The five of them walked over to the red van, Clive pulling back the side door to reveal some benches, like those in a minibus, Ben thought, arranged on either side of a narrow table. He also saw a pair of workstations with bewildering arrays of equipment further back. “We can offer you a cup of tea or coffee, I think,” Clive said, tapping a silver boiler that was tucked in one corner, and both Ben and Marcie eagerly accepted the offer.

Simon obviously knew his way around the van as he took his jacket off and claimed a laptop from one of the racks of equipment, inviting Ben and Marcie to take a seat and asking for their patience while he logged on. The two of them clambered aboard to sit down next to each other, while Cai took a seat opposite them, where he was joined by Simon.

Simon then started slowly taking the firefighter’s dictated story of his arrival at the fire and his discovery of Ben’s smoke-filled studio flat while Clive got their drinks ready. The detective had to remind Cai a few times that he didn’t need the details of the fire crew’s actions in response to what they found, but he did note that when they’d arrived they’d met the man who’d phoned nine nine nine. Apparently this man had been walking his dog in the early hours of the morning, which the detective was clearly sceptical of. However, he seemed to think it worth recording that there weren’t any other residential properties on the workshop’s short street, and that the fire crew hadn’t noticed any other bystanders or onlookers when they’d arrived.

Cai noted that he’d heard the domestic fire alarm sounding in Ben’s flat, but that if there were one on the ground floor, it must have already been destroyed or rendered non-functional by the heat. Ben interrupted to remark that there was a burglar alarm, which must have failed too, and to ask Cai if he thought that Ben or the Trust should have put in a better system. Cai confirmed that many large commercial properties had integrated systems that notified the fire service directly, but told Ben not to give it a second thought. He said that the horse had most definitely bolted now, so it wasn’t the time to worry about the stable door.

Once Cai finished dictating his concise description of the state of Ben’s flat, Simon asked him formally if it would have been a life-threatening situation. Cai confirmed that without respirators, even a fit and healthy adult in the flat would have died from smoke inhalation within minutes, regardless of the direct risk of the rising fire. As Ben quietly sipped his sweet tea from the cardboard cup that Clive had passed over while Cai had been talking, he understood that the detective was looking for evidence that the arson attack represented something more serious than just property damage. Once again, he felt shaken and humbled at the thought of what might have happened had he and Marcie been sleeping in his old flat.

Simon seemed satisfied though as he thanked Cai, then pressed something on the laptop that triggered a printer on the equipment rack to come to life. Clive, who’d been sitting in the workstation’s chair listening to Cai as he made his statement, jumped at the sudden noise and then laughed at himself for doing so, lightening the mood a little, Ben felt. Then he asked Simon if he’d got everything he need from Cai for the time being. The detective confirmed he had as Clive passed the printed piece of paper across with a pen. Then he addressed Ben, saying, “Also, I hate having to ask this, but do you have insurance?”

“Aye, but just contents insurance. The building’s the Trusts. I don’t know what they have. And I’m not sure if mine covers fire.”

“I’m sure it does,” Clive reassured him, “It’s standard for regular home contents policies. You should get in touch with them promptly though. They could probably offer emergency assistance, if you needed it to fund temporary accommodation for example. They may tell you how they want the building secured too, even if may seem like a lost cause, or they may have their own contacts who’d get the place boarded up to their satisfaction. You should tell them that we believe the building is now totally unsuitable for habitation and, indeed, unsafe to enter.”

Cai interrupted to say, “You’ll need to contact your utility providers too. I’m sorry to say we’re pretty heavy-handed about cutting off the gas and electric when we arrive, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Simon agreed, then carried on, “You shouldn’t need to worry about getting a statement like Cai’s to your insurers or anyone else though. Like the utility companies, they should contact the brigade directly. But do you want to ask Cai anything else before we let him go?”

Ben still felt dazed, having the sense again that he wasn’t really present, merely watching this crowded meeting in the van as if were a film. He felt anxious about contacting his insurers, but he was glad to think that the paperwork which he would have got for them was safe in Marcie’s flat. He couldn’t think of anything to ask Cai though, but wondered if Marcie had anything on her mind, as he said simple, “No, thank you. Marcie?”

“No, Ben, I don’t need to ask anything if you’re satisfied for the time being,” she replied, continuing as she found his hand to give it a comforting squeeze, “This is a lot to take on, isn’t it? But we can let Cai go, I guess. Thank you again.”

“Aye, and thank the others too,” Ben echoed, “I appreciate you did what you could, despite the danger. I’m sorry to you had to come out, to do all this for my flat, on the weekend.”

“No bother, man,” Cai said, rising awkwardly in the small space and moving to the door, “Like I said, it’s what we do. And I’m sorry for what you’ve lost. But you two will look after each other, right?”

Ben and Marcie both confirmed they would, but Ben felt a little sad to see the big man go as he waved goodbye and slid the door closed again. The fire must have been terrible, but exciting too in a way, and Ben had glimpsed a part of that. Yet what was left now was a long slog of paperwork and chasing things up with professionals, all on top of what he was already doing with the doctors, the lawyers, the Trust’s HR partners and so on.

Clive briefly took Cai’s place at the table, asking Simon if he’d like him to hang around while he asked his questions of Ben and Marcie. When Simon confirmed that he didn’t need the fire investigation officer’s expertise for the time being, Clive got up to leave too, apologising in advance if he needed to interrupt them later to get anything from the van. Once he’d left, Simon asked if Ben was okay to give a brief official statement himself now, and if Marcie would like to give her own account too. He confirmed that he just needed a few basic facts, about when they’d last seen the old coach house and where they were last night.

Ben went first, describing their trip to pick up some of his things just yesterday morning. Simon was interested to hear that they’d had the large doors open so that passers-by could have seen straight into the workshop, but Ben admitted he’d not noticed anyone hanging around. He then said simply that he’d been at Marcie’s flat on his own until she’d come home from work, then they’d eaten their tea and gone to bed. Simon then printed the short document that he’d been typing out as he’d been listening to Ben.

Next Simon asked Marcie if she agreed to everything in the statement too, and if she’d like to make her own about anything that it might be useful to officially record before the arsonists were identified and prosecuted. She admitted that she couldn’t think of anything to add, though she asked if he was really that confident that he’d catch the perpetrators.

The detective assured her, “Yes, I’m confident. My officers should have already kicked off the witness appeal, and the locals will know there’s a significant cash reward from Crimestoppers for something this serious, if they give information that leads to convictions. You two might be surprised how many people there are out there to notice things, like our friend who called the fire brigade who just happened to be walking his dog at three in the morning.”

He went on to ask Marcie about where she worked, confirming the times when she’d left the library and she’d arrived back at the flat. He also asked whether there was anyone at the library who could confirm that she was there for her whole shift. Marcie answered him, but then asked bluntly whether she was one of his suspects and if he was thinking of checking out her alibi.

“No, it’s not that,” Simon clarified, apparently unperturbed by Marcie’s accusatory tone, continuing, “But I am in the habit of getting details from people. It might help much further down the line if the CPS has everything before the defence starts trying to throw curveballs in court. You know the Crown Prosecution Service, right? Still, stranger things have happened,” he said, looking at Marcie carefully, “Ben told me he’d only just become your boyfriend, yet he’s already taken the big step of moving in. It’s possible to imagine you might just get the impulse to cut off his exit routes as it were, just to make it a bit harder for him if he had a change of heart.”

Ben saw Marcie stiffen, her nostrils flaring and her hands clenching into fists, as she said in a quiet but icy voice, “I can’t believe you said that.”

Worrying that she was about to make a much angrier outburst, Ben tried to calm things down by saying, “I’m sure he’s just teasing, Marcie. Simon, I told you how much Marcie has helped me, well, from right after I collapsed. I think I told you already, we’d talked about giving notice on the flat, just not got around to it yet.”

“Thank you, Ben, I had remembered,” Simon said in his calm and self-assured way, “And I was just teasing in a way. It is perhaps just another old habit, trying to push buttons to see what happens. You seem angry at my suggestion, Marcie, as you were when I first brought Ben here. That in itself is interesting, as it is quite a different first reaction from shame or guilt. But Ben, you also mentioned in the car over here that you were planning a compensation claim, didn’t you? Can you tell me who else knew about that, especially if they might have felt they needed to defend the Armstrong Trust or cover up the evidence of your unsafe workplace?”

Ben reluctantly mentioned Rhona’s name, stressing that she’d been very kind and sympathetic. Then as he recalled their last phone call, he realised that she’d have passed all the details on to his supervisor and probably everyone on the Trust’s council. He apologised for not being able to give Simon all the names of the council’s members, though he guessed the Cragside estate manager would be on it, but Simon reassured him that it would be easy to find who they were.

Then Simon asked, “And is there anyone else who you’ve had an argument with recently or who might wish injury to yourself or your property?”

Ben and Marcie obviously simultaneously had the same thought as they looked at each other, and he saw the colour seem to drain from her cheeks as her residual fury gave way to a worried panic. “Not Richard, surely?” she said.

Simon immediately asked who Richard was, and Ben answered, “He’s Marcie’s ex-boyfriend, and he was her supervisor at the university.”

“We had a row on the day that I took Ben in,” Marcie added, “When I thought I’d just be putting him up in the spare room as a friend, after he’d come out of hospital on Tuesday. Richard objected, well, angrily, and then I gave him his marching orders. But I should be clear, our relationship had probably been dead for a while. I guess it was just lingering on because he liked the thought of me still being around for him, and I couldn’t imagine a world where I wasn’t in some sense dependent on him. It needed to end, definitively. I needed to get out from under his thumb, and Ben helped me do that, even before he agreed to be my boyfriend. But Richard wouldn’t have known where you lived, would he Ben?” she asked uncertainly.

“No, I can’t think how,” Ben admitted, “You told him my full name, I think, when we first met? But I only saw him twice, that first time in your flat, when he started the row, and then when you dumped his things off, you know, in his office.”

“Holy Mary!” Marcie exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hand as her stricken look returned, “Those boxes. They had this address in Shieldfield written right on them, didn’t they?”

“You’re right!” Ben agreed as the shock of her insight struck him. Simon asked what this was about, and Ben explained, “Marcie had some stuff of Richard’s, books mostly, that she wanted out of the flat. She borrowed, well, I gave her, some plastic crates, just old things I had in the workshop. I had loads of them you see, for loading and shifting gear sometimes, but empty now, erm, then. But when I got them originally, I put ‘Property of Armstrong Trust’ on them, written with a Sharpie, then this address underneath, just in case they got muddled. It seemed sensible, like if I was working with contractors, or in case I left them on site.”

“It sounds sensible to me,” Simon agreed, “So you filled these handy crates up with Richard’s things, then what, dropped them off in his office, right under your love rival’s nose as it were? And once you’d done that, well, I guess you just walked out hand in hand with his old girlfriend to leave him stewing. So there he was, frustrated, angry, humiliated and staring at your ‘gift’ like it was your personalised calling card, complete with an address. Maybe he thinks about it, working out that your business’s address is, what, barely a mile away from where he is right then, at the university?”

“Oh, but I really don’t think he would do anything like this firebombing,” Marcie said, “I’d be the last to defend him, but he’s not stupid, and he’d have so much to lose.”

“He works at the university as your supervisor, does he?” Simon asked, “So, he’s an older man, in a position with authority and respect? I think this scene sounds familiar, and knowing that, I wouldn’t rule him out of the picture just yet.”

“You’re right, detective chief inspector,” Marcie said, “He’s a professor, and he was my PhD tutor, right up until Thursday when I kicked off the process to change supervisor. But,” then Marcie hesitated before continuing, “I’m embarrassed to say, but he’s married, with kids. And his specific position is significant too, you see, because he’s the university’s professor of criminal law. He really does know exactly how much he’d stand to lose.”

“Well, that certainly is an interesting detail,” Simon observed, “About the criminal law, I mean, not the wife. To be honest, that’s not so much of a surprise. You’ll understand if I don’t tell you all my plans for the enquiry, but I would still like to have this Professor Richard’s contact details if I may, and a brief description of the gentleman.”

Marcie started reading Richard’s home and office addresses out from memory, then got her Filofax out of her bag to check his telephone numbers. She described him as white, aged forty-seven, of short to average height with medium build and balding short brown hair. Then Simon asked, “Well, if that’s a lead from Marcie’s past, what about you, Ben? Any jealous ex-lovers I should know about?”

Ben glanced at Marcie guiltily, and she said, “You’d better tell him, Ben.”

“What’s this?” Simon asked with renewed interest.

“It’s nothing, I’m sure,” Ben began, “But I did have a girlfriend just before Marcie, called Jo, Joanna Rose, though we’d only been together a few weeks. We broke up just on Monday, when I phoned her from hospital. We saw her, Marcie and me, in town on Thursday night, just by accident. But I really don’t think she’d be behind this. She seemed a bit jealous when we met, it’s true. She was a bit rude to Marcie, but she didn’t seem angry. She just, I don’t know, she was stirring a bit.”

“She was flirting with Ben whilst bad-mouthing him to me, is what Ben’s too polite say,” Marcie interrupted, “She gave him a seductive stroke and blew him a sexy kiss, but told me she thought he might be gay.”

Simon laughed, then seemed to catch himself, recovering his serious tone, “Well, you two certainly lead colourful lives! But I’m inclined to agree with your judgement, Ben. It doesn’t sound like she was harbouring the kind of vengeful rage that would inspire her to do something as serious as this. I’d better take her details in any case, though.

So Ben gave Simon Jo’s address, though he didn’t know her postcode, then he looked up her number on his phone. At Simon’s prompting, he described her as tall, white, blonde, mid-twenties and slim. He half expected Simon to make a sly remark about that being a description of an ideal dream woman, or ask about her hip, waist and bust measurements as if she were a pin-up model, but he didn’t.

Then Simon seemed to begin wrapping things up, saying, “Right, thank you. It looks like I’ve got plenty of things to follow up now, perhaps with Professor York and maybe even Miss Rose, but definitely with the Armstrong Trust. I’ll need to wait and see if any members of the public come forward with useful intelligence too. I’d be grateful if the two of you avoid talking with others about the details of what we’ve discussed this morning though, just for the time being. Meanwhile, I’ll go through everything with Clive again to check that we have everything we need from the scene before the crews leave. But if you’ve got a good enough picture of what happened here, I can let you go. So did you have any more questions for Clive or myself?”

Ben noticed that Simon seemed to be addressing just him, and he guessed that might have been deliberate. He imagined that from a formal or legal point of view, this was genuinely his concern and not Marcie’s. Still, he glanced at Marcie as he confirmed that he didn’t have any other questions. He tried to explain how it seemed to him, that there was nothing to do now except phone the insurance firm and so on for the practical administrative side of things.

Ben thought he saw some genuine sympathy in Simon’s eyes as he agreed, then explained that in cases like this, where someone had been left homeless by a fire, the fire service could get in touch with a charity that could help. However, he guessed that Ben wouldn’t need that as he already had alternative accommodation in place with Marcie, with means to keep himself well-fed and in clean clothes. As Ben confirmed all that was true, Simon said that Ben might just need the contact details for himself at the police and Clive at the fire service, though he could leave messages for either of them at their respective switchboards too. As he went to get a piece of paper to write these out, Marcie invited him to put them directly into her Filofax. He also had an official incident number for them to quote that he copied from his laptop, “Just in case the insurers ask,” as he put it. He told Ben that he’d also be very welcome to contact Victim Support if he ever felt the need, but Simon wouldn’t refer them to Ben. He reminded Ben that they provided an independent and confidential service as he also copied their contact number down from memory.

Then it did seem as if Simon thought their business was concluded as he sat back and said, “I’m sorry, we don’t really run a taxi service. I could put in a call to see if anyone can drop you back at the flat if you want though, or will you be okay finding your own way?”

“We can walk, I think,” Ben said, looking across to Marcie in case she wanted to object. He explained for her benefit as much as Simon’s, in case she hadn’t already realised, “We back onto Heaton Park here, pretty much, and we can walk straight up Jesmond Dene.”

She gripped his hand firmly again as he gave her a sad smile, saying positively, “Yes, that sounds good to me, Ben.”

With that, she released Ben’s hand to tuck her Filofax away as Simon shuffled around to open the van’s door, saying, “Okay then. Well, look after each other, talk to your insurer, but go easy with yourselves too, make sure you’re taking time to enjoy life too.” As they got out of the van and stood on the pavement in the smoke-tainted fresh spring air, he turned to Ben and went on, “To be honest, this is a terrible thing to happen for anyone, but luckily you were out of harm’s way, and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon, but sincerely, I wish you well.”

Ben felt his eyes sting a little as he shook the detective’s hand, before Simon shook Marcie’s hand too in a way that seemed to suggest they had made peace with each other. Then with a final wave goodbye, they headed off in their different directions.

Ben led Marcie toward the park, then through the trees at its fringes, walking hand in hand. But soon after they’d broken cover to walk across the grass of its central hollow bowl, he heard the soft sound of approaching rain. He looked up to see that sky was still blue except for a few drifting clouds, remarking that it must just be a passing shower. Marcie said she didn’t mind as the rain reached them, the drops sparkling in the sunlight. And then it had passed, doing little more than dampen their heads.

They said nothing else to each other as they walked on in silence at a steady pace, until they came to the Armstrong Bridge and, looking up, saw activity around the small market there. Marcie asked if Ben fancied trying to find something for a late breakfast, and he gladly agreed. Once they climbed up to the pedestrianised bridge, he felt odd drifting along amongst the stalls with the regular Saturday morning crowd, who seemed so normal and unconcerned that they could have almost been sleepwalking. But then Ben thought that perhaps it was him who was sleepwalking, weaving through the throng whilst remaining apart from them, locked in his own inward-looking thoughts of self-pity and shock.

Marcie took the lead, choosing one stall where they could get some pastries and coffee, paying for it, then suggesting they take it down into the Dene, away from the crowd. They walked down the same long shallow steps that Ben had rested on after his minor attack of breathlessness only a few days earlier. He remembered their conversation then, with Marcie’s interesting ideas about the dryads and the hero’s journey, when he’d wondered if he’d already faced his epic challenge. Yet as it now turned out, it seemed that back then fate had still been keeping some surprises waiting for him.

As they took a seat on a bench, putting their coffees down to eat their pastries, Ben reminded Marcie of this. She paused before responding, “And do you remember what I said, about an alternative point of view?”

“Aye,” Ben replied, smiling ruefully as he quoted her, “‘Shit just happens.’”

“Oh, it certainly has, you poor thing,” Marcie said, putting her free arm around him.

Suddenly they found they were both softly crying, leaning together to hold each other awkwardly whilst tears spilt down their cheeks, even as they still clumsily held their pastries in their paper wrappers.

“I can’t believe all my stuff is gone, just like that,” Ben said, pulling himself together a little, “Or maybe I couldn’t, even standing in that horrible burnt mess, until now. Now I’m realising it’s true. I’m so glad I was with you, that you had me safe, and that you’d helped me, well, with everything, but to grab a few things yesterday, at least.”

“Come on, put your Danish down and give me a proper hug,” Marcie said, sniffing.

He did, and she held him tightly to her, their thighs pressed against each other as they remained sitting upright on the bench, whilst both of them twisted around so they could press their chests together. Ben buried his nose in her hair, still untidily braided, just as she’d worn it to bed. His lips rested tenderly on her forehead while she pushed her damp cheeks into the crook of his neck. He let himself take comfort from her scent and her warmth, which he felt on her skin against his lips and on his chest through their clothes. He imagined that he felt her heart beating there, close by his, steady and calm.

After what may have been just a minute or perhaps much longer, Ben sighed and said, “I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Despite what’s happened, I can carry on, thanks to you.”

“Oh Ben,” she answered, pulling back a little to stare anxiously into his eyes, “But maybe this would have never had to happen if you’d not been with me.”

“No,” Ben reassured her, unfolding his arms from her and picking up his pastry again as he recognised the hollow hunger in his stomach, “I know Detective Simon was suspicious, and I know Richard’s no friend to me, but I really don’t think he did it. It’s more likely just some local charvas. Maybe they noticed our visit yesterday, like Simon guessed, then fancied seeing how it would go up, just for the hell of it.”

“Simon seemed confident he’d find out, either way,” Marcie admitted, picking up her own pastry too, “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see what he turns up.”

“Meanwhile, he said we should enjoy life, didn’t he?” Ben said, finding as he said it that he still had that positive feeling about his future with Marcie. As he picked up his coffee and sipped it, he inhaled the fresh spring air deeply, then said, “There’s open sky above us, and our love is the angel, remember? Lifting us into the fresh air.”

“Oh Ben, I hope you’re right,” Marcie said, finding his hand to grip it, then pushing herself forwards suddenly to press her lips to his. Though it was unexpected, Ben gratefully returned her kiss, even whilst his hands were full. He met her open mouth with his, welcoming her questing tongue, imaging her tasting his coffee on his lips just as he tasted the remains of her sugary pastry.

She still seemed sad as she sat back to give him a forlorn smile though. Trying to think of ways to cheer her up, he said, “We can turn this around, you know? This can be one of our adventures in the Dene, like last time. I know I had a wobble then, but we had a nice time too, I think. Can you see these trees, and think your dryads again?”

“Oh, I might have known it wouldn’t take long for your thoughts to get back to naughty mythical ladies!” Marcie gently scolded with a small playful laugh.

“They can’t be just naughty, if they’re in your children’s book,” Ben tried to argue.

“You’re right, they’re just the anthropomorphic representation of fecund nature, an allegory for storytellers to use as the embodiment of the impulsive libido, of our instinctual procreative impulse or of an innate energy for life,” she said.

“You’re mocking me again, using those intellectual words,” he said defensively, putting on the pretence that she’d hurt his feelings.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Marcie said, sipping her own coffee primly, now that she’d finished her pastry. She went on, “As a matter of fact, I was thinking of another myth earlier, when the sunlight caught the rain. Do you remember?”

“Aye. I looked for a rainbow, but there wasn’t enough rain, or enough dark cloud maybe,” Ben admitted.

“Well, the golden shower is in a famous classical story. No, don’t laugh, it’s not about pee,” Marcie began explaining the myth as they finished their coffees, then continued as they started walking through the Dene again, back towards her flat. She described how the king of ancient Argos had a daughter, Danaë, but he kept her locked in a bronze chamber, as the oracle of Delphi had told the king that Danaë’s son would kill him. Though he hoped this sealed prison would prevent her from ever meeting a man, let alone have sex with one and become pregnant, the god Zeus had designs on her. He didn’t disguise himself as a tortoise or snake, as Apollo had with the dryad of the poplar, but as a golden shower of rain, which penetrated Danaë’s womb. Marcie explained that in this way Danaë became the mother of the hero Perseus, who slew the Medusa.

“I know that story,” Ben admitted, the memory of an old film coming clearly to his mind this time, “It’s Clash of the Titans, isn’t it? With the Plasticine monsters, by what’s his name, Ray Harryhausen.”

“I think you’re right, Ben,” Marcie agreed, grinning at him, “But I’ve not seen the film since I was a girl. I guess Danaë must have featured in it, because you see Perseus growing up and getting his magic shield from Zeus’s wife Hera, don’t you? I’m sure you’ll remember who played the beautiful Andromeda too, who’s chained to the rocks until Perseus rescues her from the Kraken. I’m sure they cast her as a willowy blonde though, like your other screen goddesses, not as a short dark Mediterranean girl.”

Ben smiled as he admitted he couldn’t name the actress, saying that he’d not seen the film himself in years either. Yet he deliberately did not rise to Marcie’s teasing, stopping himself from commenting on Mediterranean island women’s appeal. Then Marcie explained that there were many stories of Zeus like Danaë’s. She mentioned that he’d appeared as a bull to abduct and then seduce or rape Europa, the queen of Crete and mother of King Minos. She commented that this was a bit confusing, as Minos’s own wife then mated with a sacred bull sent by the god Neptune, and thus bore the Minotaur. She also remarked that she found it surprising that this scandalous Europa had given her name to a whole continent, yet the European flag used the circle of twelve stars that was usually associated with Mary, mother of Christ. And yet she also noted that the crown of stars that made the constellation of Cassiopeia had their mythological origin in the mother of Andromeda herself. Marcie remembered that Queen Cassiopeia was cast into the sky by Neptune for her hubris in asserting that her daughter was as beautiful as the nereids, who she explained were essentially the sea’s equivalent to the tree’s dryads.

“So in a way, it all joins up,” Ben observed.

“Yes it does, and in more ways than you might think,” Marcie said, explaining, “You know I mentioned Gustav Klimt, the artist who did that golden kiss painting that I’ve got the big print of in the flat’s living room? Well, he did a quite sexy painting of Danaë too, looking all flushed as Zeus’s shower comes down between her legs. I’m sure I’ve got it in a book at home if you want to have a look at it.”

“Thank you, I might, if that’s okay, erm, like if you don’t mind. But I meant it links up to our other chat, about the sacred goddess and your holy Mary,” Ben said, explaining, “She was made pregnant by a god.”

“Not a god,” Marcie clarified, “Just God, singular, the monotheistic one true God. And if you’d seen Klimt’s painting, you wouldn’t think it was just a different version of the Annunciation, the angel’s visit to Mary to tell her she was God’s chosen. That’s been painted many times, and it’s always very polite, with Mary most assuredly fully dressed in her blue robe as she sits there, usually giving a suspicious little wave to the Archangel Gabriel.”

“But it’s more interesting when there’re lots of gods and goddesses, and more passion, am I right? We think the stories are better for all that, richer, with heroes, satyrs and fairy nymphs too. And it’s more interesting too if they’re sometimes impolite. They make more sense if the bodily fluids are right there. You said the golden shower wasn’t what I first thought, that it wasn’t about kinky wet play. But surely it could be Zeus’s semen, not the god himself, that pattered down on Danaë?”

“That does make sense,” Marcie admitted, smiling to herself as they strolled along hand in hand, “But I don’t much like the idea of that shower in the sunshine when we came into the park being God’s semen. I wouldn’t mind if it was a bit of yours falling on my face, but I don’t want His!” Ben gave a little laugh, even as he felt a little shocked and yet also excited at her remark. But she continued her speculation without pausing, “I’m also not sure that it works out being any more fun for Danaë than Mary. And I certainly wouldn’t want to imagine myself in Europa’s circumstances.”

“Maybe not,” Ben agreed, “But some people do get kinky with animals, don’t they? And you said dryads are an allegory for libido, or something. Well, you can’t get much better than a bull, as a symbol for masculine fertility. But you didn’t explain the whole story. I guess Perseus did end up killing Danaë’s wicked father, and I guess he was on a hero’s journey too.”

Marcie said that she couldn’t remember the story very well, but then went on to explain that the king of Argos had cast his daughter adrift on the sea with the newborn Perseus. She told Ben how they washed up on a Greek island where the local king, or maybe his brother, raised Perseus as his own son. Marcie was more confident that it was the island’s king who wanted to make Danaë his wife. As she resisted, Perseus wound up having to perform the seemingly impossible task of facing the Medusa. Marcie wasn’t sure whether Perseus used the petrifying stare of the Medusa’s severed head to kill the sea monster which threatened Andromeda, but she was certain it was that which did for Danaë’s cruel suitor. But she explained it wasn’t until later that Perseus ended up killing her father, and then it was done only accidentally. The myth had it that the king and Perseus were both in foreign lands when they unknowingly crossed paths. It was there that the hero killed his own grandfather with a misguided throw of a discus, or something like that, Marcie thought.

“It seems you remember it pretty well,” Ben remarked, “But it also sounds like a bit of an anti-climax.”

“Oh, I guess the old king’s death was as much about the intervention of the gods as everything else in the story. He couldn’t escape his fate, and he had perhaps even brought it upon himself when he’d wandered from his own kingdom. It’s a bit like that story The Appointment in Samsarra too, if you know it, about a man meeting the Angel of Death in Bagdad?”

Their own wandering had brought them close to Marcie’s street now. Ben was sad to cut Marcie’s stories off, but he knew he had some important phone calls to make once they got back. He tried to leave the topic open, as he said, “I don’t know that one. But in what you’ve told me, I still don’t see what counts as Perseus returning home, if his is a hero’s journey. And I’m not clear if Danaë is cursed or blessed, a kind of hero herself or just a victim, for all Zeus’s attention.”

“We can do a bit more research together, if you like,” Marcie promised, “It’s a long time since my classics A-Level, and we didn’t cover that much of this mythology anyway. But I guess the old stories didn’t have goodies and baddies, nor happily ever after endings, in the way that modern popular tastes demand and Hollywood provides.”

“Aye, well it’s like we said, maybe that’s why they’ve lasted. They’re messy, like our lives, but epic too, like there’s a meaning to it all.”

“Are you ready for dealing with some of that mess now, with those phone calls and possibly some official admin rubbish?” Marcie asked as they reached her flat and she dug in her bag for her keys, “We can get back to the more basic mess of bodily fluids later, maybe when I’m back from my shift, if you like. You knew I was working this afternoon, right? But I’ve got tomorrow off.”

“Aye,” Ben agreed, feeling a little overwhelmed by both the negative and positive activities that Marcie imagined might be ahead of him as they took their shoes off and edged around his bike, “I’ll find the insurer’s paperwork first. And I can meet you at your library, to walk you home.”

“That would be nice,” Marcie agreed, turning to rest her hand on his chest and just peck his lips. Then she suggested, “Shall I brew us both a cuppa while you check your paperwork?”