The Wolf Border (29 page)

We're only a few days late.

Shouldn't we get back? Lawrence says. We've been gone a while. I could do with getting back.

Her brother's lack of desire to be outside, away from the cottage, seems uncustomary. But again, Emily expresses a preference to visit the stone circle, and Lawrence concedes. They walk half a mile, onto an open rise. The mountains appear built like a stadium, encircling them, the summits recognisable – a geological alphabet. Round the base of the stones, the grass is long and ragged. There are sixty or so monoliths, slanted in all directions, some tipped over completely and impacted in the earth. A single sandstone pillar stands twenty metres off, exiled from the ring, a vast exotic geode hauled west across a nameless country, like the red stone of the Hall, millennia later. They tread around it. Emily examines the spirals carved into its body, unknowable symbols. There is a deep groove sculpted on top. She and Rachel speculate about the type of machinery required to get it there and upright: wooden rollers, piers and joists, excavation. Lawrence is quiet and a little agitated; his patience seems forced. They stand between two portal stones in the circle – the setting sun is close to the pillar's groove, but off-centre. Thousands of years of astronomical bustle. If ever the planetary cogs were accurate, they have now slipped.

It reminds me of Skara Brae, Emily says.

Lawrence looks at her, and then at Rachel.

In Orkney, he says. I proposed there.

There were huge hailstones, Emily says. Like golf balls.

He puts his hand against his wife's back. The moment might be tender, but there seems no tenderness in the gesture. His hand lingers and then drops. It is not Emily punishing Lawrence, Rachel realises. Emily is pushing ahead, gamely, trying to be positive, trying to reconnect and fix. The husband routine is automatic, and Lawrence knows he must kneel for forgiveness before the one he has hurt, but something in her brother seems to have switched off. Rachel turns away and begins down the slope towards Seldom Seen. It is painful to see the withdrawal, like having a mirror held up before her, or her former life, revealing her incapacity.

Later, in the cottage, Lawrence seems more content and at ease. The Christmas dinner is a success, and they exchange gifts, turn the tree lights on. He gives the baby a fluffy toy lion. He stalks it along the carpet, growling, much to Charlie's delight. They christen the lion Roary. For the moment, all seems well.

*

A few weeks later, in the office, Rachel watches an early preview of Gregor's film footage with Charlie on her knee. The camera closes in on each wolf, on the wolves together, their candid moments. They work in unison to bring down a young deer, closing in from either side, trapping it in a narrow granite gulley. It tries to cut back, spins about as they attach themselves to its neck, and drops. They open it up, work at the red flesh, and afterwards lick each other. Sleet drives across the moor, catches on their longer fur, lines their backs. Blood, snow, their immunity; they are in their element. She has missed seeing them.

There's footage of Ra emerging from the den, which has been dug in the broad root system of an oak tree, on a mound not too far from the stream where the sighting with Chloe was made. Gregor has managed to stow himself in a position close enough not to unsettle them. Above the dugout, the oak trunk is immensely solid, spreading widely and guarding against collapse. The loose soil underneath has been moved. There are two entrances. The hollow openings are large, distinctive. Freshwater, a vantage point, a stronghold. The herds range on all sides. There's a wonderful stretch of film of Ra clearing the site – flares of earth from his back paws as he digs the den run.

Look, she says to Charlie. Look at clever Mr Wolf. What's he doing? Is he tidying up?

The baby lunges forward and then presses the back of his head against her chest. He kicks. He wants to be down, able to move, but his muscles aren't yet coordinating. She holds him in a standing position, his tipping feet on her thighs, bounces him up and down. He looks at the screen, and she thinks, it is a nursery story of sorts – the wolf and his bride.

What's Mr Wolf doing? She asks.

What indeed. Biological theories of behaviour: much is guesswork, or extrapolation. The rising prolactin levels in his mate are motivating him, perhaps. There is still insufficient data to be sure and the implants are not yet subtle enough, cannot measure protein and hormone levels. Ra sniffs the air, continues working. The camera focuses in. He scrapes the ground. The fur along his throat and round his ears is tinted beige. Smuts of grey and even black around his face. The glacial eyes seem colourless, then, in the tilting light, like shale flame. He lopes off.

Later, in the snowy rain, Merle stands next to him with her
muzzle resting on his back – a beautiful moment of ritual bonding, all the more intimate for the unedited nature of the film, the lack of narration. Though they are a naïve pair, Rachel has confidence. It is a natal den. Merle will encourage him, and Ra will work out how to mount her. This is her marker for the project's success. Not that they should be accepted by the land, as if ascending to a throne; Thomas' goal was never in doubt. She wants them to be unexceptional, common. They should exist here as anywhere, and in so doing recreate their common selves.

Charlie helps or tries to help the bouncing movement, and chirps with delight.

Look at Mr Wolf, she says. What's he doing?

The same phrases, repeated a hundred times a day.
Where's Charlie? Say Mama
. She sometimes feels like an automaton. But he is learning, and fast.

Gregor comes into the office with a battered duffel bag and a reinforced laptop case.

Hi, Rachel. And if it isn't bonny prince Charlie, he says, laying a hand on the baby's head. What a handsome fellow you are.

Charlie cranes back. Rachel pauses the film.

This is amazing. Thank you.

No bother. It's a bit rough but I thought you'd like it. Just popped in to say toodle-oo. This fellow's getting big!

Are you flying out this evening?

Wednesday. I'm away up to Dundee first to see my beloveds.

Though he has been camping in the bothy for weeks during the winter, Gregor has gained weight. His full, curly beard is trimmed short, as is the white hair; he does not look as if he has suffered privation. The Annerdale gig has been soft compared to Nepal. A stove to heat food and water, a local pub. He is taking
two months off to return to the leopards, and will come back in spring for the final stage of Merle's pregnancy, should it occur, the early phases of pup development.

Thanks again, she says. Have a good trip. And best of luck.

Gregor nods, tickles Charlie's belly, and Charlie squeals again.

I'll bring you back a parasite. Keep watching that – there's a good bit coming up.

He hoists his bag over his shoulder and heads out the door. She presses play and continues to watch.

*

After Lawrence and Emily's visit, Rachel becomes determined not to mess things up with Alexander. Seeing their helpless atrophy was depressing. She does not want that part of herself to be vestigial: a withered stump of a heart. She will try to be open and giving. Almost as soon as the resolution is made, she finds herself mired in a series of misunderstandings, as if sabotaging herself. Randomly, he sends her flowers. They did not exchange Christmas gifts – neither one of them felt the necessity – and she becomes immediately suspicious. The note reads,
Dear Rachel, looking forward to later. A x
They are due to have dinner, then Alexander will probably spend the night. But why send flowers? Is it not a raising of the romantic stakes, a declaration? Does he want something more from her? She broods all day, panics on and off about the meaning of it. The flowers are beautiful, all winter reds and whites, luxurious, expensive; she leaves them under the cellophane wrapper, only taking them out and arranging them in a vase an hour before he arrives.

He makes a casserole, which smells delicious as it bubbles
away. She puts Charlie to bed and they open a bottle of wine and eat. She is quiet, toying with the food, not drinking the wine, kicking herself all the while for not relishing what is extremely enjoyable. Halfway through the meal Alexander puts his cutlery down.

OK. What is it? Too much salt? Not enough salt?

No. It's lovely.

Why are you sulking?

I'm not sulking.

Have I done something to upset you?

No.

Rachel.

No, really.

She tries to smile. The truth is she has been braced all evening. For words she does not want to hear, the slipping of a ring box out of his top pocket, perhaps – wild fantasies based on very little evidence. He is acting the same as ever – chatting casually, telling funny stories. There are flirtatious looks, but he is certainly not mooning. He is not nervous or looking for a right moment.

Sorry, she says. Just an odd day.

How come?

Oh, I don't know. We had another email from our friendly nutter.

Nigh?

Yes.

Saying what?

Very little that made sense, as usual. But he's persistent, which generally means there's something to it – in my experience, anyway. Over Christmas it did cross my mind that it's Leo.

Leo Pennington?

Alexander's tone is sceptical.

I know, she says. I thought maybe it was a way of getting at his family. Silly.

From what I hear he's a good kid, just a bit of a black sheep. I doubt he'd be against the project.

She nods. She does not mention the flowers, other than to thank him, briefly, for them. He tells her she is welcome. The transaction is low-key. It was a gesture with no ulterior motive, she decides; he simply felt like sending them, or perhaps he had vouchers, or there was an offer on. A romantic blip in the practical run of things.

Later, upstairs, he watches her from the bed as she undresses. She strips unprovocatively. In the mirror she glances at herself: stomach, slack, with silky creping at the sides where the skin was stretched. The telltale line between her hips is less vivid, a few inches wide, still slightly overhung. The scar sits just below the hairline and contains tiny gristled knots. It is not offensive. Her breasts are full, white and veined, the nipples hard as cartilage – in a month or so she will stop breastfeeding, meanwhile they must contend with spillage during any sexual act. Her hair has reached her shoulders for the first time in a decade. She must get it cut.

Come here, Alexander says.

She turns back to the bed. He is waiting, naked and smiling, half erect. His gaze is soft, blind to any imperfection, a body altered by utility, if not blind then unaffected. He is enjoying the view overall, and its prospect. He will have seen far worse, she knows, during his wife's illness. There is no noise from the cot in the neighbouring room. She moves to the bed and sits. He puts a hand on her thigh, but otherwise waits for permission. Her body feels far less fragile than during the previous attempts, not the
hive of strong muscles it once was, but functional, desiring. Now he is hard. A faint dark line runs the length of his cock, a scribble of vein. He reaches round her back, to the old scar, which, though she hardly ever sees it, is much worse, and puts his other hand on her lower abdomen.

Front and back, he says. You match. I like it.

The erotic nature of damage. She kisses him. He will be passive, a considerate lover, she knows, as he has been since the surgery, lying back, gently pulling her over him – a kind of sexual supplicant. There are men who make the world seem populated by good men, those who are intuitive, or have been taught. She straddles him, sits proud, moves his hands from her hips to her breasts. Their size and weight are enormously pleasurable, a weapon almost. There's a thrilling power to seeing him so aroused. She slides down his body, cups the end of him in her mouth, moves her tongue confidently trying to dispel the mood of caution. It is in part a test, of course, to see what he can withstand. He holds her head. Then curses.
Fuck
. He hefts her up, rolls her onto her side, facing away, puts his hand between her legs. Then he pulls her closer, angles her leg up, takes hold of himself and pushes in. He butts firmly against her, the flesh of her bottom slapping, and does not last long.

How small is their window for breeding? he asks.

Small enough.

Not like dogs, then. At it all year round.

He bites her collarbone playfully. They are lying facing each other, wetly stained, happy, a slight sting to her broken tissues.

A shorter period of fertility means males have less incentive to abandon a pregnant mate and find another.

Ah, clever.

He knows enough about wolves, does not need the education, but he enjoys having her teach. He rubs a finger over the tooth marks in her skin. The wind is beginning to get up, playing the trees like instruments. Above, the sound of aerial tectonics, as if great portions of the sky are moving apart or grinding together. The windowpane reveals absolute blackout, the occasional volley of white. A true winter's evening. The idiocy of the flowers is forgotten. The mood is warm, suggestive, with the possibility of more exchanges. Then, out of nowhere, she says,

I've been thinking about telling Charlie's father.

There's a brief pause.

Right. About?

Alexander leans over her and takes a sip of water from the glass next to the bed – old water, several glasses have been left uncleared.

About Charlie.

Right. So he doesn't know?

No.

Now the words are out, she's not sure what she expects him to say in response, or even why she mentioned it. Something subconscious, unearthed by the talk of mates and disappearances, perhaps. He has, other than their first night together, never asked about the situation. Perhaps it has not mattered to him. Perhaps he has not wanted to know details, or has constructed a phantom rival in his mind.