The Hunt (8 page)

“
Anyway, as it started to become dark, I noticed men wearing what were obviously infra-red goggles. There's no electricity in the area, except in the Hunters' block, and no street lights, so at night the arena is pitch black. Whatever you do, don't move around in the dark; you'll be a sitting target. I somehow managed to sleep for a few hours. When I woke up just after dawn, I was desperate for a drink, but I'd already finished my water, and didn't dare go outside to use the vending machine. So I stayed by the window and stared at the street below. After a few hours, I spotted this one guy I hadn't seen since the Hunters viewed us in the meeting area. I remembered him because the creep shook my hand and said he looked forward to getting to know me. He was strolling along, calm as you please, scrutinising a handheld device. It wasn't one of those body heat detectors. Much smaller. But whatever it was, he seemed to be paying close attention to it. He walked right up to the building I was hiding in and went directly to the entrance. Didn't even glance at the other buildings. Then I heard him coming up the stairs. He didn't stop at any of the other floors, just walked straight up to the fifth. Of course, I was trapped. There was only one door to the office, and I had nowhere to run.

“
When he came through the door, he didn't seem surprised to see me kneeling by the window. I don't know how, but he'd found some way of tracking me. He was wearing a backpack; as he walked towards me, he took it off, dropped it on the floor at my feet, opened it, and took out a Taser. He waved the Taser in my face and said, ‘We can do this the hard way or we can do it the easy way’.

“
I looked up at him and said, ‘Easy way’, in this pathetic voice. He put the Taser away and took a steel collar out of the backpack. He handed it to me, and told me to secure it around my neck. It fastened at the back, and once it was locked on I couldn't remove it. He showed me this remote control he wore on his wrist, told me it was connected to the collar, and said that by pressing a button he could immobilise me, even if I was a mile away. He didn't demonstrate it then, but he did later, and he hadn't been bluffing. Then he commanded me to walk in front of him, and directed me to the Hunters' block. Once we were there...you can guess the rest.”

Mara hardly knew what to say.
“I want you to know how much I appreciate your sharing all this with me.”

“
If any of this helps you stay out of the clutches of those bastards for one extra minute, it'll have been more than worth it. Is there anything else you'd...like me to tell you?”

Mara shook her head.
“You don't need to talk about what he did.”

Claire turned away, staring blankly at her bookshelves.
“He had me for six days,” she said in a voice choked with emotion. “He did everything to me. Everything.”

Mara leaned over and embraced her.

Claire regained her composure and looked Mara in the face. “And the truly terrible thing is that he did it because our government, which is supposed to represent the will of the people, passed a law saying he had the right to do it.” She gestured at her books. “Have you read
Nineteen Eighty-Four
? Orwell almost had it right. He was very close. What he should have said was: If you want a vision of the future, imagine a man's boot stamping on a woman's face - forever.”

Chapter 6

Mara spent Thursday working solidly on
French Kill
. It seemed like a good idea to finish the book before the Hunt, since she had no idea what condition she'd be in afterwards. Permanent injury was explicitly forbidden, but who could say what effect being tortured might have on her ability to create? It had only been a few days since Mara had insisted she couldn't write about the Hunt because she didn't have enough first-hand information. That problem was about to be solved!

It seemed inevitable that, if she were still capable of writing at all, her next novel would involve Melissa Valance being drafted into the Hunt. Thinking professionally, Mara started to wonder how she could introduce the investigation of a crime into this scenario. But it was rapidly becoming clear to her that the real crimes investigated by Melissa were those committed within the boundaries of the law by the state and its representatives.

In
A Kill to Build a Dream On
, a man hires Melissa to track down the individual who performed an illegal abortion on his wife, resulting in her death. When she locates the abortionist, Melissa discovers that the woman is carrying out terminations in a safe and professional manner. Melissa eventually finds out that the wife died because of a beating her husband gave her after learning of the abortion. She reports this crime to the police, but the Director of Public Prosecutions refuses to press charges, insisting an all-male jury - the only kind permitted - would never find a husband who has beaten his wife guilty of manslaughter, especially under these circumstances. They'd be more likely to give him a medal. Instead, the abortionist is arrested and sentenced to life imprisonment.

French Kill
was proceeding along similar lines. Melissa investigates the murder of a British woman who moved to Paris a few days before the law forbidding women from leaving the U.K. came into force. Melissa discovers that the woman had been writing articles for European newspapers exposing the injustices of British society, and was probably murdered by a hitman under contract to somebody connected with Britain's Prime Minister. Melissa learns that she'd been hired by a government representative who was under pressure to be seen doing something about the murder, and who asked her to investigate because he believed a private detective who couldn't travel to France would be unable to solve the crime. Like so many shady characters in these books, he hadn't reckoned on Melissa's resourcefulness.

Mara knew she was courting danger with these novels, but there was no law against writing for foreign publication. At least not yet. She worked until late at night, managing to complete a first draft before going to bed. She could start the final edit on Monday, and hopefully have it ready for her publisher in a few days. But work would have to be suspended over the weekend, which she planned to spend with
Yuke. She knew this would be a tense visit for both of them, but wanted one last opportunity to bathe in the glow of Yuke's love.

Yuke
arrived at three, as usual bearing pizza, and behaved as if it were an ordinary Friday. This was plainly an act for Mara's benefit. The best approach would be to talk about the elephant in the room. Sitting next to Yuke on the sofa, Mara stressed how positive she felt following her conversation with Claire.

“
She gave me some useful information, and I honestly think I have a good chance of staying hidden for the whole week.”

Mara was pretending to a confidence she didn't really feel, and
Yuke obviously knew it. But for now, the pretence of optimism would have to substitute for the real thing. They followed their usual Friday routine - one long round of food, films and sex - and when they finally went to sleep in each other's arms, Mara realized that if she could not have a normal life at the moment, this counterfeit was nonetheless giving her something she needed.

The next day,
Yuke suggested they go shopping, and though Mara felt more than usually reluctant to put on the uniform, she had to admit it would be nice to get out for a while. They caught the tube to Camden, and spent the afternoon looking around the market. On one stall they found a strange device that resembled the menu for an expensive restaurant, but which the seller, a man in his sixties, informed them was a
Kindle
. It contained, he explained, an electronic screen on which the text of a book could be read. Mara and Yuke couldn't understand why anyone would want to read a book on a screen when they could read it on paper, but the seller insisted it had been something of a fad many years ago, and he recalled his parents using one.

The facade of normality was maintained for the rest of the weekend, though Mara and
Yuke's lovemaking had a frenzied desperation to it, as if they were clinging to each other for protection. When the time came to say goodbye, Mara tried to combine casualness with seriousness.

“
We won't be seeing each other next weekend, but I'll call you as soon as the Hunt is over, so expect to hear from me on the afternoon of the 30th.”

Neither of them needed to mention that it would be too painful for
Yuke to accompany Mara to the stadium. After one last embrace, Yuke left to catch the last tube.

***

Mara hadn't informed her friends about the Hunt - though they were a tight group, it wasn't unusual not to hear from individual members for several weeks - but she felt they deserved to know. Aside from that, she wanted to make sure Yuke would have whatever support she needed. So on Monday morning, she wrote the following email:

---------------------------------------------------------------------

From: [email protected]

Subject: The Hunt

Dear Friends

You are all very important to me, and I feel you should know that I have been

conscripted into the Hunt. I will have to depart on Friday, and will be gone for seven

days. I will contact you as soon as possible to let you know I am alright. While I'm away,

I'd greatly appreciate it if you would look after Yuke. She is very upset, and will need

something to take her mind off things during my absence. I look forward to seeing you

when I get back.

xxx

Mara.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mara added the email addresses of her closest friends, the ones who knew how intimate her relationship with Yuke was, and hit 'send'. But she still felt something had been left undone. Deaths during the Hunt seemed relatively rare - she'd certainly never heard of one - but several days of torture at the hands of a sexual sadist could hardly be described as a safe activity, no matter how many rules the sadist was obliged to follow. If she were to die during the Hunt, everything she owned would go to the state, or to a cousin she despised. Mara looked up the number of Madeleine Danes, the lawyer who'd handled her parents' estate, and made an appointment for Wednesday.

To Mara's relief, her cycle started that afternoon: her periods were erratic, and she'd been worried about having to deal with one during the Hunt. As far as she knew, women weren't even allowed to take sanitary towels into the arena. She spent the next two days editing
French Kill
, and had almost completed it when the time for her appointment with Madeleine arrived.

***

Madeleine Danes' practice was located above an antique store in Belsize Park, and hadn't changed since Mara last saw it seven years ago. Madeleine had been a friend of Mara's parents, so their relationship was not purely professional. She'd enjoyed a successful career as an actress before turning to the law, and her reception room contained several framed photographs from stage productions with which she had been involved. One picture that caught Mara's eye showed Madeleine at the age of twelve playing the role of Nicky, a male character, in Harold Pinter's play
One for the Road
.

When Mara was ushered into Madeleine's office, the lawyer greeted her warmly. She'd always been favourably disposed towards Mara, and didn't raise an eyebrow at her decision to leave money and property to someone she described as a very close friend. Mara explained why she felt the need to make a will, and Madeleine nodded sympathetically.

“I don't think it's all that dangerous, but I understand why you want to be cautious.”

As Madeleine escorted Mara out of the office, an arm affectionately resting on her shoulder, she added,
“If anything happens, I'll make sure that this Yuke gets everything, and that anyone who makes unsupported allegations concerning the nature of her relationship with you finds themselves learning a great deal about our libel laws.”

Mara hardly knew how to respond, so she simply squeezed Madeleine's hand in gratitude and departed.

***

French Kill
was completed the following day. While emailing it to her publisher, Mara decided not to say anything about the Hunt. She'd already begun receiving concerned phone calls from her friends, and though she was genuinely grateful for them, they made it harder to stay focused. She spent the evening listening to music, hoping Beethoven would give her the courage to endure her forthcoming ordeal. She found herself more moved than ever before by the Choral Symphony's progress from the darkly ominous to the purely joyous. It suggested a utopian vision emerging from a journey into the heart of darkness. After Beethoven came Mozart, whose music had always expressed to her what life might be like if it cast off the restrictions and repressions with which it was so frequently bound. This was the world as it perhaps could, and certainly should be. Tomorrow, she'd come face to face with the world as it currently was. As she slipped beneath her duvet around midnight, Mara couldn't help dwelling on the fact that the next time she climbed into this bed, she'd be a very different person. She recalled Catherine's horrified reaction to the sight of a woman being beaten, and her own more controlled response. Her sensibilities had already been brutalised. How much worse would they be after the Hunt? She'd coped surprisingly well during the last few days, but that night she cried herself to sleep.