The Wolf Border (42 page)

Charlie's going to wake up and freak out, she shouts to Lawrence.

He nods.

Maybe I should go now?

I think so.

He gives her a quick hug, releases her.

Take care of him.

I will! We'll watch you go up from down the road. Good luck! It'll be alright.

He makes his way to the car, gets in, and drives back along the road. She cannot see her son. She suddenly feels unwilling to leave, but she has no choice now. The helicopter door opens, and Huib beckons to her. The blades have not been cut; the wind coming from the machine is extraordinary. Her clothes flap and twist as she approaches. She bends low and runs towards the helicopter. Huib takes the case and the tracker from her, and
she climbs in. The door is shut and secured. Inside, the racket is only slightly milder. The body of the craft judders, seems too lightweight, too frail for the power of the rotor. Huib puts his thumb up. She takes a seat and fastens the belt. He passes her headphones with a microphone attached. She fits them and hears Thomas talking, saying,
Hello, Rachel, glad you could join us
, and she realises, with a feeling of dread, that he is piloting. Sylvia is sitting next to him up front. She turns, reaches back, and takes hold of Rachel's wrist, smiles, mouths something. Why is she here? Rachel wonders. All fools together? On the headphones, Huib is talking about the signal, the last reading, but her heart is flurrying and she cannot concentrate. She is not afraid of flying. But this feels like madness, an event choreographed to put an end to it all, to conclude the entire, year-long fiasco. She's never going to see her son again. She will never see him grow up or be able to tell him anything that matters – what he meant to her, who his father is, that he was a gift, the greatest of all gifts, and she could hardly believe he was hers.

She closes her eyes. The pitch and roar increase. There's a swinging sensation. When she looks, the helicopter has lifted off, is nodding left and right, tilting hard to the side, and gaining altitude. The ground slides away beneath them at a sharp angle. She feels incredibly sad for a moment, almost resigned.
Everything tends towards iron
. They lift up, up. The monument grows smaller – the outline of the architectural site appears, a deep barrow in the earth. Down on the road, she sees her brother, holding the baby and waving. Please, she thinks, love him like I do, and then they are gone, and the Gazelle is moving swiftly across the landscape. The moorland blurs. A slow version of the blades is visible through the glass roof, an illusion created by speed. They
pass along the valley, the space melting away as if it were nothing, fields and upland enclosures, three white wind turbines on a sacrificed hill, and the river like silver rope, unwinding. She looks down. Over a low summit is a hidden ghyll, running from a mountain tarn, the waterfall deeply channelled, wound-like. The upper crags of the fells draw level, weeping with grey and blue scree. And higher, they are above the peaks; there are contours that she has never seen before – that very few have or ever will – a land suddenly revealed, as if in a dream.

The geography of the northwest mountains makes it impossible to find them on the first day. The peaks veer into the sky and must be given a wide berth. The helicopter cannot pass too closely in the tight glacial valleys. Thomas obeys the regulations; he is not an unsafe pilot, in fact he is skilled, and she thinks again, It wasn't him who crashed, though the stigma has been with him for over a decade. Occasionally, the transmitters' signals are faintly read, then disappear. They are following the route, more or less, that Rachel predicted. The helicopter circles and tracks back, circles and tracks back, looping one valley, then the next. She scans the ground for movement, a migrating formation. The search method is efficient, but they will have to get closer to the ground if there's any chance of tranquillising them. She has tracked in planes several times before and knows the animals are very good at evading pursuit, chicaning, doubling back, even on open ground. Space in the Gazelle is limited – they will not be able to transport the bodies back to Annerdale and it would be too dangerous to try. She imagines wolves tumbling from the sky, like some kind of Roman myth. But there is a ground unit on standby, she learns from Huib – a private company. The police
and the mountain rescue centres are also ready to assist.

After an hour she gets used to the tipping and shuddering sensation of the helicopter, the intermittent rocks of turbulence. Thomas and Sylvia converse calmly, about the fast-acting protection grip Metcalfe is trying to arrange. There are problems on the English side of the border – no real precedent has been set; the law is antiquated, murky. Another sighting is called into the police, near Mungrisdale, which seems improbable – too far east. They follow the lead anyway, flying around the vast hulk of Saddleback, and over the windswept brown moors, not finding them. They pass lower, set a herd of wild fell ponies galloping, slaloming through the gorse, their ragged tails trailing behind them. Thomas communicates regularly with air-traffic control, but other than one medi-vac heading from Whitehaven to the brain-injury centre in Newcastle, the skies above the District are clear. Another hour, two. The gauge reads low, and they land at Cockermouth heliport to refuel. At the hub, several private and military helicopters are parked. The paperwork is completed; they wait for permission to take off, their business no more important than anyone else's.

The search resumes, but clouds begin to flow in; the air becomes choppier, the ride uncomfortable. There are jolts and sudden drops. Their good fortune with the weather is running out. The signals are picked up again above a quiet valley west of Lorwood, but a blanket of scrub and trees obscures the pack. Rachel's legs feel numb from the vibrations through the seat; she wishes she were on land again.

They abort the search. The Earl sets down at the Sharrow Bay Hotel on Ullswater, where there is a helipad for its more salubrious guests. They have been booked in for the evening. They
might be millionaire tourists, Rachel thinks, putting down for a luxury weekend in Romantic country, not trackers, conservationists. In her lake-view room, she takes a long hot shower, washes her underwear, and lies down for an hour before dinner. She is extremely tired, but cannot sleep. The noise of the rotor echoes demonically in her skull. She can still see the fells rolling below. She thinks about Charlie, what he is eating and whether Lawrence will remember to find the toy lion before bed – she texts him,
Call you later; don't forget Roary
. She looks at the picture of the dead wolf. Then she thinks about Left Paw, whose collar was posted back to the Reservation, and whose body they never found. The Chief Joseph pack will soon be heading north, too. She thinks again about phoning Kyle.
You have a son
. The thought is like a splinter. Can she really go on not telling him? She pictures Charlie as a man, how she imagines he might look. He is tall, his hair is long and dark. His quarter heritage.

Dinner is a contrite affair. No one is in the mood to savour or celebrate, though Thomas remains upbeat.

Do leave the bottle, he tells the sommelier, and don't worry, we aren't in need of your usual superb level of attendance this evening.

A polite euphemism that is interpreted and obeyed; they are mostly left alone during the meal. No doubt there is discreet speculation in the kitchens – they are an odd group. Huib is dressed in shorts and a flannel shirt, as usual, though the dress code at the Sharrow Bay is deeply formal. Perhaps they think him an eccentric African millionaire. Rachel's day-old, slept-in clothing is rumpled; the Earl and his daughter both look passable, blazered, eternally prepared. They all know who Thomas Pennington is,
she thinks, and will surely be following the events.

Is there any news about the gate? she asks.

We're still trying to figure that out, Thomas says. The company is looking at the computer system. It might just be one of those things, I'm afraid. A technological blip.

A blip
, Rachel thinks. His tone is casual and oddly accepting. He made a very good case for the unassailable security of the project to her in the beginning, she recalls, which she herself has often repeated. Now that they are not directly engaged with the search, she wants some answers. She does not want to be fobbed off.

So nobody has claimed responsibility? Nobody has a theory?

No, Huib says. If it was a group or a single activist, they're keeping schtum.

What about this loon, this Nigh, who's been in touch? Thomas asks, sipping his wine. He sounds like a good candidate, doesn't he?

So Thomas has stayed up to date on the project and read the meeting notes, she thinks.

It's doubtful, she says. We never thought of him as a serious threat. He seems too chaotic.

Well, sometimes the chaotic characters are the most surprising and dangerous, Thomas suggests. Lord knows, I see enough of them in the House, always upsetting the apple cart, but they can be very effective.

There's also the guy in the mask, Huib suggests. Remember him? We never really figured that one out, did we?

Maybe, she says.

She is not convinced, not by any of the obvious suspects.

Halfway through dinner, Thomas excuses himself to speak
with the environment minister – the call he has been waiting for all afternoon. He is gone half an hour. The jus on his plate congeals, but none of the waiting staff dare remove his plate.

It is good to see you both again, Sylvia says, warmly. I'm just really sorry about the circumstances. And I'm so sorry we lost one. It's absolutely dreadful. Sometimes I really dislike this county. People can be very backward.

It is the first negative thing Rachel has ever heard her say about Cumbria. The apology sounds so heartfelt and sincere it is as if she herself committed the crime, as if she is Cumbria, or its representative. She seems older and more knowing from her months in the city: grit in the pearl. Her hair has been cut stylishly: a kind of sharp, bevelled bob.

It's good of you to come back, Syl, Huib says.

Daddy asked me to come home and help, she explains, so of course I did. Never mind exams. I do miss the project. Some days I'd love to jack in the law and work with you both again.

A nice sentiment, but there may be no more project, Rachel thinks. She does not say it. There's no point in taking her mood out on Sylvia.

Let's order pudding. Daddy won't mind. He might be ages anyway. David Uttley is a bit of a gas-bag, I've heard.

The menus reappear. Rachel looks out of the dining-room windows. The lake is dark but shining under the evening sky, a looser version of what lies above. Night will offer some reprieve. She suspects they will continue to travel under the cover of darkness, like a raiding party, responding to the new level of human activity encountered since leaving the estate. They might even clear the northwest range and head for the border by morning. The outer district offers only a partially adequate environment;
they will certainly not linger, or return to Annerdale. They will sense the greater uplands to the north, and will keep moving until they find the best territory.

When Thomas returns, he is visibly annoyed, muttering about the obduracy and lack of vision possessed by the environment minister, who has failed to give assurances on temporary protected status.

Well, that was a waste of time. He really is the most ludicrous appointment Mellor's made. Whoever heard of an environment minister from Solihull! Bloody ignoramus. I'll talk to Mell in the morning.

Sylvia attempts to mediate and calm her father, aware, perhaps, that he is sounding like a snob. Notes of petulance and belligerence in his voice – he is not used to being thwarted.

I checked on this, Daddy. They don't fall under the Endangered Species Act. They're simply not listed and will just fall between stools. It means they might not need or get authorisation because it wasn't a deliberate re-wilding.

A wolf between stools, Thomas exclaims. Preposterous!

He takes a sip of wine, then unfolds his napkin, composes himself.

Hopefully it'll be moot, anyway. Douglas will play ball. The Scots have a new environmental policy to uphold – they can't be seen to be conservative on this. No, don't worry, darling. The Highland estate owners are so worried about losing their subsidies, they'll do as they're told. There won't be any more shootings, I promise.

That's quite a difficult promise to make, Rachel says quietly.

Thomas helps himself to another large glass of red wine, adjusts the napkin across his lap, takes up his silverware, and tidily cuts the cold piece of meat.

Well, Rachel, you know better than I how the money works. You've already published a splendidly compelling paper on cull savings and tourist revenue for a potential reintroduction in Scotland, haven't you?

He glances at her and smiles. Rachel sets down her glass.

That article's ten years old.

Yes, but not much has really changed. Except that Westminster can't prevent anything, and now our free Caledonian cousins may actually have to put the theory into practice.

She frowns, says nothing, annoyed to have her work used as part of his presumptuous political argument.

So, what's your best guess, then? he asks her.

About what?

About our refugees seeking asylum in the newest European nation. Will they continue north, as planned, over the border?

She looks at him for a moment.
As planned
, she thinks. By who? He is forking up the veal, eating with relish. He is not concerned – in fact, he seems very sure of himself, speaking as if the damage control is effortless, assessing the odds. Real politic. She wants to take out her phone, put it on his plate, so he can see the picture of the carcass in the grass, the bullet hole. He glances up. She catches his eye.

Is that what you're gambling on? she asks.

Is it a gamble?

They'll go to Scotland, she says, stonily. Unless we catch them. Or they're killed.