The Hunt (7 page)

Mara shuddered. She had some idea of what was going to happen, having found herself in similar situations twice before. The first occurred four years ago. She'd been walking home when a group of teenagers had run up to her and started making suggestive remarks. Mara
had tried to walk away, but they'd blocked her path. Repelled by their obscene comments, she'd made a crack about the average size of their penises, and the boys had responded by assaulting her. Physically, the attack was relatively mild - they'd slapped her face and the back of her head, poked her in the stomach and kicked her shins - but Mara had never felt so humiliated. She'd been afraid to leave her apartment for weeks afterwards.

The second incident took place on the tube last year. The age and behaviour of the aggressors was more or less the same, but that time Mara had tried flirting with them, insisting they were exactly her type, and promising to meet them later. Rather than falling for this act, the boys had pulled Mara out of her seat and thrown her onto the floor. Undeterred by the presence of several other travellers, all trying to pretend nothing was happening, they'd started removing her clothes, and would almost certainly have raped her had the train not stopped at a station, allowing a crowd of late night revellers to enter.

Mara hadn't reported either incident to the police. What would have been the point? Now, it seemed, she was about to be attacked again. The boys surrounding Mara were standing there silently, staring at her. Mara kept her eyes on her book, hoping they'd go away if she didn't acknowledge them. After a minute or two, one of the boys waved his hand over the page she was attempting to read. This earned an appreciative chuckle from his followers. There always seemed to be a boy who functioned as ringleader in these groups, and from whom the others took their cue. Mara acted as if she hadn't noticed anything. This brought another chuckle from the boys. A few seconds later, the ringleader placed his hand on the book and pushed it down. “What's your name?” he asked. Mara remained silent, and tried to lift the book, but the boy pulled it out of her hands and glanced at the cover. “Oh, sorry,” he said tauntingly. “I've lost your page. Do you remember what page you were on?” Mara still hadn't looked up. The boy clicked his fingers in front of her face and shouted, “Wakey! Wakey! I asked if you remembered what page you were on.”

Mara could see that ignoring these thugs would only encourage them. She looked into the ringleader's face. He didn't seem any different from the last two boys who had attacked her. They could almost have been brothers. The same piggy eyes, the same slack jaws.
“Look,” she said as neutrally as possible. “I'm sitting here minding my own business. I'd really appreciate it if you'd leave me alone.”

The boy adopted an expression of mock outrage.
“I was just trying to help you remember what page you were on. Tell me what was going on in the last paragraph you read.”

“
Please, just give me my book back,” said Mara, holding out her hand as she did so.

The boy held the book above his head.
“What do you need it for if you can't remember what page you were on?”

At that moment, the train pulled into a station, and its doors opened. Mara tried to stand up, saying,
“This is my stop,” but one of the boys who had previously remained in the background pushed her back into the seat.

The ringleader leaned down with an expression that was a hideous caricature of concern.
“I'm really sorry I lost your page. Now I want to repair the damage I've done. Tell me what the book's about. Maybe that'll help you remember where you were.”

Mara prayed somebody would enter the carriage, but the doors swung shut again and the train resumed its journey. She looked up pleadingly, and asked,
“Why are you doing this? What do you want of me?”

The ringleader pretended to be puzzled.
“I already told you. I want to help you find your page.”

Mara knew nothing would deter these hooligans, so she might as well keep quiet and let them get on with it. The ringleader turned around to address his followers.
“Obviously,” he said, “we'll have to do this systematically.” Opening the book, he chose a random page, ripped it out, and dangled it in front of Mara. “Was this the page?” Mara stared into space.

“
Nah!” shouted one of the boys in the background. “That ain't it.”

The ringleader crumpled up the page, dropped it onto the floor, and tore another from the book.
“How about this one?” he asked, thrusting it into Mara's face. When she didn't respond, he again crumpled the page in his hand and tossed it over his shoulder. “This one?” he asked, repeating the process. “This one?” No response. “This one? This one?” By now, the boy was tearing entire sections from the book, ripping them apart, and throwing them into the air. Mara had been determined not to cry, but as page after page was held before her, she felt tears running down her cheeks. “Don't be sad,” mocked the ringleader. “I'm sure we'll find the right page soon.”

“
Hey!” interjected one of the followers, tapping him on the shoulder. “I just thought of something. Even if we do find the page, it won't do her any good.”

“
Why not?” asked the ringleader, as if genuinely confused.

“
Because you've torn up so much of the book, she wouldn't be able to finish it anyway.”

The ringleader slapped his own head - the sound made Mara jump - and turned towards his victim with an expression of regret and disappointment.
“Why didn't you point that out to me?” Mara wiped away her tears. These young sadists had what they wanted. They'd humiliated her, made her feel powerless, made her cry. Now perhaps they'd leave her alone. The ringleader gripped what was left of the book in both hands, pulled it in half, and deposited the remains in Mara's lap. “Do you have anything else to read?” he asked with another expression of mock sympathy. Mara shook her head, not looking him in the eyes. “Find her something,” he shouted, and the other boys began running around the carriage in a parody of frenzied activity.

“
Here!” announced one, picking up a newspaper that had been left on the floor.

He handed the paper to his leader, who put it in Mara's hands, saying,
“There you are.” Mara remained silent. The boy stooped until he was nose to nose with Mara. “What do you say?” he hissed.

Mara tried to avoid his gaze, but it was impossible.
“Thank you,” she whispered.

“
You're welcome,” said the ringleader, standing up. “But it was Dave who found the paper. He's the one you should thank. Come here, Dave.” Dave approached Mara and occupied the position just vacated by his leader. “Well?” shouted the ringleader in the background.

“
Thank you,” whispered Mara again.

Dave smiled and asked,
“Are you going to give me a thank you kiss?” Mara shook her head. The boy gripped her chin, said, “Don't be shy,” and kissed her roughly on the lips. She felt like throwing up.

The train pulled into another station, and Mara was relieved to see several people waiting on the platform. Obviously noticing the same thing, the ringleader shouted,
“This is our stop, lads.” The gang followed him towards the doors and waited for them to open. As they left the train, they waved at Mara, and banged on the window behind her. Once the doors had closed again, Mara buried her head in her hands and sobbed. These boys had been determined to teach her a lesson, and they'd done so. This was how easily men, even young men, could dominate women. Reporting them would have done no good: the police were hardly likely to issue an all-points bulletin for a teenager who had torn up a book, which as far as they were concerned would have been all the incident amounted to. How could Mara explain that the gang's treatment of her amounted to rape, that they'd rendered her completely helpless, made her experience what it was like to be nothing, nobody. These were exactly the kind of individuals who, if they could afford it, would participate in the Hunt when they grew up. Mara felt she'd been given a preview of what was going to happen at the end of next week. She tried pulling herself together. She'd be in Tooting shortly, and had no intention of burdening Claire with her latest humiliation.

When the train arrived at Tooting
Bec, Mara left the station and walked down Tooting High Street. Tooting had once been home to many artists and writers, and until three years ago was among the few London suburbs with a Labour MP, but rising house prices had forced out most of the people who'd made it such an desirable place to live, and the area had undergone a process of gentrification, something made blatantly obvious by the 'men only' sign displayed in a pub window.

Claire's house turned out to be a ten-minute walk from the station. It was surprisingly big, but, at least from outside, seemed badly in need of repair. Mara rang the old-fashioned bell, and a few seconds later the door was opened by a woman wearing black trousers and a baggy jumper.
“You must be Mara,” she said with a faint smile. “I'm Claire.” They shook hands, and Claire stood aside to let Mara enter. Claire couldn't have been much older than Mara, but she gave the impression of having been prematurely aged by some terrible trauma. The house was in much better condition than its exterior suggested, and Mara suspected that Claire shared her preference for the internal world. The walls were lined with remarkable paintings, all obviously by the same person, depicting grotesquely distorted androgynous figures. They reminded Mara of Francis Bacon's work, but there was something fiercely idealistic about the respect they showed for their tormented subjects. The paintings appeared to have been created by somebody willing and even determined to confront the worst life had to offer, yet retain a fundamental optimism. Mara suspected she knew who the artist was.

“
Are these paintings by you, Miss Richardson?”

“
Please, call me Claire. Would you like something to drink?”

Mara requested a glass of water. She couldn't help noting that her question hadn't been answered. Maybe Claire had a reason for not wishing to discuss her work. She decided not to pursue the subject.

Mara was shown into the living room, which she was pleased to see contained several bookshelves; the presence of books always made her feel at home, as if they were the emblems of a secret society. Perhaps she should have brought one of her novels as a gift. Or would that have been egotistical? The two women sat in facing armchairs, and Claire broke the ice by saying, “I can't tell you how sorry I am you have to deal with this. It's a cliché to say I understand what you're going through, but I guess that's why you're here. Forget what I wrote in the email. If you need to hear about what that bastard did to me, I'll tell you everything.”

“
I don't want to make you dwell on that. I just need to know what happened when the men were chasing you.”

“
Well, you have an hour in the arena before the Hunters arrive. The big mistake we made was wasting that hour. We were ten terrified young women suddenly thrown into what looked like a war zone. Our instinct was to herd together for comfort and amble along the street as if we were on holiday. At some level, we simply hadn't let ourselves confront the reality of the situation. We thought that if we ignored it, it would ignore us. We didn't even use the vending machines, though we walked right past one. We were still within sight of the entrance when the Hunters came in. They obviously couldn't believe their luck when they saw all ten of us just standing there. They didn't know the arena any better than we did, but they were in the dominant position, and they just charged. As soon as we saw them coming, we at least had the sense to run in different directions, but it's difficult to run in those fucking skirts, and I think five of us were taken immediately. The Hunters had these devices I assume were Tasers. Whatever they were, as soon as a woman was touched with one, she fell down immediately. I only managed to get away because nobody was chasing me. You had several men running after the same woman, probably because she was the one nearest them. If it hadn't been for that, they'd have caught us all immediately.

“
I ran around a corner and down an alleyway, hoping to throw them off. And it worked for a while. Then I saw this tall building which looked like it belonged on another planet. It seemed to have no connection with the surrounding rubble. It was the Hunters' apartment block. I was standing in front of it when a Hunter arrived carrying an unconscious woman. He had her slung over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes. I was so scared I couldn't move. But the fucker just smiled at me and went into the building. I suppose he didn't need another victim. I felt like fainting, but I managed to run in the other direction. I eventually came to this old office building, and thought I'd try hiding in there for a while. There was a vending machine nearby, so I took a sandwich and a bottle of water, and climbed up the stairs to the fifth floor. There must have been fifteen floors, but the fifth seemed safe enough. I went into the first office I found. There was nothing inside it but old filing cabinets and a broken chair. The window was filthy, but it gave me the opportunity to see what was going on outside. That's the advantage of a dirty window; it's easier to see out than in. Every so often, I'd observe men walking along the street holding these machines with illuminated screens. They looked kind of like laptops. I think they were body heat detectors. But they were so small, they would only have been able to pick up somebody within the immediate area, and I was high enough to be out of range.