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Back The Harpy Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. The Harpy
  2. Also by Megan Hunter
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. The Harpy
  8. Part I
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. Part II
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. Part III
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. Part IV
  51. Acknowledgments
  52. Back Cover

The harpy rips out eyes, I read. She drags and burns and scrapes and mutilates. She is ordered to do these things by the gods, but she is not reluctant. She does it with gleaming eyes: cut, smother. Poison.

It should not have come as a surprise to anyone. It should not have been a shock.

~

It is the first time. I have cleaned the house, from the loft to the kitchen door. I have not dressed up, but I am wearing decent, neat clothes. I have brushed my hair.

•

I have left my bed behind: I have stripped it, put the sheets in the wash, fitted fresh linen, run my hand across the perfect plainness.

I have cooked one of Jake’s favourite meals, a pasta sauce with aubergines, reduced for a long time, until the oil shimmers, gold leaf on deep red heat.

•

The boys are calm, in a good mood; after school I did not put them in front of the television. I have played games with them, card games and word games and games of the imagin­ation: You are a horse, Mummy, I am your daddy.

When Jake comes home, I do not meet him at the door, with slippers. That would be too much. But I am in the kitchen, smiling, stirring a pot. His sons run to the door, their faces alert, their eyes happy.

•

I would like to say that I almost do not do it. That when I serve the meal, I look at Jake, and nearly give him our sauce, not reaching for the separate pot at the back of the stove. But that would be a lie. I give Jake his portion first, spooning on a large quantity of sauce, garnishing the dish with leaves of basil.

He is unsure, I can tell, of what has happened. Of why I am smiling, wearing an apron.

Feeling better? he asks me, aware of the boys listening, his fork lifting to his mouth, and I nod.

Much better, I say, lifting my glass of wine to my lips. Jake is hungry: he takes bite after bite, barely chewing, letting the soft pasta and vegetables slide down his throat.

I feel fine now, I say, lifting my fork, beginning to eat my own meal.

17

17

In the morning, the nausea did not arrive, as it had on other mornings. My stomach was clear and light, my whole body in comfort, wrapped in itself. But the smell of the house was unmistakable. I found Jake in the tiny downstairs toilet, his head hanging over the bowl, groaning and spitting.