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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 believe in forgiveness. As do you, I presume? A nastiness now, unmistakable, his mouth and eyebrows moving at the same time. For a moment a wave of horror-­heat threatened: did he know? I shook it away, visibly, my head moving; he couldn’t know.

No? Well. That’s interesting, definitely, but absolutely none of my business. His movements were exacting again, contained. But, as I say, if you could suggest—

I got up before I knew I was doing it: my chair fell to the ground with a loud crash, the noise breaking through the tinkling, ambient background of late ­morning. From the corner of my eye, I could see David Holmes reacting, or choosing not to. He was looking straight ahead, completely still, as though absorbing new knowledge, reaching an interesting conclusion.

He made no movement to help, did not call out my name. It’s a shame, I could imagine him saying, shrugging his shoulders. Sad for her. Even when I was almost at the door of the restaurant, it seemed that I could see him, without turning my head, that I could watch the exact, smiling way he gestured the waiter over and asked for the bill.

~

A piece of time, breakable, glass-­transparent.

I watch her again: she walks away from the restaurant, moves down the street. It is a bright day; she raises her hand to shade her eyes, sees the light pass through her palm, jewelled red.

The world moves around her as it always does, a hive of unknown lives. None of them noticing, none of them suspecting – even for a second – what she has done.

~

32

32

When the boys were babies, I often thought of going away. I imagined the seaside B&B I would book myself into, the way the light would come in the mornings, as though it didn’t even notice that I was there. Objects themselves would be different, I imagined, kettles, pillows, shower heads, shoes: nothing would ask for my response. Nothing would need me.

I want a sunny day! Paddy wailed on the morning of his party. The day had started grey and cool, and I wondered what we had done to make him believe we could control the weather. Perhaps this was just one more party preparation I had forgotten to make. Did I have enough food choices for vegetarians? Had I planned enough games, or would there be some horrifying, gaping hole in the entertainment provision, as there had been at Paddy’s sixth birthday? Fifteen tiny people staring at me from the middle of an empty wooden floor. Endless games of musical statues, until the older, cleverer children started to complain.