The Wolf Border(108)

The copse is sparse; once part of the greater Galt Forest, now a denuded cluster of trees, an island stranded in farmland. In the treetops, a few solicitous black crows caw, hopping down the branches, cautiously, peering below, then hopping back up again. It’s here, she thinks. She checks the receiver again. The signal is still strong – they are very close, unseen. She moves carefully, searching for tracks in the softer earth. Single paw prints, a spattering of dark blood. She turns and looks back at the farm, which is clearly visible: a huddle of pens, low chimneys, and a bowed roof. Jim Corrigan will have watched the animal’s departure, might even have fired more shots as it took off, just to be sure.

She begins to circle the copse, keeping back a reasonable distance, trying to separate the undergrowth from a camouflaged body. She makes a full circuit of the trees, moves in closer, and begins again. She sees it, thirty feet away. It is lying on its side, unmoving, head tucked down, legs straight and stiff. The paler of the male juveniles; its ruff is indistinguishable against the pale birches. It looks dead. It has only just made cover, will have limped painfully to a spot where it might be hidden.

She retreats a few paces, kneels, and sets down the aluminium case. She lifts Charlie out of the papoose and puts him in a deep swale of grass, facing back down the hill towards the forest.

Look at the pretty colours, she says. So pretty. Red and yellow and orange.

But he looks all around, at the field, at her.

Mama.

Yes.

Mama.

Yes.

She gives him another piece of fruit. While he is distracted, she steps back over to the case, opens it, and loads the gun with a dart. She picks up the case and approaches the wolf, glancing back at Charlie. She inhales, exhales, thinks of her instructions to the Chief Joseph volunteers every year. Do everything calmly, do everything confidently. The animal does not lift its head or stir, but its side moves very slightly, up and down, still breathing. She turns to look at Charlie again and to scan the vicinity. Only the top of his head is visible, a burr of black hair in the depression. He is secluded by the grass, like a leveret inside a form.

She continues towards the animal. There’s not much blood on the ground, but the honey fur is stained along the torso and back legs. The trauma is to the side of the lower abdomen, likely always fatal – there’s no time to save it, or call Alexander’s colleague; even fresh, the best surgeon would have struggled. There are tread marks in the earth around the animal and flattened grass; it has been turning, probably licking itself, trying to bite out whatever is lodged. She leans over the body. The eye is open, pale and bright in the sunlight, the pupil a small dark point. The jaw is slack, the black pleats drawn back over its teeth. Just enough life left to growl – its eye rolls a fraction, the muzzle ripples upward, but it can do nothing more. She aims and fires a dart. The muscle barely flinches as it hits. She fits another dart and fires again. The drug will only hasten what is inevitable, and it is perhaps a waste, but she will not leave the animal like this. The eye closes to a black slit.

She squats down, looks properly. The coat is blended and tawny, thickening for winter. It’s better that he remained unnamed, she thinks, though the loss is the same with or without. She puts her hand on the warm head, moves it down the body, parts the matted fur to find the red os of the entry wound. The feeling isn’t anger, just disgust. It is a pointless waste. She takes her phone from her back pocket, and switches to the camera setting. She will leave it to the police to remove the corpse, but the image might go to work for them now and help the others, horrible and unnecessary as the death is.

The crows clamour above her. She is invading. They have guarded the prize and want it back. From the paddock she hears a thin wail. She rights herself and walks towards Charlie. He is standing up in the hollow looking at the copse, his head and shoulder unburrowed. He is trying to climb out but the sides are too steep, and he cannot get traction. For a second she expects to see Merle appear behind him, pick him up, the straps of his dungarees clasped between her teeth, and carry him off, her abandoned, beloved son. The vision is so clear that she almost panics, almost shouts. His cries carry across the field. The pasture is empty. The sky is enormous above him. The wolves are watching or have already gone. She walks quickly to him, saying his name, telling him she is coming, everything is OK. It’s OK, it’s OK. She kneels at the edge of the hollow and takes the packet of baby wipes out of the papoose pocket and cleans the blood off her hands. Then she lifts him up and kisses him, holds him tightly. He won’t remember this, she thinks. He won’t think it really happened.

*

Lawrence is waiting for them in the little car park by Priest’s Mill, leaning against the bonnet of his car – a small nondescript hatchback. Behind him, a swift-flowing river and the mossy ruin of the old bobbin mill. He waves and stands up as she pulls in. She’s never been more pleased to see him. He has on slacks and a pinstripe shirt – a semi-corporate version of the wild man who was living with her a few weeks ago. He looks healthy, is still trim. He comes over to the car and opens the driver’s door for her.

Morning, he says. Thought you might be knackered, so I brought you a flask of coffee. It’s gone a bit tepid. There’s some nosh as well. How’s Bup?

Charlie makes a noise from the back seat, pleased to see his uncle.

Sorry to get you out of work, she says. I owe you.

Hardly. Besides, if this doesn’t constitute an emergency, I’m not sure what does.