The Wolf Border(43)

He’s not with us, someone in the crowd says.

Huib moves to intercede, but the man suddenly stands. He swiftly gathers the gun and the briefcase and starts away. The role is over, but he does not unmask. He walks past Huib, towards Rachel. As he passes, she tries to see inside the cut-out eye holes. Blue eyes, maybe, impossible to distinguish. He says something as he passes – a threat, perhaps – but the head obscures the words. Then he is gone, down the road, past the parked vehicles and into the trees.

A feeling of unease is left behind. The amateur dramatics of the day have gone wrong. No harm has been done, but the incident has derailed everything. The crowd is dispersing; people are lowering placards and heading to their cars. The little velvet-suited boy is still wailing, louder now, committed to the act, while his mother checks Nancy over and Nancy strains to get away. The photographer is packing up his gear.

Let’s go, Rachel says to Huib.

She tells the remaining protesters that she can be reached by email or phone. They walk back to the Saab.

Who do you think he was? Huib asks. Some kind of activist?

No, she says. Well, maybe. I don’t know. He let that toddler get a bit close for comfort.

That made me uncomfortable, too. And he didn’t have a car, did you notice?

She starts the engine and pulls away.

Right. No way of tracing him by number plates.

As she drives down the road, she glances in the rear-view mirror, half expecting to see the man materialise from the trees again, suited and waving at them, the red tongue of the wolf’s head lolling out.

It’s interesting, though, Huib says.

What is?

You can just pull a gun out here and nobody goes crazy. Back home, that guy would have been taken out.

In America, too, she says.

I don’t know whether it’s a good thing.

No. I’m not sure it’s worth coming down here any more, she says. These people’s minds are made up.

She decides she will not come back to meet the protesters again, not even for a show of diplomacy. The fearful will always be afraid; the ideological will believe until the last shred of evidence is offered. Only time will prove them wrong. The unrest will peak and end, she gauges. There will be the inevitable entropy of energy, and the swing of anxiety towards a new inflammatory source will put paid to the gatherings. Or the Lakeland weather will.

*

Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Lawrence asks.

Why?

I don’t know. I would have helped or something.

Rachel shrugs.

Helped with what?

Her brother is vexed, and a little upset, but not angry. He frowns gently, looking down at her.

I don’t know.

Rachel shuts the front door of the cottage and they stand in the lane outside, facing each other. It is a hot May day. She still feels a little awkward being in his company, but she’s glad he came, and glad to have finally broken the news. She has undone the belt of her cardigan so that her small bump is visible, pushing against her T-shirt. Lawrence starts to say something, stops. Then he says, I could have helped you with the move or something. Carrying stuff. And we didn’t have to go up a bloody mountain!

She smiles at the sentiment, his charming and misguided chivalry.

I’m fine. Really. I feel fine. And we did go up a mountain.

He sighs and the frown line above his nose deepens.

Oh, Rachel.

He is clearly concerned and won’t be brushed off. It’s difficult to navigate the new relationship. They have spoken a few times on the phone – she’s even exchanged coolly polite words with Emily. In not telling him, maybe she has been too defensive, too excluding again. She is simply not used to having a brother, let alone one now trying to take care of her. All around them, in the woods, is the racket of birdcalls and squawks, like a playground.

Listen, I’m fine, she says. I just wasn’t ready to tell people. OK? Come on, let’s go this way.

She leads him down the lane. They walk past his car – a new silver Audi – towards the lake and the wolf enclosure. The ground is lush underfoot, the grass is young and has been softened by a recent shower. It’s humid, notes of thunder in the air, though the sunshine prevails. She takes off her cardigan and knots it around her hips. Lawrence has on a long-sleeved shirt, rolled to the mid-forearm. He has patches of bad skin below the cuffs, picked and sore-looking, like when he was a boy. They make their way through the woods.

It’s gorgeous here, he says, seeming to let the subject of her pregnancy go.

It is.

I can’t imagine owning so much land.

No. But we need it. They need it.

Still, it doesn’t seem – well – fair, I suppose. Not in this day and age.

Maybe we should follow the Scottish model. Re-nationalise the big estates.

She is half joking, but Lawrence nods.

Maybe. It might not be a bad thing.

I wonder if it would be harder or easier to set up a project like this.

Depends who’s in power, he says.

Probably none of them would risk it.

She is aware she sounds like a cynic, but since returning home, none of the political parties have convinced her they are anything other than urban-centric and ecologically conservative. The pockets of English countryside are broken apart and seem to be regarded as gardens for the city; Annerdale is unusually large and unusually governed. Her brother is an optimist; she has begun to admire his spirit, though at times it seems forced, something of a mental straightjacket. I don’t think it’ll rain. Emily will come round. As they walk, she catches Lawrence occasionally glancing over, with possessive tenderness, as if she needs guarding, as if she might stumble. The attentiveness feels odd, noticeable, like a new shoe, but is not unpleasant.