The Wolf Border

by Sarah Hall

  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.

  I won’t be a minute, she says, heading for the stairs.

  She goes up to Charlie. He is standing holding the edges of the cot, his sleep-suit askew, Roary turfed onto the floor. The tone of his crying changes when he sees her, downgrades. She stands for a moment within arm range, looking at him as he reaches out. She steadies herself, breathes. Not Lawrence. Lawrence is alive. She lifts the baby. She dresses him, then sets him back into the cot, at which he protests loudly. She goes into the bedroom and quickly puts on a bra under her T-shirt. Sergeant Armstrong is standing in the hallway, waiting, when they come downstairs.

  I just need to – she says, moving past him to the kitchen.

  Charlie twists in her arms to get a better view of the strange man, standing ominously in the hallway, clad in yellow and black like a great biding wasp. His wail borders on uncontrolled; soon it will be a turbine of calamity. She pours some milk in a bottle and puts bananas and biscuits in a bag. The routine is all wrong, but what can she do. She feels harried and resentful, drops things clumsily; a plastic plate clatters on the tiles. Who was it? she wonders. Some short-sighted grandfather on the way to get the paper? The hysterical mother of Nancy, from the protests? She gathers up the bag, looks down at her phone. There are three missed calls from Huib. The police have obviously woken him, too. She pockets the phone, picks up the car keys and her coat, and walks the policeman out of the cottage. The second officer is getting out of the Land Rover, adjusting his hat. The blue light is still going. Such dawn theatrics seem ridiculous.

  Need a hand? he asks.

  I’ll follow you down, she says.

  She opens the Saab door, straps Charlie in, and gives him the bottle, which he holds expertly by the handles up to his mouth, tipping his head back. He is calmer. The uncommon development of the car and the sippy cup this early in the morning are enough to distract him for the time being. She half peels and puts a banana on the passenger seat.

  The Land Rover wallows slowly down the lane, pauses at the fork, turns onto the estate road, and speeds up. She takes a bite of the banana. It had to happen again sooner or later, she thinks. They’re probably lucky to have had so many months without serious trouble on the project, just the odd griping madman quoting obscure biblical passages. She glances behind. Charlie is looking out of the window at the yellow trees, the empty bottle held loosely in one hand. He drops it into the footwell behind the passenger seat.

  Uh-oh, he says.

  Uh-oh, she agrees.

  THE EXPOSED

  A golden, industrial sun is on the way up, gilding the low clouds. October, the month of riches and mutability. The long driveway to the Hall smokes with light and mist. Rising along the verges are the ancient oaks, cast like thrones along the wayside. She knows the story of the oldest now, which is elaborately underpinned with struts – its health superstitiously tied to the fortunes of the estate, it cannot be allowed to die. Annerdale appears like a myth out of the haze, a holy land, artificially made but gloriously convincing.

  Another police vehicle is parked outside Pennington Hall – two more officers are standing with Huib. Here we go again, she thinks. Honor’s blue MG is in the usual spot, tucked under the willow tree by the walled garden. It’s early, even for her. The Land Rover pulls up; the policemen get out and confer with their colleagues. Two consecutive sightings: they are clearly taking it all very seriously. The uniformed gathering has an air of malfeasance to it, like a posse about to ride out. They’re just doing their job, Rachel tells herself, but the talk of an Animal Protection Officer has made her nervous. She opens the back door of the Saab, unclips Charlie, and lifts him out. He hides his face coyly against her shoulder as she approaches the uniformed group. There’s a brief discussion; Sergeant Armstrong asks about access to the enclosure – how can they get in, where the wolves might have got out.

  Let’s just make sure first, shall we? Rachel suggests. They’re tagged. If
we can get a radio signal, we’ll know it’s a false alarm. If we can’t get one from the office, it usually means they’re on the other side of the estate, but it doesn’t take long to find them.

  This is the truth, more or less. The signal range is five miles. Weather and hills and broadcast anomalies notwithstanding, it is rare that Ra and Merle cannot be found reasonably quickly with the quad bikes and the handheld receivers.

  Actually, I already tried, Huib says. No go from this end, I’m afraid.

  OK, she says. We’ll try from another point.

  What about GPS? the sergeant asks. Can you track them that way?

  Rachel moves Charlie to the other arm – he’s becoming a dead weight. He ducks his head again and remains quiet, but the placid shyness is not going to last. He needs to eat something proper, and soon. So does she. She is in no mood for a discussion about telemetry.

  Implants are problematic with satellites, she says. We can get some data from ARGOS, but it’s delayed. It’s more for research than anything else – activity, temperature, heart rate, that kind of thing. We don’t use the mapping software: it’s not reliable.

  The sergeant frowns slightly, as if an oversight has already been exposed.

  I see.

  They have a limited home range, she says, her tone a fraction curter. They aren’t free-roaming. We don’t need GPS.

  She shrugs Charlie upward. He puts his hands on her face. She is not paying him enough attention.

  Ma-ma.

  When was the last time they were actually seen by anyone here – I mean, seen by one of your staff? the sergeant says.

  She moves Charlie’s hands away. You really don’t understand, she thinks.

  I was inside the enclosure about ten days ago, Huib offers. Listen, I’ll go and try the receiver again; sometimes it’s just the antenna. I can take a quad bike around the enclosure if there’s still no signal.

  How long will that take?

  No more than an hour.

  It’s really the best approach, Rachel says.

  Huib heads back towards the office, a young officer escorting him. The rest of the group waits on the driveway, ready for deployment. The specifics of this call-out might be slightly unusual, with a note of wild glamour, even, but they are probably used to freak animal incidents, she thinks, it being part of rural policing. Bulls blocking the road. Horse trailers overturned. Llamas on the A66 from the exotic farm nearby.

  How many wolves are there? Sergeant Armstrong asks.

  Six. Two adults, four juveniles.

  She does not mention that the litter hasn’t been implanted with tracking devices.

  I understand my colleague was here last year looking into an attempted sabotage? Have there been any more such incidents?

  No. It’s been very quiet.

  The main door of the Hall opens. Honor Clark approaches, heels crisp in the gravel, as if she has been awake and working for hours. She offers coffee inside the Hall while they wait. Thomas Pennington is away, she tells them, but is aware of the situation, and will of course cooperate in any way he can. She stewards them inside. There is a slight, almost imperceptible strain in her manner, Rachel notices; her scarf is loosely knotted, the hair underneath erupting in loose strands. She has rushed to work, rushed here to mediate. It’s bad for the estate’s profile to have the police on site, yet again. One attack on the enclosure and one accidental shooting, within a year.

  Where’s Thomas? Rachel asks her, as they make their way along the corridor towards the drawing room.

  He’s away.

  Where?

  I’m not sure at the moment.

  Honor does not meet Rachel’s eye. It’s possible she has not even talked to him yet, if he is AWOL, and she is covering. The usual goose-chase will go on behind closed doors, unseen, until he is found. In the drawing room she pours a round of coffee into fine china cups. The sergeant moves to the corner of the room and radios back to the station. The officers remove their hats.

  Please help yourself.

  Honor gestures to a tray of fresh pastries.

  You know where I am, she says to Rachel. Do keep me in the loop.

  Rachel takes a croissant from the plate, pulls it into pieces, and gives some to Charlie. He chews it, but is unsure and spits out a damp wad, which she wraps in a napkin. The police mill round the room with their tiny cups and then sit on the various designer chairs, the silk chaise longue, the leather Bauhaus, each looking out of place, as if having stumbled into the wrong stage play. Nor is Rachel any better suited, two years on, since she sat here waiting for the Earl, having just flown in from Idaho. Her phone pings – a text from Huib. Out on quad. Sergeant Armstrong is looking through the French windows towards the lake, at the spectacular, picturesque view. One of the junior officers is researching on his smartphone. He begins to question Rachel informally.

  So, you surgically implant the radio transmitters in them?

  Yes.

  And each has its own frequency.

  Yes.

  Do they have tranquillisers fitted in the devices, in case of emergency?

  He has found the Telonics website, which offers the most advanced form of wildlife tracking. She can see where the line of questioning will probably lead. Can they be controlled remotely, if necessary? Can they be destroyed if they are on the rampage?

  No, she says. Tranquilliser cases are too big for our implants. They’re usually only installed in radio collars.

  Why choose implants over collars?

  Collars are bulky. They get damaged. The animals can pull them off. Even the weather can affect them.

  He nods. He looks barely twenty years old, close-cropped, spotty, and cadet-like. She cannot imagine him in an action scenario. She thinks of the Idaho state troopers, their swagger, the antagonism every time they had reason to come onto the Reservation – their guns seemed brazen to her; she never got used to it. The sergeant helps himself to another cup of coffee – no doubt a cut above the usual refreshments offered during call-outs. He seems more relaxed than when he knocked at her door, teases the junior.

  That your auxiliary brain, Tom? What else does it say? Brush your teeth?

  For all the grand showing of force, there seems to be no state of alarm. Extra precautionary measures, perhaps. Charlie begins to act up. He smells soiled. She excuses herself, slips into the library, and changes him. He rolls about, squirms and kicks on the change mat, and threatens the plush carpet beneath.

  Knock it off, kiddo, she says quietly, we can’t afford the dry-cleaning bill.

  He fights the new nappy. Too much sugar, the wrong routine; he senses her stress. She cleans her hands on a wet wipe. Attended to, Charlie performs a wobbling circuit of the room, past the bookcases – she stops him from pulling off and demolishing the expensive first editions – past the elaborate fireplace. She picks him up and shows him the bronze Capitoline sculpture on the mantel.

  Look, she says. This is a Mrs Wolf. And two little boys, like you.

  Charlie reaches for a china vase next to the statue.

  Nope, she says, and swiftly turns away.

  Thwarted, he begins to cry. Hurry up, Huib, she thinks. The situation is only going to get more unmanageable the longer it goes on. She must take control. She considers waking one of the volunteers, asking them to babysit for an hour. Or perhaps Honor could mind Charlie – though that seems unlikely and undesirable. When she returns to the drawing room, there’s a stir of new energy. The officers are all on their feet, hats in hand, primed. Sergeant Armstrong is talking on his PTT again, asking his correspondent to repeat something, the cause of injury. Say again, Samantha. He is looking ahead at the wall, concentrating, his forehead buckled in the middle. OK, OK. He turns back into the room.

  Right. There’s been another sighting on the Galt Forest road. A cyclist – said he saw a pack of wolves. He’s come off his bike, has a broken wrist and a fractured cheekbone – he’s about to go into surgery.

  The sergeant glances at
Rachel.

  He managed to get a picture on his phone – they’ve sent it through. Tom, pass me that thing a minute.

  He takes the iPhone from his colleague, fiddles with it, then shows Rachel. The image is slightly blurred; the animal is retreating down the forest track, looking to the side. It could be mistaken for a husky or some other kind of big, heavy-coated dog by anyone else. White fur. Long legs, a long, thin nose. Ra.

  I can’t be certain, Rachel says. But, yes, he could be ours.

  They don’t confirm their point of escape until later, when Huib finds the north gate standing open. The digital lock is undamaged – the mechanism has been triggered, or overridden. There are paw prints in the nearby soil, either side of the fence and the barrier. He measures them. At least four different wolves are out, possibly all. Officers are dispatched to examine the scene; the volunteers are brought over from their quarters for questioning. More police arrive at the Hall – spilling out of cars – minor, dark-clad Lucifers. The entire county force is put on immediate alert.

  Rachel has several brief phone calls with Huib. He confirms both Merle and Ra’s tracks. They do not speculate about what might have happened; there will be time for that later. She tells him to take the quad bike to the old den site and the rendezvous points, to check the enclosure as best he can for any sign that they have not all gone – a faint hope. There are still no radio signals; most likely they have passed by without detection and are now out of range.

  Her patience quickly wanes. She must get to the broad expanse of the Galt Forest, a preserved stretch of national parkland in the heart of the Lakes, and soon. They may linger where there are red deer, and the tree coverage is dense. Other than cyclists and orienteers, there will not be many people at this time of year. First she must make sure the situation is under control – she will insist on leading the search – and that any police involvement is restrained.

  She leaves Charlie with one of the volunteers – he’s still acting up and shouts, but she has little choice. She sits with Sergeant Armstrong in a quiet corner of the drawing room, which has become an informal operation hub. He seems unperturbed, is old enough to have seen a myriad of unusual incidents, though perhaps not quite like this. He calmly walks her through operating procedure, hands splayed on the table, leaning forwards.