The crates are silent, but the sedation will be lifting. Huib looks over at Rachel. He holds up a thumb — ready. Rachel signals back. They open the doors and step quickly behind the crates. In no more than a second or two the pair has bolted, the male a fraction faster, startlingly pale, with Merle hard at his heels. Huib punches the air.
Boom!
The wolves divide round a stack of logs, make for the end of the pen, and are lost from sight behind a cluster of bushes.
Let’s leave them to it, Rachel says.
She and Huib wheel the crates backward towards the gate, where they are stowed. They step into the disinfectant zone and change shoes, strip out of the boiler suits. Rachel shuts and locks the inner gate, which is screened. Although they can no longer be seen, they are well within the auditory and olfactory field, and will always be detected when this close to the pair. They wash down, strip out of the suits, exit the outer gate, and join Alexander and Sylvia in the viewing area. The pair have gone to ground and remain hidden from sight. The group speak in low tones, almost whispering, congratulating each other. Sylvia keeps the camera still and trained through the hide’s panel. Alexander nods to Rachel.
Looking good, very alert.
Let’s see if they eat anything, she says.
They take up their field glasses and wait. After five minutes, pointed ears come up out of the grass, then heads emerge. The wolves step out from behind the bushes, cautiously, sniffing, a forepaw held aloft. There’s a cold austerity to the male’s bluefired gaze, a rarity. Merle is quietly confident in the new surroundings; she beings to lope towards the carcass, investigates it, but does not eat. She returns to the male and he licks her muzzle. They make short forays, close together, in the bottom half of the pen, criss-crossing scent trails to the fence and back, keeping their noses to the ground, lifting them and reading the air. The enclosure is big, several hectares, though as quarantine progresses it will seem limited, Rachel knows, and will induce lazy behaviour, habituation. She has prepared a series of preventative tactics. In the centre of the pen is a pile of dead wood where it is likely they will den. They move closer, towards the hide. For a long while the male stands looking in the direction of the screen where the humans are hidden. The strong April sunlight renders his fur brilliant, pale gold and silver-white, like the blaze of a matchhead. He could almost set fire to the trees. He’s going to vanish, Rachel thinks, against the snow and the limestone pavements on the moors, against the blonde sward of the grassland.
I think he knows we’re still here, Sylvia says.
Ja. I feel like he knows what I had for breakfast, Huib says.
Alexander laughs quietly.
Muesli, and he’s not impressed.
He is going through a health checklist, ticking boxes, the first of many formal documents. They are inquisitive, their tails are up; there is no lethargy. A good score. Sylvia keeps recording.
I wish Mummy could have seen this, she says after a time. She was the one who first suggested the idea to Daddy. She’d be so, so happy.
Rachel glances over. This is the first mention of the project’s conception she has heard, and was not aware of the memorial aspect. Sylvia is dressed as a standard volunteer: T-shirt and jeans, a fleece jacket, work boots. Her face is not made up; her hair is tied back, though there is still a quality of refinement to her, a strange Martian beauty. She has spent her first full day on the project, preparing the carcass with Huib, answering the phone. There has been no cause to doubt her commitment, and now Rachel understands why. She is doing it for her dead mother, the most banal and powerful of all motivations.
The pair lope softly to the bottom of the enclosure again and disappear. Sylvia lowers and switches off the camera.
I’ll upload this when I get back to the office, she says. I’ll send it to Border News and the BBC. Daddy left us some champagne, by the way, if anyone feels like it.
This day gets better and better, Alexander says. Merle is a great name, by the way, Rachel. I saw The Dark Angel when I was a kid. I think I would have sent my best friend off to his death for Kitty Vane.
Ja, me too! Huib agrees. Good job you didn’t call her Kitty, Rachel.
Alexander snorts.
Kitty the wolf.
I didn’t have you two down as film nerds, Rachel says. But we should think about a name for our boy. Anyone?
Sylvia holds her hand up, eager as a schoolgirl.
May I suggest something?
Rachel thinks back to the welcome party, her assumptions about Sylvia’s mettle and her tastes. They can always vote on it if needs be. But the mood is high, it is a celebratory day, and she does not want to dampen the spirit by penalising a member of the team. She will have to learn to trust the Earl’s daughter.
OK. Go on.
Well, he’s just so very bright and brilliant. What about Ra?
As in the sun god? I like that, says Huib. I like that a lot. Our creator!
Sylvia’s smile broadens; she is lit up with keenness, and looks a tiny bit smug. Rachel nods.
Actually, I like it too.
Alexander is bent forward, peering through the viewing panel again.
Hey up, he says. Action stations.
They take up their field glasses. There is movement in the enclosure. Cautiously, Merle is approaching the carcass for a second time. She stands over the downy body, sniffs, assessing the state of decay. Scavenging is not the preferred mode, or perhaps she is still suspicious after the recent poisoning. As Stephan Dalakis pointed out, she was extremely lucky the incident did not permanently affect her stomach and bowel. Whatever the meat was laced with left her desperately sick. Another way of killing them. Over the years Rachel has seen several cases along Idaho’s sheep superhighway where the hunters use Xylitol, which is easy to buy and toxic to their livers.
Merle looks towards Ra. Her ears rotate forward, black-tufted. Her eyes are tear-shaped, dark-ringed, her expression quizzical. The eye might be drawn to her big, pale mate, but she is more than beautiful, Rachel thinks. Ra arrives and they begin to tug at the flesh. The legs of the deer jerk as they pull it about. Another tick in Alexander’s boxes. After feeding, they retreat towards the dead wood, and lie down in the grass. Merle inches over and they lie close together. Ra yawns. He is not yet fully interested in the advances; she is simply practising until he is. She yawns too, puts her head on her paws. She may not have a godly name, Rachel thinks, but she is the vital one, everything rests on her ability to breed. She is the true grey, true to the name; she is tawny as the landscape, and utterly congruent.
*
Once news of their arrival has broken, protesters flock back to the estate. They set up camp at the gate again, and settle in for the duration. The previous motley band has grown somewhat, Rachel notices, as she and Huib drive up. Numbers have swelled. Now there are placards, banners, even costumes. She parks the Saab in the row of cars along the verge, by the estate’s high wall, and they get out. The crowd mills about. Someone is videoing on a mobile phone and the local newspaper has sent a photographer, who looks a little desultory. There are children, including a girl dressed in white party frills and a red cape, some kind of fairytale motif, or perhaps she is simply on the way to a party. Lurking at the side of the group is a man wearing a pinstripe suit and papier-mâché wolf’s head. The head is lewdly made, though not unskilfully, with giant teeth and a red tongue. He is carrying a briefcase. The photographer singles him out and he poses. This is perhaps some kind of comment on Lord Pennington himself, Rachel assumes, rather than the wolves. The apex class; the financial raiders in charge. It all seems a peculiarly British display, Shakespearean almost: absurdity combined with intellect, adults engaged in mummering. They approach the group.