by Sarah Hall
*
Lawrence is waiting for them in the little car park by Priest’s Mill, leaning against the bonnet of his car – a small nondescript hatchback. Behind him, a swift-flowing river and the mossy ruin of the old bobbin mill. He waves and stands up as she pulls in. She’s never been more pleased to see him. He has on slacks and a pinstripe shirt – a semi-corporate version of the wild man who was living with her a few weeks ago. He looks healthy, is still trim. He comes over to the car and opens the driver’s door for her.
Morning, he says. Thought you might be knackered, so I brought you a flask of coffee. It’s gone a bit tepid. There’s some nosh as well. How’s Bup?
Charlie makes a noise from the back seat, pleased to see his uncle.
Sorry to get you out of work, she says. I owe you.
Hardly. Besides, if this doesn’t constitute an emergency, I’m not sure what does.
One of them’s dead, she says.
Oh, Christ! Sorry. How?
Shot.
Sorry, Rachel.
She shakes her head, gets out of the car.
It shouldn’t have happened.
How did it happen? he asks. The news just said there was an escape.
I don’t know. Looks like someone let them out.
On purpose? Why? Who?
No idea yet.
This is not strictly true. Plenty of ideas have been forming in her head in the last twenty-four hours – not all of them realistic. They unload Charlie and his paraphernalia. Lawrence lifts him high in the air and swings him about.
Ready for some fun, little one?
I’m sorry – he’s out of clean nappies, he needs a bath and some cream. And he didn’t sleep much – it was a bit of a strange night. Expect him to be cranky.
That’s OK.
Did you get a ticket?
No.
Did you?
He shrugs.
I’ll do the speed-awareness course. Hey, it was an emergency!
I’ll pay the fine.
Don’t worry about it. Right, get on and do what you need to do. We’re fine. Aren’t we, Bup?
Lawrence carousels the baby in a wide arc, makes him squeal. A heavy weight seems lifted in her brother’s presence; how much easier it is to think clearly, to focus. She checks the receiver for a signal, but the wolves are once again out of range. The device is losing power, needs to be charged. She calls Huib. She gives him the bad news. He’s disappointed but accepting. Probably he expected it, and has encountered far worse in his time: mass slaughter, sawn-off horns – the worst poaching imaginable.
I’m going to send through a picture, she says. Get it to the media as soon as possible. It’ll gain some sympathy.
OK, good idea. Listen, I’m here with Thomas. We’re going to come and meet you and broaden the search. Where are you now?
Priest’s Mill. But I won’t be staying here. I know where they are, roughly. They’ll be almost to the northwest foothills.
OK, he says.
He repeats the location to Thomas. There’s a pause. She can hear them talking on the other end of the line.
OK, Rachel. We need to find a good place nearby and get clearance. Thomas says with luck we’ll be with you in the next twenty-five minutes.
What? Twenty-five minutes?
Yes, about that, Huib says. We have to get clearance and permission to land – it can’t be too close to any structures. I’ll call you back once we’re up with a rendezvous.
She realises then, not without a small thrill, that they are coming in the helicopter. Thomas Pennington has the means to traverse the entire county privately, by air.
OK, she says. Bring some more darts.
Yes, we are. We got lucky with the weather, Rachel. I think we’ll find them very quickly now.
She hangs up. She does not know about luck; the day has issued none so far. She looks up at the sky. A shale-blue expanse, light cloud cover, feathered cirrus. It is a beautiful window between the storms. Even the climate favours the Earl when he needs it to, she thinks. Now he is paying attention of course, now there’s reason, excitement. But she must quash the bitterness. Whatever advantages are at their disposal must be accepted, for the sake of the pack.
Got a plan? Lawrence asks, when she comes back over.
Yeah. You’re not going to believe it, she says.
She hurriedly eats the pastries her brother has brought and finishes the flask of lukewarm coffee. Ten minutes later, Huib calls back. The sound of the helicopter almost drowns him out, a rhythmic thrumming, the whine of the rotor; they are already airborne or about to take off.
Go to Arthur’s Seat, he shouts at her, on the Ullswater road. Thomas says the field beside the monument. Can you hear me, Rachel?
Yes, just about.
She checks the map book – the round table is about ten miles away. She needs petrol, but will make it. She kisses Charlie goodbye, thanks her brother again, and is about to get in the car when he stops her.
Wait, hold up. Won’t it be better to leave your car here? I’ll drive you. I know the place he means.
There’s no time to argue and no good reason. Nor, if she’s honest, does she want to be parted from her family just yet. Lawrence quickly transfers the baby seat. She takes what equipment she needs from the boot of the Saab and they start out. Her brother drives fast, but not dangerously, through St John’s Vale, past the small greenish mere, soupy with reeds, to the broadland before the northern fells. There is little traffic on the roads, only a few late-season tourists. Lawrence overtakes a caravan, accelerating with determination, pulling back in and reducing speed.
Is he asleep back there? he asks.
Yes, spark out. Poor thing, he’s really tired.
I bet.
I had to take him with me.
I know. Sorry I wasn’t around. I was in a deposition all day.
How are you? she asks.
I’m alright. Good days, bad days.
You look well.
Thanks. Rachel, don’t worry; he’ll be safe with me.
I know that.
As her brother drives, she texts the picture of the dead wolf to Sergeant Armstrong, and to Alexander. Thanks for Justine’s number. No joy. She looks out at the landscape, moors burnished along the base of the mountains, furze, sedge-coloured fields. They are out there, somewhere, and moving fast. As they near Arthur’s Seat, she checks the sky for the Gazelle coming in to land, but there’s only empty drifting blue.
Lawrence parks near the monument. They get out, leaving Charlie asleep in the back. The landing site is not so much a field as a slightly raised plateau of common land, covered with flocks of rush and grass. From the south, they hear it coming. The sound bends around the nearby fells, makes locating the helicopter difficult. She sees it down the valley, a dark blue insect suspended between the brown withers of the mountains, ominous-looking, dropping altitude slowly. The helicopter circles, begins its descent towards the ground. The noise of the engine and the blades fills the valley. A hundred feet from the ground, the grass begins to flutter, then to billow in the strong wash, and is crushed flat as the craft puts down. The turbulence tugs at Rachel’s clothes.
Charlie’s going to wake up and freak out, she shouts to Lawrence.
He nods.
Maybe I should go now?
I think so.
He gives her a quick hug, releases her.
Take care of him.
I will! We’ll watch you go up from down the road. Good luck! It’ll be alright.
He makes his way to the car, gets in, and drives back along the road. She cannot see her son. She suddenly feels unwilling to leave, but she has no choice now. The helicopter door opens, and Huib beckons to her. The blades have not been cut; the wind coming from the machine is extraordinary. Her clothes flap and twist as she approaches. She bends low and runs towards the helicopter. Huib takes the case and the tracker from her, and she climbs in. The door is shut and secured. Inside, the racket is only slightly mil
der. The body of the craft judders, seems too lightweight, too frail for the power of the rotor. Huib puts his thumb up. She takes a seat and fastens the belt. He passes her headphones with a microphone attached. She fits them and hears Thomas talking, saying, Hello, Rachel, glad you could join us, and she realises, with a feeling of dread, that he is piloting. Sylvia is sitting next to him up front. She turns, reaches back, and takes hold of Rachel’s wrist, smiles, mouths something. Why is she here? Rachel wonders. All fools together? On the headphones, Huib is talking about the signal, the last reading, but her heart is flurrying and she cannot concentrate. She is not afraid of flying. But this feels like madness, an event choreographed to put an end to it all, to conclude the entire, year-long fiasco. She’s never going to see her son again. She will never see him grow up or be able to tell him anything that matters – what he meant to her, who his father is, that he was a gift, the greatest of all gifts, and she could hardly believe he was hers.
She closes her eyes. The pitch and roar increase. There’s a swinging sensation. When she looks, the helicopter has lifted off, is nodding left and right, tilting hard to the side, and gaining altitude. The ground slides away beneath them at a sharp angle. She feels incredibly sad for a moment, almost resigned. Everything tends towards iron. They lift up, up. The monument grows smaller – the outline of the architectural site appears, a deep barrow in the earth. Down on the road, she sees her brother, holding the baby and waving. Please, she thinks, love him like I do, and then they are gone, and the Gazelle is moving swiftly across the landscape. The moorland blurs. A slow version of the blades is visible through the glass roof, an illusion created by speed. They pass along the valley, the space melting away as if it were nothing, fields and upland enclosures, three white wind turbines on a sacrificed hill, and the river like silver rope, unwinding. She looks down. Over a low summit is a hidden ghyll, running from a mountain tarn, the waterfall deeply channelled, wound-like. The upper crags of the fells draw level, weeping with grey and blue scree. And higher, they are above the peaks; there are contours that she has never seen before – that very few have or ever will – a land suddenly revealed, as if in a dream.
The geography of the northwest mountains makes it impossible to find them on the first day. The peaks veer into the sky and must be given a wide berth. The helicopter cannot pass too closely in the tight glacial valleys. Thomas obeys the regulations; he is not an unsafe pilot, in fact he is skilled, and she thinks again, It wasn’t him who crashed, though the stigma has been with him for over a decade. Occasionally, the transmitters’ signals are faintly read, then disappear. They are following the route, more or less, that Rachel predicted. The helicopter circles and tracks back, circles and tracks back, looping one valley, then the next. She scans the ground for movement, a migrating formation. The search method is efficient, but they will have to get closer to the ground if there’s any chance of tranquillising them. She has tracked in planes several times before and knows the animals are very good at evading pursuit, chicaning, doubling back, even on open ground. Space in the Gazelle is limited – they will not be able to transport the bodies back to Annerdale and it would be too dangerous to try. She imagines wolves tumbling from the sky, like some kind of Roman myth. But there is a ground unit on standby, she learns from Huib – a private company. The police and the mountain rescue centres are also ready to assist.
After an hour she gets used to the tipping and shuddering sensation of the helicopter, the intermittent rocks of turbulence. Thomas and Sylvia converse calmly, about the fast-acting protection grip Metcalfe is trying to arrange. There are problems on the English side of the border – no real precedent has been set; the law is antiquated, murky. Another sighting is called into the police, near Mungrisdale, which seems improbable – too far east. They follow the lead anyway, flying around the vast hulk of Saddleback, and over the windswept brown moors, not finding them. They pass lower, set a herd of wild fell ponies galloping, slaloming through the gorse, their ragged tails trailing behind them. Thomas communicates regularly with air-traffic control, but other than one medi-vac heading from Whitehaven to the brain-injury centre in Newcastle, the skies above the District are clear. Another hour, two. The gauge reads low, and they land at Cockermouth heliport to refuel. At the hub, several private and military helicopters are parked. The paperwork is completed; they wait for permission to take off, their business no more important than anyone else’s.
The search resumes, but clouds begin to flow in; the air becomes choppier, the ride uncomfortable. There are jolts and sudden drops. Their good fortune with the weather is running out. The signals are picked up again above a quiet valley west of Lorwood, but a blanket of scrub and trees obscures the pack. Rachel’s legs feel numb from the vibrations through the seat; she wishes she were on land again.
They abort the search. The Earl sets down at the Sharrow Bay Hotel on Ullswater, where there is a helipad for its more salubrious guests. They have been booked in for the evening. They might be millionaire tourists, Rachel thinks, putting down for a luxury weekend in Romantic country, not trackers, conservationists. In her lake-view room, she takes a long hot shower, washes her underwear, and lies down for an hour before dinner. She is extremely tired, but cannot sleep. The noise of the rotor echoes demonically in her skull. She can still see the fells rolling below. She thinks about Charlie, what he is eating and whether Lawrence will remember to find the toy lion before bed – she texts him, Call you later; don’t forget Roary. She looks at the picture of the dead wolf. Then she thinks about Left Paw, whose collar was posted back to the Reservation, and whose body they never found. The Chief Joseph pack will soon be heading north, too. She thinks again about phoning Kyle. You have a son. The thought is like a splinter. Can she really go on not telling him? She pictures Charlie as a man, how she imagines he might look. He is tall, his hair is long and dark. His quarter heritage.
Dinner is a contrite affair. No one is in the mood to savour or celebrate, though Thomas remains upbeat.
Do leave the bottle, he tells the sommelier, and don’t worry, we aren’t in need of your usual superb level of attendance this evening.
A polite euphemism that is interpreted and obeyed; they are mostly left alone during the meal. No doubt there is discreet speculation in the kitchens – they are an odd group. Huib is dressed in shorts and a flannel shirt, as usual, though the dress code at the Sharrow Bay is deeply formal. Perhaps they think him an eccentric African millionaire. Rachel’s day-old, slept-in clothing is rumpled; the Earl and his daughter both look passable, blazered, eternally prepared. They all know who Thomas Pennington is, she thinks, and will surely be following the events.
Is there any news about the gate? she asks.
We’re still trying to figure that out, Thomas says. The company is looking at the computer system. It might just be one of those things, I’m afraid. A technological blip.
A blip, Rachel thinks. His tone is casual and oddly accepting. He made a very good case for the unassailable security of the project to her in the beginning, she recalls, which she herself has often repeated. Now that they are not directly engaged with the search, she wants some answers. She does not want to be fobbed off.
So nobody has claimed responsibility? Nobody has a theory?
No, Huib says. If it was a group or a single activist, they’re keeping schtum.
What about this loon, this Nigh, who’s been in touch? Thomas asks, sipping his wine. He sounds like a good candidate, doesn’t he?
So Thomas has stayed up to date on the project and read the meeting notes, she thinks.
It’s doubtful, she says. We never thought of him as a serious threat. He seems too chaotic.
Well, sometimes the chaotic characters are the most surprising and dangerous, Thomas suggests. Lord knows, I see enough of them in the House, always upsetting the apple cart, but they can be very effective.
There’s also the guy in the mask, Huib suggests. Remember him? We never really figured that one out,
did we?
Maybe, she says.
She is not convinced, not by any of the obvious suspects.
Halfway through dinner, Thomas excuses himself to speak with the environment minister – the call he has been waiting for all afternoon. He is gone half an hour. The jus on his plate congeals, but none of the waiting staff dare remove his plate.
It is good to see you both again, Sylvia says, warmly. I’m just really sorry about the circumstances. And I’m so sorry we lost one. It’s absolutely dreadful. Sometimes I really dislike this county. People can be very backward.
It is the first negative thing Rachel has ever heard her say about Cumbria. The apology sounds so heartfelt and sincere it is as if she herself committed the crime, as if she is Cumbria, or its representative. She seems older and more knowing from her months in the city: grit in the pearl. Her hair has been cut stylishly: a kind of sharp, bevelled bob.
It’s good of you to come back, Syl, Huib says.
Daddy asked me to come home and help, she explains, so of course I did. Never mind exams. I do miss the project. Some days I’d love to jack in the law and work with you both again.
A nice sentiment, but there may be no more project, Rachel thinks. She does not say it. There’s no point in taking her mood out on Sylvia.
