Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

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.