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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

Two will be enough, I whispered against the fabric of his shirt, its floral-­chemical wash filling my mouth, the sound of my voice barely loud enough for him to hear.

33

33

That night, we slept in the same bed, woke in the same bed. We turned to look at each other, breathed into each other’s skin. These are things that married people do. It should not have been extraordinary. But it seemed years, not months, since I had seen this particular light on the speckled texture of his cheeks, his reddish stubble glinting up like embers.

I grew up knowing that falling in love was the most important thing I would ever do. Every song, every film confirmed it. But when Jake kissed me for the first time, I was surprised. I could describe it as something scientific, garden-­like, botanical. A blooming, a stretching, my whole chest filled with clear air. Our kisses now – gentle, tentative – seemed laced with this moment, re-­enactments of a distant history.

Jake took the children to their holiday club; he was meeting a colleague afterwards, someone he could discuss the investigation with, who would share rumours of its likely outcome. He’d shaved that morning, put on his smartest clothes. I watched him as he cajoled the boys, his shirt running smoothly to his belt. My husband. I felt a wave of pride, its contours unfamiliar, like something I hadn’t felt for years.

•

When they’d gone, I turned to the remaining party mess, the banner attached to the wall, the strips of wrapping behind chairs. I started with the balloons, putting a few in the boys’ room, gathering the rest for destruction. I held their bulbous bodies down – slightly slack, already – and made the stab with a pin, hearing the explosion, a surprise every time. I wondered, briefly, what the neighbours thought, whether it sounded like gunfire. In the reports from terrorist attacks, people never seemed to identify guns, at the beginning. Their first thoughts – and often their second, third, fourth thoughts – were of firecrackers, cars backfiring, the popping of balloons.

As I cleaned, time seemed to move incredibly slowly. I would look at the clock, do half a dozen things – put a packet in a cupboard, take the recycling out, pick a toy off the floor, pick five toys off the floor – and look at the clock again. I couldn’t tell which had changed: me or time itself, if I was moving too fast for minutes to contain me as they used to. When I’d finished, there were still hours before I had to pick up the boys; I had time to myself.