Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

And no doubt you’ll be after a six-point antler, Mr Stott.

He leans back in the chair, reaches for the leather wallet. He unpops the stud, takes out the paper dispenser and a clod of tobacco.

I dare say. This going to bother you — or the babe?

He gestures to her swelling midriff.

People are awful fussy these days.

No. Go right ahead.

It is a power play. There are ashtrays on the table, there’s a faint aroma of cigar; they are in the gentlemen’s smoking room — probably requested by Michael. She has not tried to cover up her belly, apologetically — why should she? She won’t now issue a ban. The baby will be fine. Binny smoked during both her pregnancies. Michael rolls and lights the cigarette, cupping it inside his closed hand as if against a high wind. Black cherry tobacco drifts over — a man of sweeter vices, then. He offers the wallet to Neville Wilson, who declines, but looks longingly at the makings as if having recently quit. The man looks puffy and red, a candidate for heart disease. She watches Michael, who is weathered but healthy, thinks again that his hair is too dark and glossy for a man his age. It seems like an indicator of something corrupt, an unsavoury raw diet, some kind of deviancy. She has not yet seen his wife. She imagines her pressing napkins and boiling chutney, cowed and bird-like, in some dark village cottage.

Thing is, your pups probably won’t get the job done in time, he says. When are they let out?

End of September.

September. Yep.

He knows this very well. At least he understands there are limitations to the number of prey they can and will take — she would rather a knowledgeable enemy than an ignorant ally. Oblivious to the tension, or simply part of the charade, Neville Wilson issues a surprising invitation.

You’d be welcome on the stalk, Mrs Caine. We’re not fully signed up on numbers yet, are we, Stotty?

The gamekeeper’s eyes quickly curtsy down to Rachel’s bump and back up again.

That might be inconvenient for her, Nev. Lot of crawling about.

Thanks, Rachel says. But I’ll pass. Will Thomas be joining you?

She’s interested to know where her employer’s right-on sensibilities end.

He will, Michael says. The Earl always hunts. Leo, too, if he’s about. And Leo’s grandfather never missed a season. It’s in the blood. Shame it’ll all end.

She nods. She does understand the disgruntlement. The traditions of Annerdale go back hundreds of years; Michael is the last custodian, a hard position to be in. In his mind, wolves are no doubt faddish, indicative of Thomas Pennington’s contradictions, his liberalism and modernity, or worse, he is inadvertently sponsoring a return to the dark ages, to the primacy of the feral. The systems are cracking up. She understands, but holds no sympathy. And now it is her turn to lead the hand.

Can I ask, gentlemen, were you planning to use moderators?

Come again?

Moderators. Silencers. I’m wondering what the level of noise will be during the cull.

Got sensitive hearing, have they? Michael asks, sneering. Shall we fit them with ear mufflers?

Neville Wilson laughs again; anyone’s joke and any joke, it seems, amuses him. If he understood how much money the estate will save via predation he might soon sober, reassess his job, she thinks. Michael’s upper lip is hitched, revealing the pleated arch of gum above his front teeth.

Incredibly sensitive, she says. But you misunderstand me. I’d like there to be noise — as much as possible.

He stares at her. He does not know what she means.

It keeps them alert, she explains, prevents them from becoming habituated — you understand what I mean by habituated, Mr Stott. I don’t want them to get used to humans. So, can we agree you’ll be as noisy as you can be for me?

She is throwing her weight around a little, being cocky, but he deserves it. Walk into the pen with ear mufflers, she thinks, and they would take your fucking arm off. Neville Wilson stands and gathers his jacket.

OK, that all sounds good. If we’re up to speed, I better be off, Stotty. Be in touch. Give my best to Lena and Barnaby.

They shake hands. Neville Wilson offers his hand to Rachel.

Nice to meet you, Mrs Caine. It’s been fairly educational.

He takes another piece of shortbread on his way out. Michael snips the smouldering end of the cigarette with his first and middle fingers to extinguish it, and puts the leather tobacco wallet in his coat pocket.

Are we all done? Rachel asks.

Reckon so.

Fine. See you at the next meeting.

She stands, gathers her things. Michael remains seated for a moment. He looks faintly smug, has one more card up his sleeve.

Good to have a vet on hand, he says. In case anything goes wrong.

He is looking down at the table, where one hand is resting over the box of matches, its fingers horned and crab-like, nicotine-stained. When he looks up, it is without direct accusation, a trace of lewd amusement, perhaps. He has been spying, or he is speculating, testing the waters. Alexander’s Land Rover was parked near the quarantine pen overnight; they are often seen together, maybe the attraction has been on display. Or he is making a dig at the wolves again — their high maintenance during quarantine. But Michael is too clever for the comment to be innocent. Rachel says nothing; her face remains neutral, unreadable. If he cannot undermine her professionally, there is of course the traditional realm of sexual disparagement. Michael is a misogynist, for all his sitting at the negotiating table with her. Her neck feels hot, as if colouring with annoyance. She bites her lip, says nothing. Binny comes careening into her thoughts. Her mother would have risen to a comment like this, given up information. Think of us like dogs, Mr Stott, like bitches that come into heat . But she is not her mother — there are more artful ways to fight. If she is not careful, the running conflict with Michael will make her careless and weak. Binny never learnt how not to fan the flames with her anger and indignation. She always admitted to her indiscretions when accused. Rachel moves to the door, opens it.

I very much doubt anything will go wrong at this stage, she says. Goodbye, Michael. Good luck with the cull.

Driving away from the Hall, her annoyance builds. She grips the steering wheel, imagines all the things she might have said, satisfyingly cutting. Even at Chief Joseph, with its seclusion and hothouse gossip, and the Reservation’s wider system of finding things out, she could maintain a degree of privacy. There is nothing Michael Stott can do, other than try to shame her with his knowledge. But she was not taught to feel ashamed, far from it; Binny was adamant on that front. Any time she got wind of an attempt, she would go into battle — marching down to the junior school to extract Rachel from bible studies, horrifying the vicar and baffling the other kids. You’re not filling her head with that rubbish, you tight old git. Original sin, my backside. Pick up your coat, my girl, we’re leaving . Heat prickling Rachel’s face as she followed her mother outside, to the school gate, where she was made to wait until the lesson was over and the vicar had fled past. The feeling that came after such exposure wasn’t shame, either — more like the flinting of aggravation, red filling the brain. Not unlike the feeling now.

She takes the long way home, over the moors. The baby kicks. She slows down a little and breathes, tries to let the anger disperse. The road is vividly blue against the yellow, friable grassland, the parched landscape. Haze vectors the distance. The heat is approaching American standards; it is being worried about on the radio, a brutal new climate. In the west the sky is darkening. A storm on the way. Meanwhile, the air conditioning in the Saab does little. She rolls the front windows down and aromatic moorland air buffets in. The heat feels land-made, furnace-like, as if some great portion of the island is burning, tracts of coppice and forest, a final solution.