder, then turned his steps towards the bungalow. A look at his watch showed him with a shock that barely ten minutes had passed since he'd arrived at Castle Ridge. Lights were on in practically all the rooms of the bungalow as Ben approached, but there was still no sign of Helen. Was it possible she'd known what her husband intended and was keeping a low profile?

He leaned on the doorbell beside the red front door, feeling decidedly rough, and after a moment or two he heard the Yale lock operate and the door opened to reveal Helen, looking harassed.

‘Ben. I'm sorry, I was going to come down but I can't find my keys.' Her eyes widened. ‘God! What happened to you?'

‘The dogs happened,' he stated dryly.

‘The dogs?' Her blank astonishment seemed genuine. ‘But they shouldn't be out until later – much later.'

‘I quite agree, but they were. Can I come in? I think some Elastoplast might be needed . . .'

She stared at him for a moment then stepped back.

‘Of course. But we'll still go?'

‘Yes, we'll still go. Tell me, where's Ray?'