The Wolf Border (41 page)

Up there. They say not to go. Fucking thing was in on my ewes. Had one of them dangling by the neck. You should see the state of it.

Where is it? she asks. Do you want to show me?

It's in the range, he says, it's been incinerated.

Of course it has, she thinks. She holds her tongue, nods. He is angry, aggrieved. He also seems pleased. But then, he has shot an escaped wolf. He will dine out on the fact for years, retelling the story in the pub for a free pint.

Are you a reporter? he asks again.

No. I'm not.

She makes her way back to the car. Charlie is howling; his eyes screwed tightly shut and streaming wet, his fists clenched, furious at being abandoned. She opens the back door, and the wail escapes, ringing all round the courtyard. She hushes him, but does not release him from the car seat. The man is watching from the farm doorway, scowling – a crying baby in her possession, sinister proof that she is not who she says she is.

They said not to go up there, he calls. It's a big fucker.

She gets into the driver's seat and pulls away up the slippery cobbles. The petrol light has come on – less than a quarter of a tank. She heads towards the copse, finds a gateway clearing a few hundred yards from the farm, and parks the Saab. She gets Charlie out, soothes him, puts him in the last clean nappy – he is developing a rash – gives him some soft fruit and a jar of baby food. He struggles a little as she attaches him in the papoose. He is reaching the end of his tether, needs to get back to normality or there will be a huge meltdown, but she cannot let the creature suffer, if it is suffering. She takes the dart case out of the boot, and her binoculars, checks the handheld receiver, climbs the stile into the field, and walks towards the copse. The signal is strong. They are within close range, perhaps hesitating over the wounded member of the pack. If the bullet is in the hind area, the animal might have limped a mile or two, at best, and she will have to crisscross the fields and woods to find it, or get back in the car and wait for the police searchers. There's a slim chance that it could be darted, taken to the local vet, and saved, but she doubts it. If it has been hit anywhere critical, it'll be lucky to have come further than the top of the paddock. She makes her way uphill, scanning
the area. The grass is empty, rutted and hummocked here and there, lost whorls of dirty wool caught on stalks. Charlie swings his legs, more content to be on the move and outside again, but it will not last.

The copse is sparse; once part of the greater Galt Forest, now a denuded cluster of trees, an island stranded in farmland. In the treetops, a few solicitous black crows caw, hopping down the branches, cautiously, peering below, then hopping back up again. It's here, she thinks. She checks the receiver again. The signal is still strong – they are very close, unseen. She moves carefully, searching for tracks in the softer earth. Single paw prints, a spattering of dark blood. She turns and looks back at the farm, which is clearly visible: a huddle of pens, low chimneys, and a bowed roof. Jim Corrigan will have watched the animal's departure, might even have fired more shots as it took off, just to be sure.

She begins to circle the copse, keeping back a reasonable distance, trying to separate the undergrowth from a camouflaged body. She makes a full circuit of the trees, moves in closer, and begins again. She sees it, thirty feet away. It is lying on its side, unmoving, head tucked down, legs straight and stiff. The paler of the male juveniles; its ruff is indistinguishable against the pale birches. It looks dead. It has only just made cover, will have limped painfully to a spot where it might be hidden.

She retreats a few paces, kneels, and sets down the aluminium case. She lifts Charlie out of the papoose and puts him in a deep swale of grass, facing back down the hill towards the forest.

Look at the pretty colours, she says. So pretty. Red and yellow and orange.

But he looks all around, at the field, at her.

Mama.

Yes.

Mama.

Yes.

She gives him another piece of fruit. While he is distracted, she steps back over to the case, opens it, and loads the gun with a dart. She picks up the case and approaches the wolf, glancing back at Charlie. She inhales, exhales, thinks of her instructions to the Chief Joseph volunteers every year.
Do everything calmly, do everything confidently
. The animal does not lift its head or stir, but its side moves very slightly, up and down, still breathing. She turns to look at Charlie again and to scan the vicinity. Only the top of his head is visible, a burr of black hair in the depression. He is secluded by the grass, like a leveret inside a form.

She continues towards the animal. There's not much blood on the ground, but the honey fur is stained along the torso and back legs. The trauma is to the side of the lower abdomen, likely always fatal – there's no time to save it, or call Alexander's colleague; even fresh, the best surgeon would have struggled. There are tread marks in the earth around the animal and flattened grass; it has been turning, probably licking itself, trying to bite out whatever is lodged. She leans over the body. The eye is open, pale and bright in the sunlight, the pupil a small dark point. The jaw is slack, the black pleats drawn back over its teeth. Just enough life left to growl – its eye rolls a fraction, the muzzle ripples upward, but it can do nothing more. She aims and fires a dart. The muscle barely flinches as it hits. She fits another dart and fires again. The drug will only hasten what is inevitable, and it is perhaps a waste, but she will not leave the animal like this. The eye closes to a black slit.

She squats down, looks properly. The coat is blended and tawny,
thickening for winter. It's better that he remained unnamed, she thinks, though the loss is the same with or without. She puts her hand on the warm head, moves it down the body, parts the matted fur to find the red os of the entry wound. The feeling isn't anger, just disgust. It is a pointless waste. She takes her phone from her back pocket, and switches to the camera setting. She will leave it to the police to remove the corpse, but the image might go to work for them now and help the others, horrible and unnecessary as the death is.

The crows clamour above her. She is invading. They have guarded the prize and want it back. From the paddock she hears a thin wail. She rights herself and walks towards Charlie. He is standing up in the hollow looking at the copse, his head and shoulder unburrowed. He is trying to climb out but the sides are too steep, and he cannot get traction. For a second she expects to see Merle appear behind him, pick him up, the straps of his dungarees clasped between her teeth, and carry him off, her abandoned, beloved son. The vision is so clear that she almost panics, almost shouts. His cries carry across the field. The pasture is empty. The sky is enormous above him. The wolves are watching or have already gone. She walks quickly to him, saying his name, telling him she is coming, everything is OK. It's OK, it's OK. She kneels at the edge of the hollow and takes the packet of baby wipes out of the papoose pocket and cleans the blood off her hands. Then she lifts him up and kisses him, holds him tightly. He won't remember this, she thinks. He won't think it really happened.

*

Lawrence is waiting for them in the little car park by Priest's Mill,
leaning against the bonnet of his car – a small nondescript hatchback. Behind him, a swift-flowing river and the mossy ruin of the old bobbin mill. He waves and stands up as she pulls in. She's never been more pleased to see him. He has on slacks and a pinstripe shirt – a semi-corporate version of the wild man who was living with her a few weeks ago. He looks healthy, is still trim. He comes over to the car and opens the driver's door for her.

Morning, he says. Thought you might be knackered, so I brought you a flask of coffee. It's gone a bit tepid. There's some nosh as well. How's Bup?

Charlie makes a noise from the back seat, pleased to see his uncle.

Sorry to get you out of work, she says. I owe you.

Hardly. Besides, if this doesn't constitute an emergency, I'm not sure what does.

One of them's dead, she says.

Oh, Christ! Sorry. How?

Shot.

Sorry, Rachel.

She shakes her head, gets out of the car.

It shouldn't have happened.

How did it happen? he asks. The news just said there was an escape.

I don't know. Looks like someone let them out.

On purpose? Why? Who?

No idea yet.

This is not strictly true. Plenty of ideas have been forming in her head in the last twenty-four hours – not all of them realistic. They unload Charlie and his paraphernalia. Lawrence lifts him high in the air and swings him about.

Ready for some fun, little one?

I'm sorry – he's out of clean nappies, he needs a bath and some cream. And he didn't sleep much – it was a bit of a strange night. Expect him to be cranky.

That's OK.

Did you get a ticket?

No.

Did you?

He shrugs.

I'll do the speed-awareness course. Hey, it was an emergency!

I'll pay the fine.

Don't worry about it. Right, get on and do what you need to do. We're fine. Aren't we, Bup?

Lawrence carousels the baby in a wide arc, makes him squeal. A heavy weight seems lifted in her brother's presence; how much easier it is to think clearly, to focus. She checks the receiver for a signal, but the wolves are once again out of range. The device is losing power, needs to be charged. She calls Huib. She gives him the bad news. He's disappointed but accepting. Probably he expected it, and has encountered far worse in his time: mass slaughter, sawn-off horns – the worst poaching imaginable.

I'm going to send through a picture, she says. Get it to the media as soon as possible. It'll gain some sympathy.

OK, good idea. Listen, I'm here with Thomas. We're going to come and meet you and broaden the search. Where are you now?

Priest's Mill. But I won't be staying here. I know where they are, roughly. They'll be almost to the northwest foothills.

OK, he says.

He repeats the location to Thomas. There's a pause. She can hear them talking on the other end of the line.

OK, Rachel. We need to find a good place nearby and get
clearance. Thomas says with luck we'll be with you in the next twenty-five minutes.

What? Twenty-five minutes?

Yes, about that, Huib says. We have to get clearance and permission to land – it can't be too close to any structures. I'll call you back once we're up with a rendezvous.

She realises then, not without a small thrill, that they are coming in the helicopter. Thomas Pennington has the means to traverse the entire county privately, by air.

OK, she says. Bring some more darts.

Yes, we are. We got lucky with the weather, Rachel. I think we'll find them very quickly now.

She hangs up. She does not know about luck; the day has issued none so far. She looks up at the sky. A shale-blue expanse, light cloud cover, feathered cirrus. It is a beautiful window between the storms. Even the climate favours the Earl when he needs it to, she thinks. Now he is paying attention of course, now there's reason, excitement. But she must quash the bitterness. Whatever advantages are at their disposal must be accepted, for the sake of the pack.

Got a plan? Lawrence asks, when she comes back over.

Yeah. You're not going to believe it, she says.

She hurriedly eats the pastries her brother has brought and finishes the flask of lukewarm coffee. Ten minutes later, Huib calls back. The sound of the helicopter almost drowns him out, a rhythmic thrumming, the whine of the rotor; they are already airborne or about to take off.

Go to Arthur's Seat, he shouts at her, on the Ullswater road. Thomas says the field beside the monument. Can you hear me, Rachel?

Yes, just about.

She checks the map book – the round table is about ten miles away. She needs petrol, but will make it. She kisses Charlie goodbye, thanks her brother again, and is about to get in the car when he stops her.

Wait, hold up. Won't it be better to leave your car here? I'll drive you. I know the place he means.

There's no time to argue and no good reason. Nor, if she's honest, does she want to be parted from her family just yet. Lawrence quickly transfers the baby seat. She takes what equipment she needs from the boot of the Saab and they start out. Her brother drives fast, but not dangerously, through St John's Vale, past the small greenish mere, soupy with reeds, to the broadland before the northern fells. There is little traffic on the roads, only a few late-season tourists. Lawrence overtakes a caravan, accelerating with determination, pulling back in and reducing speed.

Is he asleep back there? he asks.

Yes, spark out. Poor thing, he's really tired.

I bet.

I had to take him with me.

I know. Sorry I wasn't around. I was in a deposition all day.

How are you? she asks.

I'm alright. Good days, bad days.

You look well.

Thanks. Rachel, don't worry; he'll be safe with me.

I know that.

As her brother drives, she texts the picture of the dead wolf to Sergeant Armstrong, and to Alexander.
Thanks for Justine's number. No joy
. She looks out at the landscape, moors burnished along the base of the mountains, furze, sedge-coloured fields. They are out there, somewhere, and moving fast. As they near Arthur's
Seat, she checks the sky for the Gazelle coming in to land, but there's only empty drifting blue.

Lawrence parks near the monument. They get out, leaving Charlie asleep in the back. The landing site is not so much a field as a slightly raised plateau of common land, covered with flocks of rush and grass. From the south, they hear it coming. The sound bends around the nearby fells, makes locating the helicopter difficult. She sees it down the valley, a dark blue insect suspended between the brown withers of the mountains, ominous-looking, dropping altitude slowly. The helicopter circles, begins its descent towards the ground. The noise of the engine and the blades fills the valley. A hundred feet from the ground, the grass begins to flutter, then to billow in the strong wash, and is crushed flat as the craft puts down. The turbulence tugs at Rachel's clothes.