The Wolf Border(32)
The opposition groups are more troubling. The Ramblers. The Farmers’ Union. They are organised and have funds. Towards the end of the second day, she opens a garbled email from a person or entity simply called ‘Nigh’, accusing the estate of a variety of sins, cruelty and corruption, satanic tendencies, and playing God. There’s a Virgil quote: Here we care as little for the cold north wind, as the wolf cares for the number of sheep in the flock. What does it mean? She smiles. If Kyle were here he would enjoy such a missive. Batshit crazy, he would say. Delete. For a moment she feels sad – not sad but wistful. Kyle. He was a good friend. She saves the email in a folder entitled ‘Cranks’. There has been no correspondence from any animal rights activists. The silence is not comforting, and does not necessarily mean inactivity. The project is in every way humane, but it will be on the radar.
The following morning, perhaps in response to her send-outs, there’s a small protest at the main gate of the estate, next to the CCTV camera. She receives a call from Honor Clark alerting her.
No need to come down. It’s all under control.
You’re sure? Rachel asks. I can come. I don’t mind.
Absolutely. It’s all under control.
She goes about her business, meets with Alexander at the local veterinary clinic. The waiting room has several people in it, but he invites her in, past the Gorgonian receptionist, makes them coffee, which she struggles to finish. He seems ill-suited to the environment of the clinic. He is wearing glasses rather than contact lenses, but the scholarly look seems imposed on his large head. They discuss keeping antibiotic prescriptions on site at Pennington Hall and the forthcoming implantation surgery. The telemetry equipment has been ordered from Arizona – a company she knows and trusts. Alexander is skilled, has performed a similar procedure a few times before, pit-tags, though not on a large canine.
Will it go in the abdomen? he asks.
Yes. A benign spot, but pretty deep. It can’t just slip under the skin or they’ll chew it out.
They bring up a picture of the device on his computer. The implant is state of the art – three inches long, including the transmitter and antenna, housed in a plastic sleeve and coated in physiological wax.
It’ll wall off in the body, she says. The radio signals are very good. And we’ll get other data – temperature, activity levels, heart rate, that kind of thing.
That’s bloody cool, he says. And they just get on with it?
They do. I’ve seen great results. It doesn’t impair hunting or effect breeding. We’ll have to do it in the quarantine pen – are you OK with that?
Yeah, fine. Not sure Sally could cope with them in reception anyway.
Leaning close over the screen, he smells of deodorant and sweat. He reminds her of the boys in school years ago, blunt, funny, without deliberate romantic charm, but somehow possessing it.
Afterwards, she goes to the shops, then returns to the estate. As she passes the main gate, the gathering seems to have dispersed. But that evening her attention is caught by a piece on the regional news. . . . The now-turned Willy Wonka of Wolves, who is no stranger to controversy . . . She turns the television up. A local news crew has filmed the protest. There’s a group of about twenty or so: a parked miscellany of walkers, agriculturalists, and upset housewives. A spokesperson lists their grievances to the reporter. The fence’s impact on the landscape, newts, birdlife, the view. The reintroduction of a now unnatural species. The restriction of public access to the estate. As the spokesperson is interviewed, the estate gate opens and Thomas Pennington strides down the driveway, looking – as Rachel has not yet seen him look – every inch like landed gentry. The camera focuses in. Top to toe tweed, a flaneur’s casual step. A cane! Oh Christ, she thinks, this cannot end well. He arrives and greets the crowd. The reporter’s tone becomes slightly hysterical as he conducts the interview. The wilder charges are put to the Earl: that keeping live prey inside a closed unit with predators is cruel, that the game enclosure bill was passed due to bribery. All are refuted, gracefully. Wolves hunt deer, he says, it’s simple evolution. And in this age of transparency and freedom of information, all bills are open to public scrutiny. A woman in the crowd calls out. You’re a danger to society. They kill people! Thomas Pennington turns to her. My dear lady, these creatures are no harm to you or I. You could leave a baby in a pram in the enclosure and it would be quite safe, quite safe. Rachel groans. There’s a swell of indignant noise from the protesters at such a suggestion. A baby! The scene looks like a pantomime. The publicity is terrible, and Thomas Pennington, she realises, is a liability. The reporter summarises to camera. Thomas bows his head slightly – thank you for coming – as if they had all been attending a tea party. He turns and walks back up the oak-lined driveway. The report cuts to his biography, sweeping aerial shots of the estate and old photographic footage of the microlight crash – the tangled frame, shorn of both its wings, a black patch on the ground where the contraption burnt. The insinuation – that the Earl’s projects fail spectacularly. The next report begins.
Rachel switches off the television, goes to the phone, and dials the estate office, hoping to speak with Honor, hoping Honor might somehow be enlisted – as a blockade, if nothing else. The recorded message plays. She hangs up. She has Thomas’ mobile number, but is hesitant to use it. She will have to address the matter, though. He is too recognisable, too rich, and there are too many scandalous associations where he is concerned.