Down Among the Gods by Kate Thompson Read Free Book Online

family, or the insufferable nature of women for the state of his existence. But in general he considers himself lucky to have escaped the suffocating mediocrity of middle-class life and the humiliation of being registered as a state statistic. His has been a life spent in hiding, in fear of exposing his underlying vulnerability, his unquestionable guilt, his inadmissible pact with Bacchus. And he has hidden with great success: from the Inland Revenue Department, from jilted lovers, from the mother of his child, and above all from himself. He has always, just, succeeded in keeping one step ahead.
    ‘I shouldn’t really drive,’ says Jessie as they leave the pub, ‘but I’m going to.’
    ‘Three pints,’ says Patrick. ‘That’s not much, is it?’
    ‘It is for me,’ says Jessie, ‘but to hell with it. Can I take you home?’
    Patrick has learnt, over the years, to think quickly. He thinks quickly in order to defend himself because he believes that he is in need of defence.
    He almost says, ‘No thanks, my car is just around the corner,’ but he catches himself in time. Patrick is not entirely honest, but he tells lies only under extreme pressure. What he does say surprises him slightly, because it is against at least one of the wills that is currently operating within him.
    ‘Which way are you going?’
    ‘Camden.’
    ‘I’ll come as far as Camden with you, then. I can make my own way from there.’
    They will, in fact, have to pass through King’s Cross, or close to it, to get to Camden, but Patrick will not ask Jessie to drop him off. There are no respectable residential areas anywhere near it that he can claim. Camden is a gamble. From its nearest point he will have a short walk home. From its furthest, he will end up footsore.
    Jessie drives competently, despite the drink. She drives fast, like all Londoners, and accurately.
    ‘So what part of town do you live in?’ she says.
    Patrick stalls. ‘Actually, I’m not too happy where I am at the moment.’ He pauses, and before Jessie can ask him why, he says, ‘Good God!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Did you see that? That guy on the motorbike?’
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘Sending up sparks from the foot-rest. Didn’t you see?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Phew. He’s had a few I’d say. Either that or there’s someone on his tail. Did you ever have a motorbike?’
    ‘No,’ says Jessie, ‘I never did.’
    ‘Shame. You’ve missed out.’
    When Jessie pulls up in Camden High Street a few minutes later they are still, somehow, talking about motor bikes, despite the fact that Jessie has no interest in them whatsoever. Patrick looks out and up.
    ‘You don’t live here, do you?’ he says.
    ‘No. I’m going to get a Chinese. Want one?’
    Patrick passes Chinese restaurants almost every day in the course of his travel around the city. He passes Indian, Greek and Italian restaurants, all issuing the smells of wholesome meals. Yet he never gives any thought to what he is missing. Those places are beyond the range of his pocket, out of reach, out of mind. But With Jessie’s offer, Patrick suddenly wants a Chinese take-away more than anything he could possibly imagine.
    Jessie picks up on his hesitation. ‘I’m buying,’ she says.
    ‘I’ll give it to you next week.’
    ‘What do you want?’
    He shrugs. ‘Anything. What are you having?’
    ‘I’ll get a few different things. We can share.’
    She slams the car door and disappears behind the half-painted window of the take-away. While they were in the pub the night air cleared, and a few dim stars are now penetrating the smoggy aura of the city. Further up the street a group of Bengali boys are leaning against a bus shelter and an elderly man, drunk and wavering, is negotiating the pavement towards them. As he draws level he stops and says something. Patrick watches. The sound of passing traffic can be heard through the closed windows of the car but the old man’s voice cannot. The boys stare frostily at him for a