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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

I put my foot on the accelerator and held it there, sensing the speed build in my chest, its force beginning to flatten me against my seat. As we sped up I could feel, rather than hear, the quiet taking over the back seat. Without looking, I could tell that Paddy was back in his belt now, looking straight ahead. Only when I got right to the end of the street did I lift my foot, slightly, begin to slow down. And only when I heard nothing for a number of seconds – only a smooth silence – did I check on them, seeing their faces watery and still in the mirror, neither returning to daydreams, or to fighting, but staring ahead, their eyes misted, unreadable.

~

She is a bad mother, people might say.

But: Is a mother a human? they might ask. Or: only human-­shaped, every limb in the right place?

~

31

31

I met David Holmes in a restaurant I had never been to before: it had always seemed like a place you would have to dress up for, to wear the clothes widows wore in slick American dramas: tight dresses cinched in with a belt, sheer tights, patent leather stilettos. There was no occasion on which I could imagine booking this place: no birthday or anniversary that would make me seek its cream walls, the chic houseplants which covered its windows, making it impossible for passers-­by to watch patrons eat.

David had specified the place and the time: I had left it open for this, for him to be in control. It had already seemed enough, to send it –

Okay. When? L

– in the middle of another sleepless night, the unslept hours like a black ocean around me, the bed a flimsy, rocking raft in the darkness. In the morning, I had to check that I had actually sent it, that I hadn’t – as I’d done so many times before – simply stroked the message, left it in its place. I had never deleted it, liked to come back to it when my mind was particularly restless, when I feared my thoughts could burst from me, escape into the plain air beyond the window. They stilled me, these words: they made me pause.

He didn’t reply for a number of hours. He had given up hoping, perhaps, regretted sending a message in the first place. Or he was just busy. Working. I tried to imagine him in a white lab coat, or in a busy lecture theatre, in front of a hundred students. But it was too difficult: he was only available in still frames, holding a glass of cheap faculty wine, taking a sip, making a small, polite expression of disapproval.