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Back The Harpy
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 got ready, wore light clothes and shoes: I wanted to feel light, that my feet could lift easily from the ground. I took hardly anything with me, my hands were free: no one would know I had two children, dependent on me for everything. I walked past the field, to the meadows and river which ran behind it, turned my face to the grasses, my vision pulled to the horizon. There was a sweet, rich smell of sun on green, kayaks and swans passing by on the water. It was a moving, busy day; I turned my face to the wind, felt its smooth power against my skin.

I walked for a long time, passing student couples holding hands, talking quietly, toddlers scooting fatly past me on balance bikes, their feet skimming the ground. At last – tired, sweating – I reached a pub on the other side of the meadows, a place we often came with the boys at the weekends, bought them cordial and soda water and crisps, enjoyed a few moments of crunching peace, surrounded by other families doing the same. It was quieter during the week. There were old men chatting in groups, one smoothing his belly down in what looked like pride, rocking on his stool, his pint floating golden in front of him. A couple about to begin their meal, the woman with her knife and fork hovering above her plate, inspecting each chip before she ate them. A number of empty tables. I would order lunch, I decided, perhaps sit in the garden. I walked towards the back, where the space narrowed, became Victorian and twisting, a series of abrupt turns, dead-­end corners.

They were there. Jake and Vanessa. Sitting on opposite sides of a table, having lunch. Vanessa had almost finished: her lasagne was streaked messily across her plate, a piece of salad dangled from her fork. I was looking at that when Jake saw me, jumped from the table. I kept focusing on the green stripe, disappearing into her mouth.

Lucy! What are you—? V – Vanessa – we were just talking about the hearing. The investigation, I mean.

I didn’t want – couldn’t – see his face, see the way his expressions would change, the quality of his gaze as he lied. I left fast, bumping into people: one woman spilled her drink, shouted out to me. I half-­ran back over the meadows, his words beating through my steps.

We

were

just

talking

We

were

just

talking

It might have been the truth. But why had he lied this morning, his face so close to mine? I was sure Jake had used the word he to describe the colleague, could hear the word repeated now, mocking me. And why had they chosen that pub? It was barely out of town, although away from the most dense university bustle. Safe mid-­week, they must have assumed.