The Harpy
Chapters (52)
The Harpy
Also by Megan Hunter
ALSO BY MEGAN HUNTER
The End We Start From
Title Page
Grove Press
New York
Copyright
Copyright © 2020 by Megan Hunter
Cover painting © Amy Judd
Cover design: Lucy Scholes, Picador Art Department
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].
First published in the UK in 2020 by Picador, an imprint of Pan Macmillan
Printed in the United States of America
Published simultaneously in Canada
First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: November 2020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.
ISBN 978-0-8021-4816-2
eISBN 978-0-8021-4817-9
Grove Press
an imprint of Grove Atlantic
154 West 14th Street
New York, NY 10011
Distributed by Publishers Group West
groveatlantic.com
Dedication
For Emma
Epigraph
Who, surprised and horrified by the fantastic tumult of her drives (for she was made to believe that a well-adjusted normal woman has a . . . divine composure), hasn’t accused herself of being a monster?
Hélène Cixous, Laugh of the Medusa
Bird-bodied, girl-faced things they are; abominable their droppings, their hands are talons, their faces haggard with hunger insatiable
Virgil, Aeneid
The Harpy
It is the last time. He lies down, a warm night, his shirt pulled up, his head turned away. It is the kind of evening that used to make me want to fly through the sky, the kind that makes you believe it will never get dark.
Neighbours are having barbeques: the smell of the meat – sweet and homely – moves across his face. Downstairs our children are in their beds, dreaming through the hours, their doors closed, the late light blocked by their curtains.
We have agreed on a small nick, his upper thigh, a place that will be behind jeans, under shirts. A place of thick flesh, solid bone, almost no hair. A smooth place, waiting.
Jake is not squeamish: he is like a man expecting a tattoo. His hair is getting long, curling over the nape of his neck. His eyes are closed: not screwed shut, just closed, like a skilful child pretending to be asleep.
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