Down Among the Gods by Kate Thompson Read Free Book Online Page A

moment or two, then one of them moves forward and drops a glinting coin into his outstretched hand.
    The scene fills Patrick with anxiety, but not because of the confined space of the car or the rough appearance of the boys. More dangerous to him by far is the sudden appearance, as if from nowhere, of kindness in the world. His psychic barriers, which have taken him a lifetime to erect, are beginning to crack. If he allows himself to believe that care and intimacy exist then he will have to admit that he wants them, needs them, is barely surviving without them. He will also have to admit that he has had them in the past and lost them. And if that happens he will be at the mercy of regret.
    He buttresses the walls before the cracks can grow any wider. When Jessie returns to the car with yet another plastic carrier, she finds Patrick cold and distant and wonders if she has said something to offend him. Jessie searches her mind for a way of breaking into it, but there seems to be no point of contact. There is a dark silence between them as they drive the few blocks to her house.
    ‘This yours?’ he says, as he follows her in through the front door.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What, all of it?’
    Jessie laughs. ‘Yes.’ She turns on the fire and puts the food in front of it to keep warm, then goes into the kitchen for the bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Patrick winks at her, and takes it upon himself to pour.
    ‘Want to have a poke around?’ says Jessie.
    ‘I’d love to, if you don’t mind.’
    The house is a fairly basic three up and three down, with a small glass extension built on to the back as a conservatory or potting shed. Patrick wanders through the rooms on the ground floor with his glass in his hand. Jessie’s tastes show themselves more clearly in her house than they do in her dress or her choice of car. There is nothing of opulence in the surroundings but there is a certain elegance. The rooms are decorated in colours that are soft but rich, and everywhere there is fabric. All the floors have faded but welcoming rugs. Every chair has a cushion. The sofa and the armchairs are draped with Indian bedspreads or old velvet curtains in warm colours. Patrick sighs, envisaging himself stretched out on the floor in front of the fire, reading one of the books which line at least a wall of each room.
    He wanders through the living room and on to the front of the house where Jessie has her office. An Indian batik covers most of one wall, and the others are hung with Japanese prints in simple frames. Closed up on the desk, beside a pile of papers, is something that looks to him like a small, portable sewing machine.
    Jessie has come quietly in behind him. ‘Grub’s up,’ she says.
    ‘Right,’ says Patrick, ‘I’m coming’ He points to the thing on the desk. ‘Do you make your own clothes, then?’
    Jessie looks puzzled for a moment, then bursts out laughing.
    ‘Where have you been living?’
    Patrick smiles but as a defence it is incomplete. He has made a blunder and for an instant Jessie catches a glimpse of his underlying vulnerability. It produces an extraordinary effect in her. She has a barely resistible urge to put her arms around him and hold him tight, make it all all right.
    Hera has caught a glimpse of the mortal soul that she’s trying to prise free.
    But Patrick has closed up again and taken cover behind a stern expression of indifference.
    ‘It’s a computer,’ says Jessie. ‘I suppose it does look a bit like a sewing machine.’
    ‘I haven’t seen one like that before, that’s all.’
    Jessie leads the way back to the living room where she has spread out the meal on the floor in front of the fire. They are both a little awkward as they sit down to eat but Jessie is confident that it’ll pass. She has had enough to drink, but she tops up Patrick’s glass.
    The gods repeat their dramas perpetually, not only in the lives of successive generations, but even within single, mortal lives. Some people