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
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
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