The Wolf Border Page 5

  Rachel?

  No, you’re right, it’s not my kind of thing. But it was worth a look. I’ll probably leave before breakfast to miss the traffic tomorrow.

  Rachel.

  Binny reaches across the table and takes hold of her daughter’s wrist, firmly, as she used to when she wanted to stop her running away after an argument, out of the house and onto the moors.

  I hope there’s something more than following those creatures about all day. I hope there’s something more for you. You aren’t to give up, my girl.

  Rachel waits, uncomfortably, until her mother lets go.

  What, like a husband? Didn’t you teach me how to avoid them?

  There is something unintentionally harsh in her tone. The joke is wrong, if it even was one. Binny makes a startled, indignant noise and alters position in her armchair. Leakage. Too much tea. Rachel leans forward, as if to help, then stops. What can she do? The body breaks when it breaks. The pads her mother wears are dense and absorbent, but there is probably no way of accepting such a loss of function, the warm wet shocks. Binny grunts impatiently.

  It’s no laugh, getting old. Let me tell you now. I hate it. You will, too. Get off the bus when it’s time.

  She could take her mother’s hand, perhaps, and try to forge something in their last hours together. But what could she say? The good memories are not the usual ones, of demonstrative affection. We used to walk for miles on the moors. I remember the backs of your legs, your strong muscles. I remember trying to keep up with you. It is all too far back in the past, and inarticulable. She does not take her mother’s hand. Instead she finds herself repeating a line she read once, in a poem, in a book on a shelf in a house where she spent no more than a few illicit hours.

  Everything tends towards iron.

  A nameless man, asleep in the slurry of sheets, his legs sprawled. A random piece of text found while she roamed wakefully, before dressing and leaving. She could remember more if she wanted to, about him, about all of them. But the line was beautiful, and felt meaningful.

  What? What did you say?

  Binny is leaning forward on the seat again, hunched, almost crouching, wanting something from her daughter, if not intimacy then a marker of some kind. It is within Rachel’s power to deliver it.

  Never mind, Mum. Listen, you know that bad knee I had as a child, whenever I was growing – that lump of cartilage that used to swell up. You remember? It used to keep me up all night and you’d spray it with that awful stinking hot stuff. And you’d bandage it up so tight, I couldn’t even bend it! Anyway. It’s come back. Maybe I’m getting taller. What do you think?

  She stands and straightens her back.

  Taller? What?

  Binny peers up at her daughter, her brow avalanching towards her eyes. She does not understand.

  What, she says. What?

  She does not understand, and then she gets it, her daughter is fooling around, kidding with her, and suddenly Binny is laughing, barking, like a crone, which soaks her gusset and leaves her wheezing.

  You are a silly beggar, she says. You really are.

  Rachel sits down and smiles and drinks her tea. The truth is, from time to time they did get on. They lived together in the post-office cottage for eighteen years. They burnt pans, left rings in the bathtub, argued like murder, and squabbled over who would mind Lawrence. But sometimes they got along. Sometimes they laughed.

  It’s amazing the levels of human kindness that suffice, Rachel thinks. This will be the moment she will take away and think of as success, of a kind. Looking down over the black coast and frozen wastes of Labrador, with a plastic wine glass in her hand and the in-flight film sounding tinny inside the headphones, she will remember this laughter and think, yes, that was her mother, revealed. The gamey woman smelling of urine and sweat, cackling in the chair, was Binny. Fuck the doctor and the orderly and all the other doom-mongers. There was still brightness in her eyes.

  THE RESERVATION

  The airport is a brown stone building, compact and utilitarian, with one desk serving Horizon Airways, a hire-car pick-up kiosk, gift shop, and a small coffee counter. The sign above the arrivals gate reads Welcome to Nez Perce Idaho. Kyle is waiting for her on the other side of the plastic cordon, one of a few dozen people standing in front of the squeaking conveyor belt waiting to greet travellers or collect luggage. Denim, snakeskin, expensive suits and briefcases, braided hair: the usual commuters and residents mill around, regional traders and ranchers, the exceptionally rich. Kyle is tall, taller than anyone else, his hair tied back above his neck, hatless. He waits, hands in his pockets, not especially watching out for her, nonchalant almost. His presence is alarming. She was expecting to get a connection to Kamiah, then call for a lift. Left Paw, she thinks, bad news. She walks over and drops her bag next to him.

  What are you doing here?

  His hands remain tucked inside his jeans.

  Going to Bermuda. What do you think I’m doing, Rachel. Good flight?

  At first all she can think to do is drill him with questions. Did they pick up a signal and do a focused follow? Did they find his body? Inside or outside the Reservation? Kyle raises his eyebrows, and regards her for a moment. Then he reaches down to take her bag.

  That’s a piss-poor greeting, crazy lady. Thought they were all about manners in England.

  Yeah, well, what are you doing?

  I’m giving you a ride. I was in town.

  They shot him, didn’t they?

  Christ! I was just in town. I had some business.

  Business?

  Business. Whoa.

  He places a hand on her shoulder for a moment, as if calming a frisking horse, then swings her bag over his shoulder. He turns and walks towards the exit. She follows.

  We’ve had nothing on Paw, he says. But the others are good. Got an air report yesterday. They’re about a hundred miles from the border. Doesn’t look like they’ve gone back to any carcasses. They’re in the western corridor. They might run into the Cascade pack but it should be OK.

  She is still tense, primed for bad news, though it would have been delivered by now. Kyle is guileless; he does not hedge. If he says he had business in town, then he had business in town. She walks by his side. He is long-legged but slow-moving, a stroller, a saunterer, not prone to hurry. Without boots, she barely reaches his shoulder. Strange that after only a week away someone so familiar could look new to the eye. After the pale English northerners and the care-home residents, he seems gigantic, very American.

  You shaved, she says.

  I shaved.

  Got a date?

  Nope.

  Wait up a minute.

  They stop at the coffee counter. Rachel orders a tall black and a cinnamon twist. She searches through her pockets and her wallet for dollar bills.

  Want one?

  Nope. That stuff’ll kill you. They didn’t feed you on the plane?

  Since when did you get all health-conscious?

  He puts a hand to his belly.

  Since I hit forty.

  Oh shit. I missed your birthday.

  I wasn’t so present myself. Went to The Barn. Tequila.

  Rachel smiles. She can picture the scene. For a big man Kyle is unable to hold much liquor – the end usually comes suddenly, they must carry him out, put him in the truck and take the keys out, lay him on his side. After negotiating Binny and Thomas Pennington, it’s a relief to be around someone she knows and likes, someone relatively uncomplicated, and she can feel the knots slackening. But Kyle is not without occlusion. In the hothouse environment of the centre, with its poorly kept secrets, gossip, and cabin fever, he is a favourite topic. To the volunteers he is the real deal, half Lapwai Indian, of which he seems neither proud nor indifferent: he has limited interest in the tribal councils, though he is the centre’s representative, and few opinions on other local affairs, petitions for removal of the Nazi camps, suits against polluters. In the summer he sails. In the winter he skiis. When kids v
isiting the centre ask him if he’s related to Chief Joseph, he gets them to stand on a chair and recite the No More, Forever speech, then tells them it was invented by an army officer. There are occasional girlfriends. Rachel knows it often seems like he and she are a couple – they speak the familiar language of work, ethograms, predation rate, biomass; they co-host barbecues, alternate decks to drink beer on. Oran frequently acts jealous. But they remain, simply, friends.

  The terminal doors slide open. A gust of austere air breaches the fug of the airport. They walk out into the keen, glinting light, new snow. A Pacific winter sun, low on the horizon. The sky is luxuriously blue; it’s the hour before dusk. The brown hills of the valley are white-capped and it’s a good five degrees colder than when Rachel left for England.

  Need to pick up anything in town? Kyle asks.

  I don’t think so. Is the road open?

  Yep.

  They cross the parking lot to Kyle’s truck. Salt and grit crunch underfoot on the pathways and bolsters of ploughed snow lie along the sides of the runway. The propellers of the Dash that brought her from Seattle start up, gain pitch and volume. The aircraft jolts into action, buzzes away from the terminal building, turns down the runway, and rises after only a short distance. It will barely reach five thousand feet before landing in Pullman, then will head on to Sea-Tac. Kyle unlocks the truck.

  I can drive if you like, she says. I’m not that tired.

  Hell, no. You’ve been on the wrong damn side all week.

  She opens the passenger door but lingers outside. The cold air nips her ears, refreshes her lungs after the stale air of the plane.

  So, how was it? he asks over the roof of the truck.

  You mean did I take the job?

  I meant seeing your mom. Been a while.

  Fine. The care home is nice. It’s private.

  That’s good.

  They get in and shut the doors. Kyle starts the engine and turns the heating on. She adjusts the passenger seat’s setting – one of the long-legged male workers at the centre has been in before her. He glances over at her and reverses out of the bay.

  Still wearing those nice pants, I see.

  Funny.

  What did you bring me?

  Actually, I’ve got you an article on the Chernobyl Grays. It’s pretty interesting.

  Oh, nice. Lupus radio-activus – am I right?

  I took Latin, you know.

  Go on, then, impress me.

  Inter canem et lupum crepusculum.

  Fancy. What does it mean?

  Between the dog and the wolf, twilight.

  You are wasted on the colonials.

  Kyle pulls out of the airport exit onto the highway and heads towards the bridge. Traffic is thin. The truck purrs over the arching concrete span. Below, the river is a deep wide cut of blue.

  I never get used to it, she says.

  What’s that?

  Seeing Rainier so close from the plane. There’s nothing like it back home.

  Yeah, she’s not too ugly.

  After ten minutes they leave the highway and follow a convoy of empty timber trucks north. Kyle indicates and overtakes. The lead truck flashes its lights as they pass. They stop at a roadside diner and order burgers. They talk about the volunteers, the forthcoming conference in Montana. The local news. A body has been found dumped near Lolo. A senator has been caught in bed with a rent boy; KTVB reporters have been sitting outside the wife’s hotel.

  You weren’t even tempted to work for the prince, then? Kyle asks.

  Earl. No. I don’t know. Not really. He’s a –

  She picks up the sugar dispenser, fiddles with the lid.

  He’s what?

  He’s crazy, probably. But very ambitious. He’s got a lot of clout.

  Clout?

  Yeah. Politically. It’s a good scheme. But a mad hope-and-glory project – he wants to re-wild, eventually.

  Sounds good.

  Maybe. Britain has a history of wealthy eccentrics who love grand schemes, especially if they can be named after themselves. They think they can do whatever they want. Maybe they can – a few handshakes with old-school friends in Parliament and off they go. It’s not like here.

  Kyle jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

  Ha. Who do you think is living out there? The democratic anti-corruptionists? The communist party? Gandhi?

  She laughs, shakes her head.

  Tax dodging is different. In Britain there’s a set at the top. It’ll never change, no matter who is in power or how many proletariat rock stars get knighted by Her Majesty.

  Liam Gallagher is a Sir?

  Probably.

  Well now I feel confused. I’ll have to get rid of my CDs.

  She takes the remaining pound notes out of her wallet, folds them, and slips them into a side chamber. They eat their food quickly, split the bill, leave a good tip, and head for the door. Kyle takes a mint from the dish next to the cash register.

  I’m going to Coeur d’Alene next weekend to fix the boat. Want to go?

  Is Oran going?

  Nope.

  OK.

  Kyle shakes his head.

  I hope you keep quit. That guy is like a dog. He thinks if he trots along faithfully, one day you’ll fall in love with him and everything. It’s not going to take much to fuck him up again.

  He doesn’t think that. I’ve assured him.

  If you say so.

  Back on the road the day is almost gone, leaving an immense plain of grey sky. The dark, arboreal wings of the road flash past, vast trunks, interstices where the forest has been clear-cut. No lights are visible but in the trees there are compounds and sawmills, factories, swimming pools, and hunting lodges.

  You know Scotland really might vote for independence, she says.

  Is that so?

  It’s looking that way. The No campaign is floundering.

  Will it be a republic?

  No. They’ll keep the Queen.

  Would you vote for it?

  I don’t know, she says.

  She leans back in the seat, stretches her legs out. She is glad to be back. Tomorrow they will start analysing the month’s data, video footage from the den, audio recordings from the pack’s patrols along the buffer zone. She will email Lawrence and apologise for not managing to see him while over. While the visit is fresh in her mind she will look on Amazon for a Christmas present for Binny. She’ll make the introduction between Stephan Dalakis in the Carpathian rescue centre and Thomas Pennington – she will be a friend to the Annerdale project; she’ll help get him his wolves.

  Night presses down on the road. The headlights of the truck shine into the distance. A deer blunders from the verge, across the road and into the trees opposite, the red disc at the back of its eye flashing. Kyle doesn’t flinch or brake. She cracks the window open for a second, then presses the switch to close it again. They drive on in silence, then she says,

  I remember Chernobyl.

  When you were a kid?

  I was ten. They told us not to go outside if it was raining. Where I come from, it’s always raining. We had exercises in school for nuclear disasters afterwards. This bell would ring and you’d have to duck under the desk and count to one hundred.

  Scary shit, Kyle says.

  Yeah. They’ve only just stopped testing the lambs before sending them to the market.

  When St Helens blew, he says, we got the ash. You could see the cloud coming, like this huge black column. Mom took me and my brother out of school and made us stay under the bed for three days. She fed us tuna sandwiches under there. There was black shit on everything. The windows, the grass, everything.

  Do you think the hide-under-something strategy works?

  Nope. It’s like wiping God’s ass with a Kleenex.

  Kyle switches on the radio and tracks to a popular music station. He sings along, out of key. He turns off the road onto the timber route, towards the Reservation. They gain altitude. The road closes over with white.
Flakes spiral out of the black void onto the windscreen and are swept away.

  You want to stop and put the chains on?

  Nah.

  They pass a sign – 57 km to nearest gas. The snow is falling faster now. In December the centre can be cut off for days. They have to ski into town until the grit truck arrives. The back-up generator stinks the place out with diesel fumes and smoke, and they play cards while the big weather subsumes them, and the buried landscape seems like a trick to desolate the mind.

  So, what was this business in town then? she asks.

  In the glow of the dashboard she can see Kyle’s profile.

  Brother was in court, he says. Dealing meth again.

  *

  Back to the routine. Her house in the woods, on the periphery of the centre complex, rough-hewn yellow pine, one of seven cabins. Loading the stove wearing gloves and pulling tarpaulin over the woodstack next to the porch to keep it dry. Unpacking cans into the cupboards. More blankets on the bed as winter comes on, and showers so hot in the morning, her skin is laced red. In the office she and Kyle mop muddy snow off the floor. Administration: entering data into the system, specimen samples, weight of prey, observed behaviour. Howl patterns, the length of their solos. The two new volunteers reorder the filing system and send out sponsor renewal packs. The girl, barely a college graduate, is approached very obviously by Oran one night when they are all out in a bar. Were it not for the blatancy, the show, Rachel would believe he has moved on. In the quiet December evenings she adds a few hundred words to her book chapter, somewhat speculative. She needs to understand more about serotonin levels before any conclusions can be reached. Thomas Pennington remains in touch, through Honor Clark. The barrier is nearing completion – the quarantine pens are ready. The introduction to Stephan Dalakis has proved to be very useful. The Romanian rescue centre will supply an initial pair, as Rachel suggested. The wolves must be unsocialised, their gene pool well mixed. A cheque arrives for her consultancy work; issued by a private London bank, the royal bank, the amount winds her, and it is complicated paying it into her American account.