Dawn wakes her, cold legs, and stiffness through her back. The car is cool inside and the door moulding feels damp with condensation, but against her side Charlie is a little engine of heat. The windows have misted with their breathing; she wipes the nearest one, looks out at the misty citrine light filtering through the woods. Small flocks of birds break above the canopy and disperse. She reaches onto the parcel shelf for the handheld tracker and switches it on. The battery is on half charge. There’s no signal. She switches to Ra’s frequency, but it’s the same. They have moved on.
She slides carefully from underneath Charlie, inch by inch, as if he’s a bomb she doesn’t want to detonate, and lays him flat on the back seat in the blankets. He stirs but doesn’t wake. Several times in the night he came round, confused, and she had to coax him to slumber again. She opens the car door quietly and gets out, stretches, walks about. The air feels newly laundered, fresh and green. She eats a banana, walks about to find reception, and calls the police number on the card given to her by Sergeant Armstrong, asks to be put through to the officer manning the enquiry. There have been no more reported sightings.
She opens the OS map fully and lays it flat on the dewy ground, charts the position from Annerdale to the point in the Galt where the signal was strongest, then continues the trajectory on into farmland and the hills beyond. Their tendency to travel in straight lines might help her to find them. There are few settlements on the other side of the Galt, mostly small lanes and B roads, until the A66, and the town of Cockermouth. After that, they will have to traverse Bassenthwaite and the North Western Fells. The rural tracts between towns will suit them, might give them cover. They will continue through Greystoke and Hutton, towards the border and Carlisle, the county’s only city. At the Solway Firth, they would be forced to follow the estuary inland and cross by road, where the water narrows, or perhaps at a shallow swim. Then, Scotland.
She plots a route on the closest roads, waits again for the wandering phone reception, and texts Lawrence, gives him a rendezvous point to meet and pick up Charlie. He is already up and texts back. There in one hour. It’s an ambitious timescale, almost heroic; if he makes it, he will not have observed the speed limit.
She hears Charlie murmuring sleepily and lifts him out of the car, hugs him, and talks quietly to him. He is clingy in the morning these days. She wipes his crusty nose, gives him some formula, and changes him. She walks him around for a few minutes — he is still unsure on his feet, likes to make stumbling rushes towards her, then collapse into her arms. She tries not to hurry him — she will need cooperation for the ordeal of the car seat. They examine some notable things on the verge — curling bracken, a puffball, which she sets smoking with her foot, some spindling toadstools.
After ten minutes, they set off along the bumpy forestry road. It’s a brilliant October day, with a flawless sky. The summit of Galt Fell rises behind her, the north face of its crags dark and fissured. Charlie begins an invented song; a tuneless string of noise with emphatic peaks and murmuring rests. He’s in a good mood; he likes travelling. He reminds her of Kyle that way. She begins to feel hopeful. Perhaps it will all work out. She keeps the receiver next to her on the passenger seat. The ruts begin to even out, and she picks up speed. At the forestry commission gate there’s an official warning sign set up — Danger, Please Do Not Enter. Too late, she thinks.
The car breaks free of the trees; she turns onto the road and heads into rolling pastureland, a stretch of fallow fields surrounded by drystone walls. The receiver begins to sound. She notes the coordinates. She keeps checking the map, follows a series of single lanes, lonnings that all look the same, webbed with brambles on either side. As she passes a gate, she notices three horses gathered in the corner of a field. She stops and reverses, looks through the wooden bars. The creatures are visibly upset. Their heads nod up and down, and they push against each other and vie for wall space. One rears up, a white crescent cupping its dark eye. Something has spooked them, and not long ago. She dials Sergeant Armstrong’s number, but does not get through, then drives on. When her phone rings, she pulls over.
Morning, Rachel. I was on the other line. Where are you?
Near Priest’s Mill. I think I might be close to them. We need to think about getting them back to the estate, if I can dart them. The sedative lasts about two hours.
OK. Listen. We just had a call from a farmer at Mire Hall Farm. He said one of his dogs was going crazy this morning, barking and growling. When he went out to investigate, he saw one of the wolves in the field where his sheep are.
There’s a pause.
And?
Her mood of levity begins to fade. She knows what’s coming. Charlie is burbling louder, singing away, fighting for her attention now that she is on the phone.
Hush, hush, darling, she says, over her shoulder.
I’m afraid he fired a shot off, Sergeant Armstrong says.
What?
He fired at it.
Did he kill it? she asks.
Well, he says it’s not in the field any more. He thought he hit it. How he described it is: its back end sort of dropped to the ground, but then it ran off.
Bastard, she thinks. Not even a clean shot. She wonders which is the unfortunate one: possibly a juvenile opportunistically trying its luck with the flock.
Any other information? Size? Markings?
No. I’m sorry. The farm is about four miles from Priest’s Mill. Are you near there now?
I think so. Mire Hall, you said?
Yes. The farmer’s name is Jim Corrigan. We’re sending someone out, but I thought you’d want to know. We’ve told him not to go looking for it, in case it’s injured.
Good. I’ll go there now.
She hangs up, grips the wheel tightly for a moment. Charlie is still burbling; she looks at him in the rear-view mirror. She checks the signals from Merle and Ra’s transmitters — they are still in the area, have not moved far. She won’t know whether it’s one of them until she finds the pack, or a body.
Mama, Charlie says.
Yes.
Mama.
Yes.
She tries to think positively; nothing has been confirmed yet. The dropped rear might have been a cowering flinch, a reaction to the noise of the shotgun. She checks the map, finds the farm, turns the car round in the next gateway, and sets off. She stops again almost immediately and calls Alexander. It’s still early — the conference in Belfast will not have begun yet. He picks up straight away; everyone, it seems, is on standby. Briefly, she fills him in.
I haven’t got the means, she says, if it’s badly hurt. I’ve only got the dart case.
I know someone in practice round there, he tells her. I’ll call and let her know what’s happening. She’s good; she’ll take care of it. Are you OK, Rachel? Are you out there by yourself?
Yeah. I’m OK, just pissed off.
Have you spoken to Thomas? Sounds like you could use some help.
Not yet.
Maybe call him.
I will.
Charlie, who has been fussing for the last few minutes at her inattention, begins to wail.
Is that Charlie?
Yes. Lawrence is on his way to get him, though. I’ve got to go.
OK, he says. Let me know how it pans out. I’ll call Justine and give her your number. Rachel, don’t do anything crazy.