The Fourth Pig by Naomi Mitchison Marina Warner

Bill,” said Mr. Denys Backhouse, “the car is waiting.” Bill stumbled after him and into the car, not conscious now of shine or softness. By this time Mr. Thompson had crawled to knee-height and was shaking both fists after them. Again the Rolls-Royce drew away. “Where can I drop you, Bill?” asked the film star, flicking a morsel of lime from his trouser-leg. And added: “What do you propose doing now?”
    Bill said: “I’m on the dole. It’s all one to me. Christ, I’m tired! Them bloody brutes.”
    â€œI could offer you a job,” said his companion slowly.
    â€œCould you, sir? A tempor’y job, like?”
    â€œNo, permanent. Ginger’s old job, as a matter of fact.”
    â€œHe never said …”
    â€œI can imagine that he wouldn’t. Yet it was a nice job in a way. Compared with his last. But you would lose your freedom, Bill.”
    â€œFreedom. What for?”
    â€œOh. To vote and all that.”
    â€œThere’s a lot o’ firms where they don’t like you voting Labour. Dunno that I care much. Not if it’s a decent job.”
    â€œAnd you’d have to ask before you got married.” “That’s so in some firms. But if it’s a decent job—”
    â€œAnd you wouldn’t get any regular wages. But you’d get food and lodging … and a good deal of fun. And if you were ill you’d get looked after.”
    â€œBut—Who are you, anyway, sir?”
    â€œI happen to be the God Dionysos Bacchos. An Immortal. The God of divine frenzy. By the way, would you like a drink?”
    â€œI could do with one, sir … And this job?”
    â€œYour pal Ginger was my slave.”
    â€œBut that’s not … legal.”
    â€œIt is where I come from and would take you. Oh, ever so legal. Would you mind being my slave?”
    â€œâ€™twouldn’t be so different from now. Wage-slaves, that’s us. In a manner of speaking. Ginger, he used to say so. In a nasty kind of way, if you take me, as though he’d been expecting something else. Which there isn’t. Not for the likes of us. Not yet. And so he gets done in. Christ, I got bloody fond of old Ginger an’ his talk!”
    Bill bowed his head in his hands. Mr. Denys Backhouse lighted a cigarette and watched the even flowing-by of houses; now they were passing through suburban acres of villa and small garden; above none showed any Acropolis. He observed at last: “Do you agree, then, to come?”
    â€œI dunno,” said Bill. “Why didn’t Ginger never mention you, like?”
    â€œIt’s apt to be rather difficult, mentioning the Gods.”
    â€œYou are a God—straight?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen—when it come to them panthers—why did you do what I said? You didn’t need to have—not if you was a God. You might have set them to killing me.”
    â€œI’m not above taking advice. Besides, was your affair primarily, as Ginger’s friend. I once did something of the same kind with some pirates, but it was my affair then. I’ll tell you all about it if you come with me. In any event, ideas change; no one questioned my action in regard to the pirates, some of whom I killed and some of whom I turned into dolphins; but that was some time ago. Bill, do you believe I’m a God?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œComing?”
    â€œIt don’t seem right, somehow, once having run across a God—which I haven’t up till now, for all they give me liquorice sticks at Sunday school—to turn him down. But then—what about Rule Britannia and all that?”
    â€œDo you call yourself a free man now, Bill? Are you able freely to create and wander and think and love?”
    â€œHell, no.”
    â€œComing?”
    â€œYes.”
    The car now had passed through the suburbs, out into the country, beyond the tram stops, beyond the hikers’