The Wolf Border (39 page)

It seems to her that common sense should simply lead people, but then common sense is often the last thing the public employs. England is without predators; it is, or was, a de-mined zone. There will be those looking to face down the new invader, for kudos, for glory.

Don't approach them, she says. Don't try to interact; don't leave bait out or anything to attract them. They'd rather hunt, but they'll scavenge if there's an opportunity. They're not tigers, but they're not poodles, either.

OK, good. So, we'll reassure first and foremost, say they are wild creatures, but not harmful to humans. They should not under any circumstances be approached. Don't attempt to interfere with the animals. Just notify us.

She pauses.

That's fine.

So, you think they might stay in the forest? We'll cordon off the Galt roads anyway.

She shakes her head.

It's possible they will. But not certain. They don't need to hunt, not immediately.

Meaning?

They're well fed. They could pass through the forest and keep on going. For quite a while, and without stopping.

Sergeant Armstrong nods, but looks slightly alarmed by the information. This is not what he wanted to hear, she knows.

How far can they travel in, say, a day or two?

In forty-eight hours? To the border. Across it.

He recoils a little.

Even with the young ones?

They're not quite mature but they're big enough to travel now. If they were in the wild, they'd be migrating.

He considers this for a moment. She does not mention, though it has crossed her mind, that whoever let them out – if they were let out – perhaps understood this. If it is another sabotage, it has been elegantly executed; it is beneficent.

Right. I'm going to contact police headquarters in Dumfries and Galloway, the sergeant says. They should be aware. We might need to formally hand over control at some stage.

He lowers his tone, attempts to be tactful.

Also, I'm assuming Lord Pennington will have connections. We need to liaise with anyone from the private sector involved, OK? Will you let me know once you've talked to him?

Rachel shakes her head again.

I'm going to track them, she says. I'm licensed to carry barbiturates and a gas-projector. Do you need to see the paperwork?

No. That's OK. You'll be registered on the system.

Then I should get going.

She stands up. Sergeant Armstrong collects his hat from the chair next to him.

All right. Stay in touch, Rachel. You've got my number, and we can arrange transport. Last thing for now – we'll need a full list of names – anyone with access to the enclosure, anyone agitating against the project, anyone you might suspect. Perhaps your colleague can help when he gets back?

Yes, he can.

She tries not to think beyond the present, to a phase of accusations and recrimination. But already her mind is at work. She's sure the timing of the incident is not random. But talking with Sergeant Armstrong has been somewhat reassuring: she had conceived of a far worse scenario, the county grinding to a halt, aerial spotters and thermal cameras, a race to save them from execution. It is clear the police don't want to own the situation. At least not yet. She pulls on her coat. An hour has passed since the last sighting. There's still Charlie to manage. She has tried Lawrence but his phone is switched off, and his office line has
been going through to voicemail.

Rachel is about to take her leave when Honor enters the drawing room and makes her way over, a tight smile on her face. She's neatened herself – the chignon is smooth and there's a waft of newly applied perfume.

I've just been speaking with Thomas, she says. He'll be here by this evening.

She glances at Sergeant Armstrong.

He'd like it to be known that he is offering a substantial reward for anyone assisting with their safe return. I won't disclose the figure at this stage. There's also the matter of compensation, for any natural damage.

The phrasing is very tactful. Damn it, Rachel thinks, did she have to flag that up? She turns back to the sergeant.

OK to say that in the bulletin, too? he asks.

Just the reward part, Rachel says. But it might be an idea for farmers to bring flocks indoors for the time being. I mean indoors, not penned. Just as a precaution, there's no need to get dramatic.

I understand, he says. We'll mention it to the union.

I better go.

He nods.

Good luck.

She excuses herself and heads to the office to collect Charlie. Damn Honor, she thinks again. She did not want to be explicit about the negatives in the first stages. But this is Cumbria; there's a high possibility of agricultural loss. In tracking the pack she may indeed be following a trail of carcasses. Most animals will instinctively avoid the path of wolves, but the sheep, lame motif of the Lake District, corralled in their walled fields and scattered across the moors, won't stand a chance. Nor will the famous republic of
shepherds remain peaceful about their plight.

*

The Galt Valley is on fire as she makes her way in. The plantations blaze with autumn colours – copper, mustard, a hundred reds. The heather has bronzed; worked over by bees all summer, it is dying back. Higher on the slopes are industrial stands of conifers, not yet stripped out, oddly artificial-looking in the anatomy of the forest. The summit of Galt Fell rises above the yellow and green skirts, hairpins looping the mountain pass and the broken face of the crags. There's no traffic on the forestry road, which has been cordoned off by the police; Rachel's is the only car. The Saab bounces over potholes, tracks gamely upward. In places the lane has deteriorated to shingle, small landslides moving the concrete surface downhill. There are no passing places; were she to meet another vehicle, she would have to reverse for miles.

Charlie is asleep in the child seat in the back, serene now, thankfully. There seemed no choice in the rush to leave the Hall, after the abortive search for a trusted sitter. She will keep trying Lawrence – he is her best bet and she does not know how long she will need to be out searching. Until then, better to keep him with her; she will contend with any problems along the way, as women have always contended. En route to the forest she has bought supplies – fruit, yogurt, cheese slices, and crackers from a garage, plenty of water and milk. The baby bag is stocked. There is no plan beyond simply finding the wolves. On the dashboard is one of the handheld radio receivers, tuned to Merle's frequency, the antenna out and adjusted. In the boot: eight slim tranquilliser darts and the gun. Even if found, there will be difficult decisions to make – she is under no illusions. Dart the pups first because
they are not radio-traceable and are green hunters, or prioritise the valuable breeding pair?

She has not talked to Thomas, though there are several blocked calls listed on her phone, which are probably from him. She cannot call back. The satellite signal keeps cutting out. The estate will be making arrangements, no doubt – but for now, she has a head start. If the animals stay off the main roads and are not hit, if they keep to cover and away from the farmsteads, perhaps they will all survive. They will move skilfully between more efficient manmade routes and secretive pathways. Much will be left to chance.

She looks west. There's a slight red tint to the sky, above the blaze of the canopy. Two hours of daylight left. Her phone rings. The number is again withheld. This time she catches it before it cuts out. Thomas. The reception is terrible, crackles on the line, and his voice drifts in and out.
All under control; don't worry, Rachel
. A wave of static, and then silence. She thinks she has lost him, until his voice cuts in again:
Metcalfe is working on it
. . . There's a rushing sound, engines; he is on a plane, or the helicopter. Metcalfe: the head of his legal team. Trust Thomas to be concerned with the legalities – probably covering his arse, she thinks.

Where are you? she asks, pointlessly.

He does not hear her. The line is dead. Reception has gone as the trees thicken, or his aircraft has sped out of range.

The road climbs upward, the tower of the first rock bluff looming above, a lone buzzard circling, up-tipped wings. It is annoying, but hardly surprising that Thomas is working a top-down policy. No doubt he is putting in motion a hefty compensation package. Or perhaps he is securing some kind of special emergency status for the pack. She is more concerned with the problems of the here and
now – the awed, anxious public, the motorways.

She checks on Charlie again in the rear-view mirror. Still asleep. The forest closes behind her, the road tapering and disappearing. The chassis of the car scrapes over a series of craters, the exhaust clunking. Either side, the ground is soft, pitted. There's no choice but forward. She releases her seatbelt, opens the window. The cedarish, earthy smell of the woods blows in; fresh, cool air. In places the branches knit tightly over the road, roofing it; dry husks rain sporadically on the car and the light flickers and strobes.

Very faintly, a sound on the handheld receiver as it picks up Merle's signal. A few beeps, then silence again. She stops the car and takes the device from the dashboard, looks at the reading, and turns up the dial. The pulsing starts again. She is to the northwest, within five miles, still in the Galt. Rachel tracks to Ra's signal frequency – the reading is the same. The relief is almost overwhelming. Now she has a chance. She takes the Ordinance Survey map out of its plastic sleeve and studies the forestry road and the bridleways. She will need to take a left fork, clear the pass, and then walk – she tries not to dwell on the latter part of the plan. She puts the car in gear and drives on towards the summit, through the crags. In the rock ledges are withered sprays of ferns, trickling brackish water. The road curves steeply to the right, then banks left – the first of the hairpins. She concentrates on steering. The sun is below the trees, and the lane is shadowed. She drops into second gear, then first, each bend is steeper and tighter than the last. The car almost stalls, and she revs the engine. It judders forward. The noise and the motion wake Charlie. He whimpers and then blurts a protest.

I know, I know, she says. Sorry.

Mama.

He struggles against the buckles of the seat and starts to cry. She tries to distract him with a song he likes, but it doesn't work and it's hard to concentrate on the vertiginous road at the same time. He fusses behind the harness, kicks the rim of the seat, his face set in an expression of upset. The car swings and pitches round the bends. Don't be sick, she thinks. She puts all four windows down. Air buffets around inside the car. Charlie's fine, dark hair flutters and laps against his head. He stops crying, assesses the sensation, and smiles. Then he laughs.

Yes. I know what you like, she says. Windy. We're very high.

Wee-dee, he says.

That's right.

Wee-dee.

Yes.

She doesn't know if he understands, whether the words he says have meaning or he is now just a good copyist.

Wee-dee, he repeats.

The transmitter signal is still there, weak, but no weaker, though the road is veering slightly east. Something flashes at the side of the road – a deer's rump – a white flag, like semaphore. There is a new state of emergency in the woods.

Did you see? she asks Charlie. Did you see the deer?

He is too low in the seat.

Wee-dee.

She is glad of his company, no matter the levels of comprehension and the fact that he may make everything come unstuck. The Saab grinds up the last incline and reaches the granite shoulder of the pass. Below, a spreading arboretum – the sharp vanes of the quadrant pines, and deciduous forest stretching out in every direction, in bright lungs. The sun is becoming bloodied and is
sitting close to the horizon. She will have to stop soon and get Charlie out, change him, walk him around, give him something to eat. She starts the descent, slowly, the bonnet of the car nose-diving and disappearing under the first sheer tilt downward. She hits the brakes. Driving begins to feel like an act of faith. But she must make it over the Galt pass before dark, and get close to the pack – as close as she can.

By dusk, there's a strong reading, near the northern border of the forest. She parks, changes Charlie by the side of the road, lying him in the grass. A great arc of pee as the nappy is taken off. She leaves the car radio on, tuned to the local station. They have been featuring the story all day. The bulletin wording is sensible enough, delivered flatly by Sergeant Armstrong himself, though the evening show host's response is giddy; he is excited to have something meaty to discuss instead of the usual mundane parochial events. The item also makes the national news. She is surprised to hear Huib on air, interviewed by the BBC. He is clear and calm, reiterating that there is no danger, that the animals are not a threat and should be left alone. He does not answer questions about who might be responsible. It is probably better to have him at the Hall for now, she thinks, managing everything. He has sent through a few texts. No group has claimed responsibility for the gate yet. The lock system is being re-examined. The police have interviewed the staff, the volunteers, Michael. No one has been arrested; there are no immediate suspects.

She and Charlie picnic on the verge: cheese and crackers, yogurt, bananas. Charlie has taken to resisting her help, grabbing handfuls and crushing the food across his face. He wants to do it all himself. He sits in the grass and yanks at the blades. She takes
a clump from his hand before he can eat it.

No. Purgative, she says. Yucky.

She gives him another piece of banana. While he is occupied, she takes the small, aluminium case from the boot of the car, and checks its contents, checks the expiry date of the drug, again. When she can get reception, she calls Lawrence, leaves him a message.

I've a huge favour to ask. You've probably heard already. Can you call me back as soon as you get this?