The Wolf Border(107)

Morning, Rachel. I was on the other line. Where are you?

Near Priest’s Mill. I think I might be close to them. We need to think about getting them back to the estate, if I can dart them. The sedative lasts about two hours.

OK. Listen. We just had a call from a farmer at Mire Hall Farm. He said one of his dogs was going crazy this morning, barking and growling. When he went out to investigate, he saw one of the wolves in the field where his sheep are.

There’s a pause.

And?

Her mood of levity begins to fade. She knows what’s coming. Charlie is burbling louder, singing away, fighting for her attention now that she is on the phone.

Hush, hush, darling, she says, over her shoulder.

I’m afraid he fired a shot off, Sergeant Armstrong says.

What?

He fired at it.

Did he kill it? she asks.

Well, he says it’s not in the field any more. He thought he hit it. How he described it is: its back end sort of dropped to the ground, but then it ran off.

Bastard, she thinks. Not even a clean shot. She wonders which is the unfortunate one: possibly a juvenile opportunistically trying its luck with the flock.

Any other information? Size? Markings?

No. I’m sorry. The farm is about four miles from Priest’s Mill. Are you near there now?

I think so. Mire Hall, you said?

Yes. The farmer’s name is Jim Corrigan. We’re sending someone out, but I thought you’d want to know. We’ve told him not to go looking for it, in case it’s injured.

Good. I’ll go there now.

She hangs up, grips the wheel tightly for a moment. Charlie is still burbling; she looks at him in the rear-view mirror. She checks the signals from Merle and Ra’s transmitters – they are still in the area, have not moved far. She won’t know whether it’s one of them until she finds the pack, or a body.

Mama, Charlie says.

Yes.

Mama.

Yes.

She tries to think positively; nothing has been confirmed yet. The dropped rear might have been a cowering flinch, a reaction to the noise of the shotgun. She checks the map, finds the farm, turns the car round in the next gateway, and sets off. She stops again almost immediately and calls Alexander. It’s still early – the conference in Belfast will not have begun yet. He picks up straight away; everyone, it seems, is on standby. Briefly, she fills him in.

I haven’t got the means, she says, if it’s badly hurt. I’ve only got the dart case.

I know someone in practice round there, he tells her. I’ll call and let her know what’s happening. She’s good; she’ll take care of it. Are you OK, Rachel? Are you out there by yourself?

Yeah. I’m OK, just pissed off.

Have you spoken to Thomas? Sounds like you could use some help.

Not yet.

Maybe call him.

I will.

Charlie, who has been fussing for the last few minutes at her inattention, begins to wail.

Is that Charlie?

Yes. Lawrence is on his way to get him, though. I’ve got to go.

OK, he says. Let me know how it pans out. I’ll call Justine and give her your number. Rachel, don’t do anything crazy.

Like?

Just take care.

She finds the farm: a dirty whitewashed building in a courtyard of dilapidated barns and asbestos sheds. A dog is barking inside one of the bothies. Slurry and spilt straw on the cobbles as she pulls up. She half expects to see the wolf strung from a hook, but there are only farm vehicles, a rusting tractor and ancient threshing machines, an agricultural reliquary. A scruffy herd of sheep is penned inside a wooden enclosure – their fleeces trail, in need of shearing. In the window of the farmhouse is an anti-Europe poster, left over from the by-election. She leaves Charlie in the car, which he is not happy about, writhing and shouting, and knocks on the front door. She tries to dismiss her preconceptions, but the man who answers is latch-faced, suspicious, and rude, an old-school Cumbrian belligerent. At first he does not believe her – she is not the police, and he is expecting the police. How does she know about the wolf? Is she a reporter? She tells him again who she is and who she works for, that she is here to track and recapture the pack. He tuts, and frowns. She asks which direction the one in the field headed. He points to a nearby copse, standing half a mile away on the horizon.

Up there. They say not to go. Fucking thing was in on my ewes. Had one of them dangling by the neck. You should see the state of it.

Where is it? she asks. Do you want to show me?

It’s in the range, he says, it’s been incinerated.

Of course it has, she thinks. She holds her tongue, nods. He is angry, aggrieved. He also seems pleased. But then, he has shot an escaped wolf. He will dine out on the fact for years, retelling the story in the pub for a free pint.

Are you a reporter? he asks again.

No. I’m not.

She makes her way back to the car. Charlie is howling; his eyes screwed tightly shut and streaming wet, his fists clenched, furious at being abandoned. She opens the back door, and the wail escapes, ringing all round the courtyard. She hushes him, but does not release him from the car seat. The man is watching from the farm doorway, scowling – a crying baby in her possession, sinister proof that she is not who she says she is.

They said not to go up there, he calls. It’s a big f*cker.

She gets into the driver’s seat and pulls away up the slippery cobbles. The petrol light has come on – less than a quarter of a tank. She heads towards the copse, finds a gateway clearing a few hundred yards from the farm, and parks the Saab. She gets Charlie out, soothes him, puts him in the last clean nappy – he is developing a rash – gives him some soft fruit and a jar of baby food. He struggles a little as she attaches him in the papoose. He is reaching the end of his tether, needs to get back to normality or there will be a huge meltdown, but she cannot let the creature suffer, if it is suffering. She takes the dart case out of the boot, and her binoculars, checks the handheld receiver, climbs the stile into the field, and walks towards the copse. The signal is strong. They are within close range, perhaps hesitating over the wounded member of the pack. If the bullet is in the hind area, the animal might have limped a mile or two, at best, and she will have to crisscross the fields and woods to find it, or get back in the car and wait for the police searchers. There’s a slim chance that it could be darted, taken to the local vet, and saved, but she doubts it. If it has been hit anywhere critical, it’ll be lucky to have come further than the top of the paddock. She makes her way uphill, scanning the area. The grass is empty, rutted and hummocked here and there, lost whorls of dirty wool caught on stalks. Charlie swings his legs, more content to be on the move and outside again, but it will not last.