The Wolf Border(105)
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?
He will know what she needs. She sits for a few minutes with Charlie between her knees, looking at the handheld receiver. They are close, close enough. She should probably call the police and give them the coordinates in case she needs a transport van. The light is fading, but there is perhaps half an hour. She thinks for a moment about leaving Charlie in the car. What are the penalties for abandoning a bawling or sleeping infant in a locked, secluded vehicle, on a defunct road? But the decision is already made – she knows what she is going to do, and speculation is academic, a kind of decoy of the mind. She sets the baby down, attaches the papoose, and fits him snugly inside. She takes the dart case from the boot of the car, picks up the receiver, and walks into the Galt.
She takes her bearings, follows an animal track through the trees. It’s cool and dim and high, like being inside a dense, overgrown cathedral. Guttering seraphs in the leaves as the last of the sunlight lifts through the canopy. Charlie gabbles away in front of her – narrating the journey, the shapes, the sights, some unknowable part of the experience. There’s a slight buzz to her nerves – she should probably not be doing this. She continues on, softly along the forest floor, following the signal. Moss and drifts of burnt leaves underfoot. Fading light. The ground begins to create difficult shadows, the occasional looped root is thrown up, and there are illusory corridors between the trees, false pathways. She takes her bearings again. The smell all around is of the organic world dressing for evening: earthen, amberish. The signal is strong, but she knows, deep down, that she will not find them; and she would not be able to see well enough to aim the gun. Still, she walks for another few minutes. Now and then she stops, listens. There is immense quiet to the hardwoods but no real silence – rustles, pecking, the ripple of underground water. A bird on the cusp of night, its trills almost desperate. Charlie is quiet, too, thinking his own thoughts or mesmerised by the gloom, falling asleep. She strokes his hair. It was not a glitch in the locking device of the gate, she is sure of that, though it may never be proved. Someone let them out. Only a dozen people knew the codes, Michael among them, but it was not him. The certainty surprises her, but she is sure. Who, then? It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that they are found.
At a small clearing, she stops again. The light is thin and pouring away fast. She turns and looks behind. A smirr of shadow. Bark the colour of grey and white fur. Nothing is there. It is better not to allow the imagination liberty, she knows; twilight senses will assist with any lurking conceit. She’s not in any real danger. That is to say, the risks are very low. She adjusts the receiver’s antenna, but she is on borrowed time. The forest is extinguishing itself all around her.
You OK? she asks Charlie, and strokes his hair again.
He mumbles something, shifts a fraction.
Me too, she says. Time to go back, I think.
She follows the path back through the trees. Dusk, the time of border patrols. She half expects to hear them somewhere close in the forest – a declarative chorus, in minor key, sounding the new territory, but there is just the great, imperfect silence of the trees. She is not lost, but when she encounters a piece of fence with an old checked shirt attached to the wire, looming like a man, her heart lurches. She stumbles a little and gasps. She is in a different part of the woods. Shit, she thinks, this is stupid; this is reckless. She takes her bearings again, starts forward, walking as quickly as she can without tripping. Can she hear voices? Men talking? It is then she begins to panic a little; not because of the dark or the wolves, but because there might be humans – and they are far more likely to do her, and the baby, harm. She is just a moving shape. A hunter might mistake her for something else.