The Wolf Border(99)

The weather finally breaks. A week of proper rain and wind, thunder. The lull is over. With the blusters and the change of pressure comes a strange cycle of dreams. She dreams of the baby, worming on the blanket when he was first born and she barely knew how to hold him, and a world after catastrophe; she is looking for his buried hand in the rubble. Then she dreams she is still pregnant, she feels him moving in her, the slippery jutting of his legs. The next night, a dream where she cannot stop the white, surprising milk, litres of it, soaking through her shirt, though she is old and grey-haired and her breasts are atrophied. She wakes, goes back to sleep, and has a nightmare: her abdomen is gaping open like a damp red purse – she cannot find the surgeon to stitch her, she limps around holding it closed. Alexander shakes her awake.

Hey, it’s alright, it’s alright.

What time is it?

Little after three.

Is he crying?

No.

Wind in the branches outside. She sleeps again and dreams of wolves. There are dozens, loping across the fields, not Merle and Ra and the Annerdale litter, but wolves of the past – Tungsten, Left Paw, Caligula, the Belarus scavengers. They are part of an impossible number, a super-pack, like a modern fable. The fields are full of black water. The body of a cow floats, its ribs lathed raw, like the beams of a boat. Then they are in a town, running through deserted buildings, scrambling over walls and fences and tables. The dream becomes tortured. There are snarling fights; they inflict terrible injuries.

She wakes hot under the covers and with a headache – the heating has kicked in overnight with the sudden drop in temperature. Alexander has left for a conference in Northern Ireland. A cold cup of tea sits on the bedside table. Someone is banging on the front door. She glances at the bedside clock. Six-thirty: dawn is barely firing and the cottage is murky.

The banging continues. She gets up, pulls on her jeans and a T-shirt from a pile on the chair, looks in on Charlie. He is gripping the toy lion and sucking his thumb, asleep. She goes downstairs and opens the door to a neon-jacketed police officer.

Miss Caine?

His high-visibility jacket is garish against the grey trees. His features are hooked and hollowed by shadow. Parked in the lane behind him is a police Land Rover, the top light silently flashing, sending blue arcs wheeling into the woods. In the passenger seat another police officer is talking on the radio.

Rachel Caine?

Yes.

After the turbulent night, the morning seems oddly weatherless. Stillness ascends skyward. The day does not feel cold. Lawrence, she thinks. Lawrence is dead. He’s overdosed.

I’m Sergeant Armstrong. Sorry for the early hour. We were hoping you could come with us. There’s been an incident.

She doesn’t brace, though her arms cross automatically over her chest. I wasn’t expecting it, she thinks, I’m not ready – though in part she was and is. She begins, in those few seconds, to try to un-love her brother. She didn’t love him once, as a child, and it was easy then. The police officer waits for her to respond. Under his hat, shadows, she can’t see his face. He has no eyes. The surrounding stillness is immense, as if they are both standing at the bottom of a vast structure. She didn’t love Lawrence once. She can un-love him now. But it’s too late. There are ectopic beats in her heart and her throat is clenching. On the kitchen table, her phone is ringing, vibrating against the wooden surface.

Yes, she says. OK.

Can you come down to Pennington Hall?

To the Hall? Why the Hall?

You are in charge of the wolf enclosure?

She shakes her head, then nods.

Yes, I am. Is Lawrence alright?

Lawrence?

My brother Lawrence. Sorry. I’m not really awake. Is he OK?

The officer nods, slightly baffled; he is also tired – the end of a night shift, or the beginning of an early one. Now, after all, there is movement, in the branches nearby, a fluttering, a fast wing. She still cannot see the man’s face properly. She reaches out and turns on the porch light, and he appears, an ordinary man in his late forties.

Miss Caine, are you alright?

Yes. I’m sorry, I thought you were – What’s happened?

Are you in charge of the wolves?

Yes.

We received a report last night. A man near Sawrey driving home said he saw a wolf crossing the road in front of him.

OK, she says. There have been a few of those kinds of sightings, since they were released last year. It’s usually a big dog off a lead. Was this person drunk?

Not to my knowledge. We might not have been so concerned, but there was another separate report this morning. Near the Galt Forest.

The feeling of weakness is still in her legs, but her heart has levelled, and the meaning of the officer’s presence is registering. Upstairs the baby begins shouting from his cot. He can hear her voice; he knows she’s up.

Right. You’re taking the calls seriously?

We’re following up. At this stage, we don’t believe they’re hoaxes. We need you to verify the location of the wolves. The Animal Protection Officer is on standby in case, he says.

Her phone is ringing again. Charlie is shouting louder.

Yes, fine. Come in. I’ve got to see to my son.

The police officer follows her into the cottage, bending under the low doorframe. He removes his hat. He is tall, has straight grey hair like a heron, and is beginning to develop jowls. One eye sits a fraction higher than the other. The uniform does not suit him, though he must have worn it for decades.