Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

She shakes her head, then nods.

Yes, I am. Is Lawrence alright?

Lawrence?

My brother Lawrence. Sorry. I’m not really awake. Is he OK?

The officer nods, slightly baffled; he is also tired — the end of a night shift, or the beginning of an early one. Now, after all, there is movement, in the branches nearby, a fluttering, a fast wing. She still cannot see the man’s face properly. She reaches out and turns on the porch light, and he appears, an ordinary man in his late forties.

Miss Caine, are you alright?

Yes. I’m sorry, I thought you were — What’s happened?

Are you in charge of the wolves?

Yes.

We received a report last night. A man near Sawrey driving home said he saw a wolf crossing the road in front of him.

OK, she says. There have been a few of those kinds of sightings, since they were released last year. It’s usually a big dog off a lead. Was this person drunk?

Not to my knowledge. We might not have been so concerned, but there was another separate report this morning. Near the Galt Forest.

The feeling of weakness is still in her legs, but her heart has levelled, and the meaning of the officer’s presence is registering. Upstairs the baby begins shouting from his cot. He can hear her voice; he knows she’s up.

Right. You’re taking the calls seriously?

We’re following up. At this stage, we don’t believe they’re hoaxes. We need you to verify the location of the wolves. The Animal Protection Officer is on standby in case, he says.

Her phone is ringing again. Charlie is shouting louder.

Yes, fine. Come in. I’ve got to see to my son.

The police officer follows her into the cottage, bending under the low doorframe. He removes his hat. He is tall, has straight grey hair like a heron, and is beginning to develop jowls. One eye sits a fraction higher than the other. The uniform does not suit him, though he must have worn it for decades.

I won’t be a minute, she says, heading for the stairs.

She goes up to Charlie. He is standing holding the edges of the cot, his sleep-suit askew, Roary turfed onto the floor. The tone of his crying changes when he sees her, downgrades. She stands for a moment within arm range, looking at him as he reaches out. She steadies herself, breathes. Not Lawrence. Lawrence is alive. She lifts the baby. She dresses him, then sets him back into the cot, at which he protests loudly. She goes into the bedroom and quickly puts on a bra under her T-shirt. Sergeant Armstrong is standing in the hallway, waiting, when they come downstairs.

I just need to — she says, moving past him to the kitchen.

Charlie twists in her arms to get a better view of the strange man, standing ominously in the hallway, clad in yellow and black like a great biding wasp. His wail borders on uncontrolled; soon it will be a turbine of calamity. She pours some milk in a bottle and puts bananas and biscuits in a bag. The routine is all wrong, but what can she do. She feels harried and resentful, drops things clumsily; a plastic plate clatters on the tiles. Who was it? she wonders. Some short-sighted grandfather on the way to get the paper? The hysterical mother of Nancy, from the protests? She gathers up the bag, looks down at her phone. There are three missed calls from Huib. The police have obviously woken him, too. She pockets the phone, picks up the car keys and her coat, and walks the policeman out of the cottage. The second officer is getting out of the Land Rover, adjusting his hat. The blue light is still going. Such dawn theatrics seem ridiculous.

Need a hand? he asks.

I’ll follow you down, she says.

She opens the Saab door, straps Charlie in, and gives him the bottle, which he holds expertly by the handles up to his mouth, tipping his head back. He is calmer. The uncommon development of the car and the sippy cup this early in the morning are enough to distract him for the time being. She half peels and puts a banana on the passenger seat.

The Land Rover wallows slowly down the lane, pauses at the fork, turns onto the estate road, and speeds up. She takes a bite of the banana. It had to happen again sooner or later, she thinks. They’re probably lucky to have had so many months without serious trouble on the project, just the odd griping madman quoting obscure biblical passages. She glances behind. Charlie is looking out of the window at the yellow trees, the empty bottle held loosely in one hand. He drops it into the footwell behind the passenger seat.

Uh-oh, he says.

Uh-oh, she agrees.

A golden, industrial sun is on the way up, gilding the low clouds. October, the month of riches and mutability. The long driveway to the Hall smokes with light and mist. Rising along the verges are the ancient oaks, cast like thrones along the wayside. She knows the story of the oldest now, which is elaborately underpinned with struts — its health superstitiously tied to the fortunes of the estate, it cannot be allowed to die. Annerdale appears like a myth out of the haze, a holy land, artificially made but gloriously convincing.

Another police vehicle is parked outside Pennington Hall — two more officers are standing with Huib. Here we go again, she thinks. Honor’s blue MG is in the usual spot, tucked under the willow tree by the walled garden. It’s early, even for her. The Land Rover pulls up; the policemen get out and confer with their colleagues. Two consecutive sightings: they are clearly taking it all very seriously. The uniformed gathering has an air of malfeasance to it, like a posse about to ride out. They’re just doing their job, Rachel tells herself, but the talk of an Animal Protection Officer has made her nervous. She opens the back door of the Saab, unclips Charlie, and lifts him out. He hides his face coyly against her shoulder as she approaches the uniformed group. There’s a brief discussion; Sergeant Armstrong asks about access to the enclosure — how can they get in, where the wolves might have got out.

Let’s just make sure first, shall we? Rachel suggests. They’re tagged. If we can get a radio signal, we’ll know it’s a false alarm. If we can’t get one from the office, it usually means they’re on the other side of the estate, but it doesn’t take long to find them.

This is the truth, more or less. The signal range is five miles. Weather and hills and broadcast anomalies notwithstanding, it is rare that Ra and Merle cannot be found reasonably quickly with the quad bikes and the handheld receivers.

Actually, I already tried, Huib says. No go from this end, I’m afraid.

OK, she says. We’ll try from another point.

What about GPS? the sergeant asks. Can you track them that way?

Rachel moves Charlie to the other arm — he’s becoming a dead weight. He ducks his head again and remains quiet, but the placid shyness is not going to last. He needs to eat something proper, and soon. So does she. She is in no mood for a discussion about telemetry.

Implants are problematic with satellites, she says. We can get some data from ARGOS, but it’s delayed. It’s more for research than anything else — activity, temperature, heart rate, that kind of thing. We don’t use the mapping software: it’s not reliable.

The sergeant frowns slightly, as if an oversight has already been exposed.

I see.

They have a limited home range, she says, her tone a fraction curter. They aren’t free-roaming. We don’t need GPS.

She shrugs Charlie upward. He puts his hands on her face. She is not paying him enough attention.

Ma-ma.

When was the last time they were actually seen by anyone here — I mean, seen by one of your staff? the sergeant says.

She moves Charlie’s hands away. You really don’t understand, she thinks.

I was inside the enclosure about ten days ago, Huib offers. Listen, I’ll go and try the receiver again; sometimes it’s just the antenna. I can take a quad bike around the enclosure if there’s still no signal.