The Harpy. Megan Hunter

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      Grove Press

      New York

      Copyright © 2020 by Megan Hunter

      Cover painting © Amy Judd

      Cover design: Lucy Scholes, Picador Art Department

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

      First published in the UK in 2020 by Picador, an imprint of Pan Macmillan

      Printed in the United States of America

      Published simultaneously in Canada

      First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: November 2020

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.

      ISBN 978-0-8021-4816-2

      eISBN 978-0-8021-4817-9

      Grove Press

      an imprint of Grove Atlantic

      154 West 14th Street

      New York, NY 10011

      Distributed by Publishers Group West

       groveatlantic.com

       For Emma

      Who, surprised and horrified by the fantastic tumult of her drives (for she was made to believe that a well-­adjusted normal woman has a . . . divine composure), hasn’t accused herself of being a monster?

      Hélène Cixous, Laugh of the Medusa

      Bird-­bodied, girl-­faced things they are; abominable their droppings, their hands are talons, their faces haggard with hunger insatiable

      Virgil, Aeneid

      It is the last time. He lies down, a warm night, his ­shirt pulled up, his head turned away. It is the kind of evening that used to make me want to fly through the sky, the kind that makes you believe it will never get dark.

      Neighbours are having barbeques: the smell of the meat – sweet and homely – moves across his face. Downstairs our children are in their beds, dreaming through the hours, their doors closed, the late light blocked by their curtains.

      We have agreed on a small nick, his upper thigh, a place that will be behind jeans, under shirts. A place of thick flesh, solid bone, almost no hair. A smooth place, waiting.

      Jake is not squeamish: he is like a man expecting a tattoo. His hair is getting long, curling over the nape of his neck. His eyes are closed: not screwed shut, just closed, like a skilful child pretending to be asleep.

      •

      They were colleagues, then friends, and at first I suspected nothing. There were long emails, glimpses appearing on his phone, apparitions. The virgin blue of his notification light in the darkness. Nights where we couldn’t watch TV, because she was calling. Nights I went to bed early, enjoyed the whole bed to myself.

      If I went in there – to get something, or turn a light off – I heard his voice sounding different. Not romantic, or gentle, just on show. His outside voice, the one he used with postmen, salesmen, people from work. I thought that was a good sign.

      •

      I lift the razor up – I have sterilized it, carefully, watching YouTube instructions – and rest it against his skin. I press down, very gently, and then with slightly more force.

      •

      Jake’s skin was one of the first things I noticed when we met. It was like the skin of a young boy – he was a young boy – someone milk-­fed, comfort-­raised. Someone who wore large, voluminous boxer shorts. Who slept silently, on his side. Who had a blond head of curls, like an angel. Even his eyelashes were curly. Tears used to get caught in them when we argued. On his stomach, his skin was hairless and as soft as a woman’s. The first time we went to bed, I kissed it.

      •

      I confronted him once, late at night, in my pyjamas, leaning against the fridge.

      Do you want to sleep with her? I asked him. I think it’s best if we’re just really clear about this.

      He laughed. I wish you’d get to know her, he said. She’s— He paused, the silence standing in for dullness, advanced age, sour breath.

      She’s married, he said, finally. He looked at me, almost kindly. We didn’t touch.

      •

      I lift the razor and a fairy-­tale drop of blood escapes from under the silver. The colours are the brightest I have ever seen: stark and cartoon-­like, white skin and sea-­blue shirt and dark red, rolling and seeking. He doesn’t make a sound.

      I

      ~

       I wonder if people would believe me if I said I have never been a violent person. I have never held an animal’s neck warm in my elbow and cricked the life from it. I have never been one of those women who dreams of smothering her children when they are naughty, who catches the image tracking through her mind like a fast-­moving train.

       I have never forced myself on anyone, reached into their clothes and tried to milk love from a body. None of that.

       Even as a child, I remember the seeping feeling that guilt had, when I tipped my finger over an insect, and another one, and another one. I watched the universe blink, from life to death, flash over as they said a nuclear bomb would. I saw what my finger could do, and I stopped it.

      ~

      1

      It happened on a Friday, the boys in their last rhythm of the week, me trying to stay steady for them, a ship in dock, something you could hardly see СКАЧАТЬ