Riddle Gully Runaway (11 page)

‘It could come in handy!' said Pollo.

‘Maybe,' said Will. He applied a final spot to Shorn Connery's tail. ‘All done. We're good to go.'

‘Brilliant!' Pollo helped Will shrug into his backpack, still loaded with Shorn Connery's fleece. With stippled clouds wisping across the moon, the girl, the boy and the oddly-shaped Dalmatian set off up the road.

*

Pollo, Will and Shorn Connery approached the abattoir through the ghostly moon-shadows of the avenue of eucalyptus trees. Pollo and Will tiptoed up a short flight of steps onto the unloading dock platform. From there, at sheep-truck height, a wooden ramp ran steeply down to the dirt of the holding pens next to the slaughterhouse. The closer pen was still empty — just a stretch of trampled sand and animal droppings. In the second pen, grey moonlight bounced off the backs of the huddled sheep. Somewhere unseen, the guard dog barked once, perhaps at an owl or a rat.

‘Is it time?' whispered Pollo.

Will nodded and shouldered off his backpack. He unzipped it and brought out the tightly packed hessian bag containing Shorn Connery's fleece, sewn shut by Mr Mallard. Pollo flicked at the string with her pen-knife and the fleece sprang forth, surrounding their feet like overflowing soap suds. They eased it into two halves, its smooth lanolin greasing their fingers, the buttery smell of it filling their nostrils.

‘You first,' said Will.

Pollo plunged both fists into one of the piles and draped it over her head and shoulders. ‘How do I look?'

‘Like a sheep that's had a very bad night's sleep.' Will pinched his nose, trying not to laugh.

‘Now you,' said Pollo.

Will did the same. The fleece bunched over his head and spilled down his back.

‘I'd give anything to have my camera with me right now!' chuckled Pollo. She picked up some scraps of wool from the platform. ‘We should tuck these into our pockets. The more wool we've got on us, the more that guard dog will be thrown off our scent.'

When they finished they looked like a cross between giant chickens and Abominable Snowmen.

‘We don't look much like sheep,' said Will.

‘No, but we sure smell like them!'

Shorn Connery, resplendent in his spots, stared up at them, looking puzzled.
Baa-aa-aah!

‘Shsh!' said Pollo. ‘It's only a loan, old buddy. As soon as we find Ear and get her out of here we'll —'

Meh-eh-eh!

Shorn Connery stood stiff, his ears pricked forward, sniffing the air. Pollo and Will looked at one another.

Baa-aa-aah!

Meh-eh-eh!

Suddenly Shorn Connery shot away. He clattered down the ramp and pelted across the empty expanse of the first pen, his rope lead bouncing behind him. Charging at full speed, he bounded high over the metal bars separating him from the next pen — and Ear. For a flash, Pollo and Will saw his spotty figure sailing in the moonlight, and then … nothing. The mob of sheep made way for him, then closed together, engulfing him, making Shorn Connery — wherever he was — one of their own.

‘He's meant to bring Ear to us!' cried Will. ‘Not the other way round! Pollo, you said —'

‘It doesn't matter now!' squeaked Pollo. ‘Quick, we have to get after him!'

Pollo and Will slid and slipped down the stock ramp. Across the dirt of the empty holding pen they ran, their clothes stuffed with fleece, their cloaks flopping, the sheep in the pen ahead bleating and backing off as far as they could. As Pollo and Will climbed the bars of the second pen's fence, some sheep panicked, clambering over the other animals' backs with sprawling hooves.

Sitting atop the fence, shadows shifted as clouds rolled across the moon. Will and Pollo scanned the pen, straining to see Shorn Connery and his spots. But between the shadows and the tight scrum of sheep, they couldn't make out a single spot of him. From around the corner of the building, the guard dog began to bark. Between barks they heard its throaty growl.

Suddenly Will tugged on Pollo's arm. ‘Look!' In
a room inside the building, a beam of torchlight was sweeping from side to side. ‘Somebody's here! It must be a nightwatchman!'

‘A nightwatchman!' cried Pollo. ‘I don't want to put Shorn Connery's disguise to the test, Will! If the nightwatchman twigs to it, tomorrow Shorn Connery could be —'

This time, Will couldn't spell it, even to himself. Chops! He would never again be able to eat one, for fear it belonged to Shorn Connery. Meanwhile, Pollo was clambering down the other side of the railings, the fleece cape flowing around her shoulders. Will followed hastily, grabbing hold of the loop of Pollo's jeans just as the flock engulfed them. They crouched low, holding their fleeces tight around their necks. They shunted forward, searching for Shorn Connery. Sheep bayed and kicked and pressed in on them. Animal fear mingled with the damp stench kicked up by their hooves.

Inside, the torchlight was moving down a corridor, bouncing off the roof through the high, narrow windows. They heard the skitter of a dog's claws on concrete and a low growl.

Just then, Pollo caught a glimpse of what she was desperate to see — a spotted head. And in the flimsy
light, another ear — black and twirling — beside it.

‘Over there!' She pointed. ‘In the corner! It's them! Oh dear …'

Will peered and saw them too — and his heart sank. Shorn Connery and Ear were pressed into the farthest possible corner of the yard against the high fence arcing inward at the top — the fence that separated the sheep pens from the raised concrete platform next to the slaughterhouse. The two animals huddled together trembling, their ears flattened, as above them, only centimetres away behind the fence, crouched a brute of a dog — its eyes on Pollo and Will — quivering, slavering, its tongue glistening between its curved teeth.

‘It can see us!' said Will.

‘But it can't smell us!' said Pollo. ‘It doesn't know what to bark at!'

They pressed forward into the mob of sheep, clumsy in their fleece-stuffed clothes and capes. Craning their necks to keep Shorn Connery and Ear in sight, they pushed into the swathe of animals till they stood panting in front of the two woolly lovebirds. Pollo flung herself at Shorn Connery and squeezed him with relief. At this, the dog hurled itself at the fence and bared its teeth even more, its purple gums rippling.

Over an exit door that opened onto the concrete platform, a blue security alarm began to flash. Shorn Connery and Ear snorted and shuffled fearfully, dodging Pollo's attempts to settle them. The dog gave a low growl, ready to start barking again.

‘That dog's going to put the nightwatchman onto us!' hissed Will.

Pollo peered at the high steel fence. It would hold. It was worth a shot. Swallowing hard, she took a fistful of the thick fleece once sported by Shorn Connery and now draped across her shoulders. She faced the dog and slowly began flapping her arms.

The dog licked its lips and took a step backwards. Will followed Pollo's lead. The befuddled guard dog stopped snarling and sat back on its haunches, thrusting its nose in the air in short, puzzled jabs.

Pollo and Will stared at one another in disbelief. It had worked! An owl tooted softly in the distance; wind shuffled the leaves of the trees. They flapped their fleece-capes again. The dog stabbed its nose from side to side, flummoxed by the queer sheepy-human whiffs.

Inside the building, the torch beam was heading steadily for the nearby exit door. Whoever came through that exit would be almost face-to-face with Pollo and
Will in the enclosure below.

‘They'll spot us straight off if they come out here,' cried Pollo. ‘Keep flapping, Chicken Man! I'll try to rope up Ear and Shorn Connery.'

While Will flapped away at the confused guard dog, Pollo found the loose end of Shorn Connery's rope, slippery with sheep droppings, and tied it as best she could around Ear's neck. Light was trickling now through the gaps around the exit door onto the pavement. Someone rattled the door handle. The dog suddenly turned and hurtled along the concrete path to the door. It crouched in front of it, ears straining, hind legs twitching, ready to leap.

Pollo grabbed the middle of the rope. ‘Let's get out of here!'

Pulling Shorn Connery and Ear, Will and Pollo shoved their way back through the squeeze of sheep, keeping low. They were nearly at the first fence — the empty pen on the other side and the unloading dock clear in the distance — when they heard the exit door clunk open. They snuck a backwards look over their shoulders. Through the opening, in the pulsing blue security light, they saw the half-silhouette of someone's head and shoulders.

The dog lurched at the gap between door and wall. But instead of calming the animal as a nightwatchman would, the person yelped and tried to pull shut the door. The animal leapt. The dog snarled, a cuff of trousers in its teeth. From behind the door the leg kicked madly, the dog's jaws locked around it, trying to drag the leg's owner outside.

‘Something's not right,' whispered Pollo.

‘Drop! Back! Get away! Go home!' It was a male voice. Young. Frightened. In the leaping beam of his flailing torch, Will and Pollo could now see his shoulder braced against the door, the peak of his cap catching the frame and tilting upward as the dog tried to drag him out. ‘Let go! Stop!' he yelled.

‘That cap …' said Pollo.

‘That voice …' said Will.

‘Benson!' They both sprang. Pollo dropped the rope tethering Shorn Connery and Ear. Bulky and cumbersome with fleece, they plunged back into the mob of sheep. They reached the high, curved, steel fence just as the dog pulled Benson by his leg outside onto the concrete path. Benson went down with a thud. The dog stood over him, snarling, its big paws across Benson's shoulders, ropes of saliva swinging from its jaws.

‘Don't look it in the eye!' yelled Pollo to Benson. ‘Try to curl up if you can!' She jammed the toe of her runner between the fence railings and began to climb. But with all the fleece inside and outside her clothing and the curve of the fence at the top, it was slow going. Now something was holding her back! She'd snagged on some wire. ‘Will!' she yelled. ‘I'm caught up! I can't get over!'

‘Help!' screamed Benson. He rolled his head toward Will, safe on the other side of the fence. ‘Please!'

Will was rigid like a statue. He'd never seen anyone in real trouble before. In real terror. It wasn't like TV — it was all around him and it didn't cut away to a hero who knew just what to do. He opened and shut his mouth, his eyes darting from Benson, to Pollo stuck on the fence, and back again.

The dog growled and stiffened. Somewhere deep inside Will, a switch quietly flicked. His brain cleared like he'd whiffed ammonia. He opened his mouth and suddenly, barely knowing what he was doing, he was barking like a mad dog himself.
Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!
He did it again, his voice rising and cracking.
Woo-woo-woo-WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO!

The dog stopped snarling and looked at Will —
this authoritative sheep-human creature with odd pronunciation. It cocked its head to one side, its hairy brow furrowed.

Woo-woo-woo-WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO!
Will flapped his fleece as he barked. The animal whimpered and edged backwards, releasing Benson who scrambled back against the wall.

Pollo finally tore herself free and jumped backwards into the pen with Will. They waved their woollen capes. The dog stalked toward them suspiciously, its eyes fixed on them through the fence, its nose doing wheelies in the air. Benson took his chance and belted for the door.

‘We've tripped the alarm! So disappear fast!' he yelled, the exit door banging shut behind him.

A second later, the door opened again a crack. ‘Thanks!' The guard dog turned and pelted at him. Just in time, Benson slammed the door closed against its nose.

Pollo and Will looked at one another, breathing sharply, both wondering the same thing. What was Benson doing inside the abattoir at night? Had they found him too late to stop him sliding further into trouble? Or were they wrong about who Benson's ‘true self' really was? There was no time to talk. They waded
back into the mob of sheep, back toward the fence separating their pen from the empty one beside the unloading dock, to search for Shorn Connery and Ear all over again.

‘Do you think he recognised us?' puffed Pollo.

‘I reckon so,' said Will. ‘He looked me right in the eye. By now he's probably halfway down the driveway with whatever it is he's nicked.'

‘And whoever's coming to check that security alarm,' said Pollo, ‘is probably halfway up.'

In the scant moonlight, Will and Pollo pushed through the murmuring sheep, expecting any second to hear a swarm of police cars revving up the narrow road to the abattoir.

‘We've still got to cross that empty holding pen,' puffed Will. ‘We'll stand out like emus in a chicken coop if they catch us there!'

‘Let's concentrate on finding Shorn Connery and Ear first,' whispered Pollo. ‘
Then
we can panic. Keep your fleece on. It'll help disguise us.'

‘Even if we do manage to find them, we have to get them both over the fence. That'll take forever!'

‘One problem at time, eh, Will?' said Pollo, ploughing on.

To their giant relief, the lovebirds hadn't strayed
far from where they had left them. They didn't seem to notice when Pollo grabbed the rope tying them together. Will and Pollo were huffing and puffing, trying to lift them over the railings, when they saw a figure, his cap on sideways, bounding toward them across the dirt on the other side of the fence. Pollo and Will swapped glances. Benson! And apart from his torch, he didn't look to be carrying anything!

‘You two saved my bacon back there,' he puffed. He swung his legs and was soon sitting atop the fence. He shone the torch beam over their faces. ‘You're the ones from Riddle Gully, aren't you? Fuzzball and Punk! Only you've both stacked on some pudding since I last saw you.'