The Wolf Border(87)

Have you broken things off with her? she asks her brother.

They are outside in the garden, sitting on plastic bags on the damp wooden bench, sunlight bouncing around them, the trees dripping. Above, the rain clouds have dispersed; there are contrails from Atlantic-bound jets. The baby is sleeping in the carrier by their feet. He shakes his head.

No. I sort of walked out the night I called you. But she knew what state I was in, it was obvious.

Do you want me to speak to her?

The idea of intervention gives Rachel some pleasure. To confront the woman she imagines as some sort of enabler, a wrecker of homes. But then, who is she to judge? She, of all people.

Thanks, he says. I’ll do it. I doubt it’ll be a surprise. She didn’t really believe I was going to stay with her. She kept asking me if I still loved my wife.

Do you?

I don’t know. Yes. I don’t know.

He rises from the bench and goes slowly inside the cottage, a man condemned. She hears him speaking on the phone, then a long silence. A minute or two later he comes back. His eyes are sheened, but he is done crying.

She called me a cunt.

Well, Rachel says. In some cultures that’s a compliment.

The faintest glimmer of a smile from her brother, the first in days. He looks down at Charlie, whose head is lolling to one side, his cheek podging as it presses against his shoulder.

I feel like I’ve come crashing in. Your life is going so well. You don’t need me here.

That’s not true, she says. Who’s going to save me from the Penningtons?

She reaches for his hand, which is curled tightly in his lap like the hand of an anxious little boy.

*

They are born, blind and deaf, in the warm, fusty alcove of soil that has been lined with their mother’s fur. A few weeks later, Gregor’s motion-sensor rig catches their first foray into the world. Rachel has been coming into the office every morning in the hope of good news, leaving Lawrence to babysit. As soon as they are caught on the live feed, Gregor messages her. She and Huib review the footage. Ra is standing on a hummock near the den; lean and patient, his head slung low, the pale hind fur blazing around the shuttle of his penis. He yawns, bends, stretching through the front legs and then the rear. Downward facing: the pose looks yogic. He rights himself, shakes his ears, and continues watching the entrance.

He’s definitely expecting something, Rachel says. And just look how trim he is. He’s been working hard.

Ja. I need to go to the gym.

She glances at Huib, who has no discernible fat anywhere on his body, has a monastic diet, and cycles miles across the mountain passes of Lakeland on his days off.

I know. You’ve really let yourself go, my friend.

Come out, come out, he says. It’s a beautiful day.

He is staring intently at the screen. This is the moment everything has been resting on – the fight to change the law, the expense, the surrender of national parkland. Suddenly they are there, emerging on the den run, blunt-faced and clumsy. Their eyes are slatey and opaque; eerily unfinished. They can only just see.

OK, how many have we got? Rachel murmurs.

They count them out – one, two, three smoky heads, a pause, and then a fourth. The last is smaller, more tentative, gets jounced about by the others. The slope is sheer below the opening, quite a challenge. The first skids down, almost tumbles, manages to brake with its front paws. The others follow its lead – the runt losing control and swinging round, bottom-first, then rolling over in the dirt. Nearby, Merle is lying in the grass, panting, unconcerned. Her mate is on duty; she need not intervene.

Where’s Sylvia? Huib asks. She’s going to want to see this.

She’s got the morning off. Studying, I think.

He takes a still of the film, converts the image and sends it to her phone.

Can you send that to Alexander too? And Stephan in Romania.

Sure. What about Thomas? He won’t be back for a few weeks, will he?

She is about to say, and not without bitterness, No, don’t bother. Thomas Pennington has not shown any interest in the project for months; he has not attended any of the team meetings since Christmas. But he is their benefactor, the man to whom everything is owed, and owned. She nods.

If you like.

It is an important day, after all, a landmark – he will surely want to know. She tries to get a good view of each pup, makes notes on their appearance, size, and sex, speculatively. They are all dirty grey, black-snouted, as if having riffled in soot, with dark tufts along their backs. Once out in the open, their father approaches. They surround him, lick his muzzle and wag frenziedly, trembling, craning upwards. The joy of recognition. Two have classic white stars on their chests. Names come to mind but she resists attaching any. They do not venture far; they follow their father, and then make their way over to their mother, nudging into her side and vying for milk. The fourth – already Rachel feels extremely interested in its plight – scrambles hard for position, is squeezed out, tries again and finally makes its way in. Merle blinks slowly, sensually, as the pups suckle. After a time, they are encouraged back inside the den. Ra lifts the runt by its scruff and it swings from his jaw. He deposits it with the others safely in the underground chamber.

Rachel turns to look at Huib. He is glowing with satisfaction.

We have our pack, she says.

Yes, we do. Let’s go and find Sylvia, he suggests. I think she should be the one to speak to the press. How do you want to handle it? Think they’ll be any trouble?