The Hunt (12 page)

That left only the question of signalling. Picking up one of the pillows she'd collected, Mara told Julie, “It should take you about twenty minutes to go down the stairs and across the lobby. If I don't see any Hunters during that time, I'll throw this pillow out the window and into the road in front of the vending machine. When you walk around the corner of this building, take a look at the road. If you don't see the pillow, that means there's danger, and you should come back immediately.”

Julie agreed that this was a good plan, and after giving Mara a hug she left the apartment. Mara took up her position by the window and scrutinised the street. It looked safe, but appearances in the arena could be deceptive. She had no way of accurately determining when twenty minutes had passed, but once she'd given Julie enough time to make her way downstairs, she opened the window, took one last look around, and threw out the pillow. It landed almost directly in front of the vending machine. A few seconds later, Julie came into view and walked across the road. Mara felt sick with fear.

Julie approached the vending machine, applied her thumb to its credit screen, and pressed a button. As she did this, she turned around and looked up, giving Mara a cheerful wave. And that's when it happened. A man emerged from behind the machine, Taser in one hand, steel collar in the other. He must have been waiting there for hours. Mara saw him before Julie did, and the image would haunt her for the rest of her life. She was too far away to make out Julie's face clearly, but her imagination filled in the big friendly smile that showed no knowledge of the monster looming up in the background. It was like seeing Red Riding Hood about to be devoured by the wolf.

Mara had never felt so powerless. No matter how quickly she moved, by the time she reached the ground floor the drama playing out below would be long over. She watched helplessly as Julie looked back and discovered the Hunter standing before her. Mara expected Julie to run, but the girl was frozen in terror. The man waved his
Taser in Julie's face while holding out the collar to her, and though Mara couldn't hear what he was saying, it was obviously a variation on what Claire recalled a Hunter telling her: ‘We can do this the hard way or we can do it the easy way’. Julie took the collar and locked it on her neck. The man checked it was secure, then pointed towards the Hunters' block. At his bidding, Julie walked down the street, the Hunter following closely behind.

Mara slumped against the wall under the window, buried her face in her hands and screamed. She'd wanted to protect J
ulie, yet less than twenty-four hours after their first encounter, the girl had already been ensnared by one of those sadistic monsters. What made it worse was that Mara thought she recognised the Hunter. She couldn't be certain after only seeing him from such a distance, but she strongly suspected Julie's captor was Mr. Let's-Make-a-Deal, the creep who'd suggested Mara pray not to be caught by him.

Mara wept for an hour before attempting to pull herself together. One fact she couldn't ignore was that the Hunter must have seen Julie waving to somebody in the building opposite. Though he now had what he wanted, it seemed reasonable to assume he'd tell one of the other Hunters where fresh prey might be located. Without even formulating a coherent plan, Mara walked out of the apartment and began descending the stairs, moving as fast as possible. She reached the ground floor in fifteen minutes, and slowly made her way across the lobby. Once she was out in the open, her instinct for self-preservation told her that, whatever she did next, she should first obtain supplies. It seemed unlikely that two Hunters would stake out the same location, and Mara didn't anticipate any unwelcome encounters, but she still edged cautiously around the building before running across the street towards the vending machine. The bottle of water Julie had selected was still sitting in the open compartment. Mara considered leaving it there, but that was foolishness. Julie would have wanted her to have it. She put the bottle in her pocket, then placed her thumb on the scanner and purchased another bottle, as well as a sandwich. Walking back to the front of the building
she'd just left, Mara looked around at the five other apartment blocks. She'd have liked to go somewhere completely different, but every minute spent outside increased the likelihood of her being spotted. The furthest building was the Leaning Tower of Kilburn, but the block next door seemed sturdy enough, and the possibility of the Leaning Tower collapsing on top of it provided the structure with an aura of danger that might deter Hunters. Giving a wide berth to the grassy square, which could conceal any number of threats, both human and animal, Mara moved as quickly as possible towards the next edifice in which she hoped to take refuge.

The block chosen by Mara actually had a front door, or at least the remains of one. Pushing it open, she saw a lobby which was similar to the one in the building she'd just left, but much easier to cross. Mara only had to push aside a few cardboard boxes (she looked inside one, and found it contained plastic forks) as she made her way to the stairwell. While climbing the stairs, she couldn't stop thinking about Julie. The girl would have been inside the Hunters' apartment block for some time now, and might already be suffering in one of those hellish playrooms. The idea was intolerable, and when Mara reached the eighth floor, she sat on the stairs and cried again. As she resumed her journey up the stairwell, Mara realised that at no point had she seen any graffiti. It struck her as almost sad. Graffiti was an admittedly crude
, but nonetheless heartfelt expression of creativity and the need to communicate, and its absence suggested how thoroughly these basic human needs had been eradicated.

Mara decided to stop on the seventeenth floor. It was high enough to offer some protection from Hunters armed with body heat detectors, but a less obvious hiding place than the top floor. She left the stairwell and walked along a corridor which contained the usual mix of apartments which had been occupied by transients before the area was sealed off, and locked doors that doubtless guarded nothing but dirty floors. Mara wanted a room from which she could observe the front of the building, so she turned a corner and headed towards the opposite corridor, stopping randomly at Apartment 1708, which appeared to be locked. As she prepared to force her way in, Mara grasped the doorknob and, almost by instinct, turned it. The door swung open.

But if Mara was surprised to find a door that had neither been locked nor broken, she was far more surprised when she walked through it. For she was now standing in what appeared to be a fully furnished apartment. In the living room were a sofa, comfortable chairs, and a table. In the bedroom, a bed with duvet neatly turned back, a wooden chair, and a bedside table, as well as a large wardrobe filled with clothes - everything from expensive dresses to children's shoes. The kitchen included a washing machine and a fridge, both empty. The bathroom contained a dry toilet and a bath, next to which had been placed a towel and a bottle of shampoo. Everything was covered in dust, some of it inches thick. It was as if somebody's home had been preserved under a protective grey layer so future generations could see how people used to live.

But the biggest surprise, and the one that made Mara wonder if she'd responded to the strain of the last twenty-four hours by retreating into some kind of fantasy, was the books. They not only filled several shelves, but were stacked against every wall, just as they were in Mara's own apartment. Inspecting the stacks, Mara discovered that the selection was impossibly eclectic. Celebrity biographies rubbed shoulders with classics of world literature, an anthology of bad taste jokes with a history of the Russian Revolution. Most of the books were in English, but Mara noticed a few in Polish and Italian, and several in languages she didn't recognise. On top of one shelf, in a prominent position, was a sealed envelope with the words,
“A letter from Mary Green, to whoever currently occupies Apt. 1708,” neatly written on it.

Mara returned to the front door and shut it carefully. There was no doubt in her mind that unless circumstances forced her to leave, this was where she'd be spending the rest of the week. Taking the sandwich and the water bottles out of her pockets, she placed them on the living room table and calculated whether she could make the water last until Friday. It would mean drinking no more than one third of a bottle each day. Difficult, but not impossible. The lack of food didn't especially worry her. She could easily go for a week without eating. And she hadn't yet searched the kitchen cupboards. There might be cans of food that were still edible. She tried turning the taps to see if anything happened - nothing would have surprised her now - but the water supply had obviously been cut off years ago. Looking inside one of the cabinets over the sink, she discovered various cleaning utensils. The cabinet next to it was empty. Disappointed, she opened the cupboard next to the washing machine, and found two boxes. Pulling back the cardboard flaps, she gasped. The first box contained six bottles of wine. She eagerly opened the second box, which contained another six bottles.

Mara seriously wondered if she were asleep and dreaming. The apartment might have been custom-made for her. If only she'd come across this place earlier, in time to share it with Julie. How she longed to have the girl there. Mara could picture her face lighting up at the sight of the wine. She arranged the bottles on a plastic surface that divided the kitchen from the living room. There were six bottles of white wine and six of red. Mara would have to be careful, since she'd be spending a week imbibing nothing but alcohol on an empty stomach. It occurred to her that this was undoubtedly how a lot of 'real' - which is to say male - writers lived. She opened a bottle of white, threw her head back, and poured a little wine into her mouth. It tasted good. She took another swallow and replaced the lid. She didn't want to get drunk, at least not right away.

Returning to the bedroom, Mara rummaged through the wardrobe's contents and pulled out a faded pair of jeans which seemed to be her size. They'd be more comfortable than her skirt, and more practical if she needed to run. She also found a pair of battered trainers, some socks, and a thick jumper which was too big for her, but would provide protection against the cold. After removing her clothes and depositing them neatly on the chair, sh
e put on the jeans, which fit perfectly, the jumper and the socks. The trainers were a little tight, but otherwise fine. Mara wondered whether or not she could get into trouble for being out of uniform here, especially if she left the apartment. The arena wasn't exactly a public place, and the uniform exemption for women participating in sporting events might apply. In any case, there were no police around to report her, and if everything went according to plan, she'd simply change back before departing on Friday. Pulling the duvet, pillows and sheets off the bed, she shook them vigorously, creating a cloud of dust, then returned them to their original positions. Underneath the dust, they were fairly clean, and Mara looked forward to sleeping in comfort that night.

After urinating in the waterless toilet bowl, she returned to the living room and picked up Mary Green's letter. Maybe it would contain an explanation for this bizarre apartment. As she tore open the envelope, it suddenly occurred to Mara that this letter had been written by a woman with the same initials as her, and almost the same first name. She again wondered if this might be an illusion. Perhaps she'd gone insane. No, insane people didn't wonder if they were insane. Doubting your sanity was a sure sign you'd retained it. She placed the already opened bottle of wine on the table. Thoughts of Julie and those horrors the girl must currently be enduring again invaded Mara's head. Deciding to seek solace in alcohol, she raised the bottle to her mouth and took a long drink. She felt better almost immediately. Brushing as much dust as possible off the sofa, she removed her trainers, laid down, positioned a pillow behind her head, and examined the envelope's contents: two pages of text written in a small
, but neat hand.

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February 10th 2059.

My Name is Mary Green. I was born in the year 2014. I grew up in the London borough of Hackney, and lived a normal childhood, or what was regarded as a normal childhood at that time. By today's standards, I suppose it would be considered rather peculiar. Sometimes, I feel as if I have fallen asleep in the world of my youth, and am now trapped in a nightmare about a totalitarian future in which society's hidden prejudices are magnified. When I was young, most people, including most politicians, believed, or claimed to believe, that women were equal to men, that homosexuals were as good as heterosexuals, that racial discrimination was a bad thing. Their commitment to equality was, of course, only a matter of fashion, as subsequent events demonstrated. But even back then, members of most minority groups - including women, who aren't a minority at all - realised how fragile their freedom was. Equality had been given them as a favour by those in a position to do so, and could just as easily be taken away again should circumstances demand it.

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Mara's sense of reality was being further challenged by this text, which she might have written herself. Hadn't she said something similar to Julie just a few hours ago? The thought of Julie triggered unpleasant images Mara was determined to suppress. Taking another drink, she continued reading.

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