The Wolf Border(112)
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.
A wolf between stools, Thomas exclaims. Preposterous!
He takes a sip of wine, then unfolds his napkin, composes himself.
Hopefully it’ll be moot, anyway. Douglas will play ball. The Scots have a new environmental policy to uphold – they can’t be seen to be conservative on this. No, don’t worry, darling. The Highland estate owners are so worried about losing their subsidies, they’ll do as they’re told. There won’t be any more shootings, I promise.
That’s quite a difficult promise to make, Rachel says quietly.
Thomas helps himself to another large glass of red wine, adjusts the napkin across his lap, takes up his silverware, and tidily cuts the cold piece of meat.
Well, Rachel, you know better than I how the money works. You’ve already published a splendidly compelling paper on cull savings and tourist revenue for a potential reintroduction in Scotland, haven’t you?
He glances at her and smiles. Rachel sets down her glass.
That article’s ten years old.
Yes, but not much has really changed. Except that Westminster can’t prevent anything, and now our free Caledonian cousins may actually have to put the theory into practice.
She frowns, says nothing, annoyed to have her work used as part of his presumptuous political argument.
So, what’s your best guess, then? he asks her.
About what?
About our refugees seeking asylum in the newest European nation. Will they continue north, as planned, over the border?
She looks at him for a moment. As planned, she thinks. By who? He is forking up the veal, eating with relish. He is not concerned – in fact, he seems very sure of himself, speaking as if the damage control is effortless, assessing the odds. Real politic. She wants to take out her phone, put it on his plate, so he can see the picture of the carcass in the grass, the bullet hole. He glances up. She catches his eye.
Is that what you’re gambling on? she asks.
Is it a gamble?
They’ll go to Scotland, she says, stonily. Unless we catch them. Or they’re killed.
He nods, and continues to eat.
Excellent.
In that moment she hates him. His calculation. His certainty, which is almost childish. And in that moment she is also sure that it was he who opened the gate. Though he was elsewhere, though he may never have keyed in the code; he was the one. He has not once mentioned recapture, reinstallation of the pack, for all the expensive aerial pursuit. The worthy investment, the millions spent building a trophic Eden, it is simply another grand scheme that he can choose to dismantle again, if he so wishes. There is a bigger, more exciting game – testing beyond the cage, wolves in the real world. You godly f*ck, she thinks, you absolute maniac, this is what you wanted all along. She cannot bear to look at him. She looks instead at her dessert – created by the best chef in the best restaurant in the North. It all feels like a mockery. Her appetite has gone. The others continue with their meal, oblivious. Are they really so blind? she wonders. Sylvia, protecting her father, complicit in his scheme by virtue of her institutionalisation. Huib is reconciled, co-opted, too white of heart to suspect anything nefarious. She begins to feels sick. There is a conspiracy around the table, and they don’t even realise they are taking part. Even she is implicated. Thomas knows she won’t walk away, not now, not while the wolves are out and in danger, which amounts to capitulation. She stands, undramatically, and lays her napkin over her food.
Excuse me. I have to ring my brother.
The next morning, rain. The surface of the lake is stippled; its reflections hover and break apart. They stand in the lounge after breakfast, drinking coffee, looking out at the grey sky. On the helipad, the bowed rotor blades of the helicopter drip. Huib liaises with the police, checks the weather app, sits cross-legged, and waits for the cue – less a stooge than a sophist. Sylvia reads on her iPad in a plush armchair by the fire. She tracks through the papers and the blogs – there is a huge public outcry over the dead wolf; the picture is being widely circulated. So like the English, Rachel thinks: object, ignore, and then, late in the day, after a tragedy, rally. She has a strong urge to leave the hotel, get a taxi to her car, and continue with the search alone. At least she would feel useful, authentic, perhaps less like she had been played.
Thomas makes a series of private phone calls, and afterwards seems pleased, more humble than the previous evening, though his humility is in all likelihood due to success, things going his way. The desire to take him aside and accuse him has faded overnight. She can prove nothing; will probably never be able to prove anything. She will not give him the satisfaction of sounding like a paranoid hysteric. She speaks with Lawrence, and then with Charlie, who recognises her voice and exclaims loudly, but doesn’t understand that she is not there in the room. He begins to cry, and she feels it like a barb in the chest. She speaks with Alexander, who is en route back from the conference, sitting in the airport waiting for a flight himself.