Like?
Just take care.
She finds the farm: a dirty whitewashed building in a courtyard of dilapidated barns and asbestos sheds. A dog is barking inside one of the bothies. Slurry and spilt straw on the cobbles as she pulls up. She half expects to see the wolf strung from a hook, but there are only farm vehicles, a rusting tractor and ancient threshing machines, an agricultural reliquary. A scruffy herd of sheep is penned inside a wooden enclosure — their fleeces trail, in need of shearing. In the window of the farmhouse is an anti-Europe poster, left over from the by-election. She leaves Charlie in the car, which he is not happy about, writhing and shouting, and knocks on the front door. She tries to dismiss her preconceptions, but the man who answers is latch-faced, suspicious, and rude, an old-school Cumbrian belligerent. At first he does not believe her — she is not the police, and he is expecting the police. How does she know about the wolf? Is she a reporter? She tells him again who she is and who she works for, that she is here to track and recapture the pack. He tuts, and frowns. She asks which direction the one in the field headed. He points to a nearby copse, standing half a mile away on the horizon.
Up there. They say not to go. Fucking thing was in on my ewes. Had one of them dangling by the neck. You should see the state of it.
Where is it? she asks. Do you want to show me?
It’s in the range, he says, it’s been incinerated.
Of course it has, she thinks. She holds her tongue, nods. He is angry, aggrieved. He also seems pleased. But then, he has shot an escaped wolf. He will dine out on the fact for years, retelling the story in the pub for a free pint.
Are you a reporter? he asks again.
No. I’m not.
She makes her way back to the car. Charlie is howling; his eyes screwed tightly shut and streaming wet, his fists clenched, furious at being abandoned. She opens the back door, and the wail escapes, ringing all round the courtyard. She hushes him, but does not release him from the car seat. The man is watching from the farm doorway, scowling — a crying baby in her possession, sinister proof that she is not who she says she is.
They said not to go up there, he calls. It’s a big fucker.
She gets into the driver’s seat and pulls away up the slippery cobbles. The petrol light has come on — less than a quarter of a tank. She heads towards the copse, finds a gateway clearing a few hundred yards from the farm, and parks the Saab. She gets Charlie out, soothes him, puts him in the last clean nappy — he is developing a rash — gives him some soft fruit and a jar of baby food. He struggles a little as she attaches him in the papoose. He is reaching the end of his tether, needs to get back to normality or there will be a huge meltdown, but she cannot let the creature suffer, if it is suffering. She takes the dart case out of the boot, and her binoculars, checks the handheld receiver, climbs the stile into the field, and walks towards the copse. The signal is strong. They are within close range, perhaps hesitating over the wounded member of the pack. If the bullet is in the hind area, the animal might have limped a mile or two, at best, and she will have to crisscross the fields and woods to find it, or get back in the car and wait for the police searchers. There’s a slim chance that it could be darted, taken to the local vet, and saved, but she doubts it. If it has been hit anywhere critical, it’ll be lucky to have come further than the top of the paddock. She makes her way uphill, scanning the area. The grass is empty, rutted and hummocked here and there, lost whorls of dirty wool caught on stalks. Charlie swings his legs, more content to be on the move and outside again, but it will not last.
The copse is sparse; once part of the greater Galt Forest, now a denuded cluster of trees, an island stranded in farmland. In the treetops, a few solicitous black crows caw, hopping down the branches, cautiously, peering below, then hopping back up again. It’s here, she thinks. She checks the receiver again. The signal is still strong — they are very close, unseen. She moves carefully, searching for tracks in the softer earth. Single paw prints, a spattering of dark blood. She turns and looks back at the farm, which is clearly visible: a huddle of pens, low chimneys, and a bowed roof. Jim Corrigan will have watched the animal’s departure, might even have fired more shots as it took off, just to be sure.
She begins to circle the copse, keeping back a reasonable distance, trying to separate the undergrowth from a camouflaged body. She makes a full circuit of the trees, moves in closer, and begins again. She sees it, thirty feet away. It is lying on its side, unmoving, head tucked down, legs straight and stiff. The paler of the male juveniles; its ruff is indistinguishable against the pale birches. It looks dead. It has only just made cover, will have limped painfully to a spot where it might be hidden.
She retreats a few paces, kneels, and sets down the aluminium case. She lifts Charlie out of the papoose and puts him in a deep swale of grass, facing back down the hill towards the forest.
Look at the pretty colours, she says. So pretty. Red and yellow and orange.
But he looks all around, at the field, at her.
Mama.
Yes.
Mama.
Yes.
She gives him another piece of fruit. While he is distracted, she steps back over to the case, opens it, and loads the gun with a dart. She picks up the case and approaches the wolf, glancing back at Charlie. She inhales, exhales, thinks of her instructions to the Chief Joseph volunteers every year. Do everything calmly, do everything confidently. The animal does not lift its head or stir, but its side moves very slightly, up and down, still breathing. She turns to look at Charlie again and to scan the vicinity. Only the top of his head is visible, a burr of black hair in the depression. He is secluded by the grass, like a leveret inside a form.
She continues towards the animal. There’s not much blood on the ground, but the honey fur is stained along the torso and back legs. The trauma is to the side of the lower abdomen, likely always fatal — there’s no time to save it, or call Alexander’s colleague; even fresh, the best surgeon would have struggled. There are tread marks in the earth around the animal and flattened grass; it has been turning, probably licking itself, trying to bite out whatever is lodged. She leans over the body. The eye is open, pale and bright in the sunlight, the pupil a small dark point. The jaw is slack, the black pleats drawn back over its teeth. Just enough life left to growl — its eye rolls a fraction, the muzzle ripples upward, but it can do nothing more. She aims and fires a dart. The muscle barely flinches as it hits. She fits another dart and fires again. The drug will only hasten what is inevitable, and it is perhaps a waste, but she will not leave the animal like this. The eye closes to a black slit.
She squats down, looks properly. The coat is blended and tawny, thickening for winter. It’s better that he remained unnamed, she thinks, though the loss is the same with or without. She puts her hand on the warm head, moves it down the body, parts the matted fur to find the red os of the entry wound. The feeling isn’t anger, just disgust. It is a pointless waste. She takes her phone from her back pocket, and switches to the camera setting. She will leave it to the police to remove the corpse, but the image might go to work for them now and help the others, horrible and unnecessary as the death is.
The crows clamour above her. She is invading. They have guarded the prize and want it back. From the paddock she hears a thin wail. She rights herself and walks towards Charlie. He is standing up in the hollow looking at the copse, his head and shoulder unburrowed. He is trying to climb out but the sides are too steep, and he cannot get traction. For a second she expects to see Merle appear behind him, pick him up, the straps of his dungarees clasped between her teeth, and carry him off, her abandoned, beloved son. The vision is so clear that she almost panics, almost shouts. His cries carry across the field. The pasture is empty. The sky is enormous above him. The wolves are watching or have already gone. She walks quickly to him, saying his name, telling him she is coming, everything is OK. It’s OK, it’s OK. She kneels at the edge of the hollow and takes the packet of baby wipes out of the papoose pocket and cleans the blood off her hands. Then she lifts him up and kisses him, holds him tightly. He won’t remember this, she thinks. He won’t think it really happened.