Good Omens (43 page)

They stood by the pond, watching the ducks scrabble for the bread.

“Sorry?” said Aziraphale. “I thought that was the big one.”

“I'm not sure,” said Crowley. “Think about it. For my money, the really big one will be all of Us against all of Them.”

“What? You mean Heaven and Hell against humanity?”

Crowley shrugged. “Of course, if he did change everything, then maybe he changed himself, too. Got rid of his powers, perhaps. Decided to stay human.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” said Aziraphale. “Anyway, I'm sure the alternative wouldn't be allowed. Er. Would it?”

“I don't know. You can never be certain about what's really intended. Plans within plans.”

“Sorry?” said Aziraphale.

“Well,” said Crowley, who'd been thinking about this until his head ached, “haven't you ever wondered about it all? You know—your people and my people, Heaven and Hell, good and evil, all that sort of thing? I mean,
why
?”

“As I recall,” said the angel, stiffly, “there was the rebellion and—”

“Ah, yes. And why did it
happen
, eh? I mean, it didn't have to, did it?” said Crowley, a manic look in his eye. “Anyone who could build a universe in six days isn't going to let a little thing like that happen. Unless they want it to, of course.”

“Oh, come on. Be sensible,” said Aziraphale, doubtfully.

“That's not good advice,” said Crowley. “That's not good advice at all. If you sit down and think about it
sensibly
, you come up with some very funny ideas. Like: why make people inquisitive, and then put some forbidden fruit where they can see it with a big neon finger flashing on and off saying ‘THIS IS IT!'?”

“I don't remember any neon.”

“Metaphorically, I mean. I mean, why do that if you really don't
want
them to eat it, eh? I mean, maybe you just want to see how it all turns out. Maybe it's all part of a great big ineffable plan. All of it. You, me, him, everything. Some great big test to see if what you've built all works properly, eh? You start thinking: it
can't
be a great cosmic game of chess, it
has
to be just very complicated Solitaire. And don't bother to answer. If we could understand, we wouldn't be us. Because it's all—all—”

INEFFABLE, said the figure feeding the ducks.

“Yeah. Right. Thanks.”

They watched the tall stranger carefully dispose of the empty bag in a litter bin, and stalk away across the grass. Then Crowley shook his head.

“What was I saying?” he said.

“Don't know,” said Aziraphale. “Nothing very important, I think.”

Crowley nodded gloomily. “Let me tempt you to some lunch,” he hissed.

They went to the Ritz again, where a table was mysteriously vacant. And perhaps the recent exertions had had some fallout in the nature of reality because, while they were eating, for the first time ever, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

No one heard it over the noise of the traffic, but it was there, right enough.

IT WAS ONE O'CLOCK ON SUNDAY.

For the last decade Sunday lunch in Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell's world had followed an invariable routine. He would sit at the rickety, cigarette-burned table in his room, thumbing through an elderly copy of one of the Witchfinder Army library's
⁵⁷
books on magic and Demonology—the
Necrotelecomnicon
or the
Liber Fulvarum Paginarum
, or his old favorite, the
Malleus Malleficarum
.
⁵⁸

Then there would be a knock on the door, and Madame Tracy would call out, “Lunch, Mr. Shadwell,” and Shadwell would mutter, “Shameless hussy,” and wait sixty seconds, to allow the shameless hussy time to get back into her room; then he'd open the door, and pick up the plate of liver, which was usually carefully covered by another plate to keep it warm. And he'd take it in, and he'd eat it, taking moderate care not to spill any gravy on the pages he was reading.
⁵⁹

That was what always happened.

Except on that Sunday, it didn't.

For a start, he wasn't reading. He was just sitting.

And when the knock came on the door he got up immediately, and opened it. He needn't have hurried.

There was no plate. There was just Madame Tracy, wearing a cameo brooch, and an unfamiliar shade of lipstick. She was also standing in the center of a perfume zone.

“Aye, Jezebel?”

Madame Tracy's voice was bright and fast and brittle with uncertainty. “Hullo,
Mister S
, I was just thinking, after all we've been through in the last two days, seems silly for me to leave a plate out for you, so I've set a place for you. Come on … ”

Mister S?
Shadwell followed, warily.

He'd had another dream, last night. He didn't remember it properly, just one phrase, that still echoed in his head and disturbed him. The dream had vanished into a haze, like the events of the previous night.

It was this.
“Nothin' wrong with witchfinding. I'd like to be a witchfinder. It's just, well, you've got to take it in turns. Today we'll go out witchfinding, an' tomorrow we could hide, an' it'd be the witches' turn to find US … ”

For the second time in twenty-four hours—for the second time in his life—he entered Madame Tracy's rooms.

“Sit down there,” she told him, pointing to an armchair. It had an antimacassar on the headrest, a plumped-up pillow on the seat, and a small footstool.

He sat down.

She placed a tray on his lap, and watched him eat, and removed his plate when he had finished. Then she opened a bottle of Guinness, poured it into a glass and gave it to him, then sipped her tea while he slurped his stout. When she put her cup down, it tinkled nervously in the saucer.

“I've got a tidy bit put away,” she said, apropos of nothing. “And you know, I sometimes think it would be a nice thing to get a little bungalow, in the country somewhere. Move out of London. I'd call it The Laurels, or Dunroamin, or, or … ”

“Shangri-La,” suggested Shadwell, and for the life of him could not think why.

“Exactly, Mister S. Exactly. Shangri-La.” She smiled at him. “Are you comfy, love?”

Shadwell realized with dawning horror that he was comfortable. Horribly, terrifyingly comfortable. “Aye,” he said, warily. He had never been so comfortable.

Madame Tracy opened another bottle of Guinness and placed it in front of him.

“Only trouble with having a little bungalow, called—what was your clever idea, Mister S?”

“Uh. Shangri-La.”

“Shangri-La, exactly, is that it's not right for
one
, is it? I mean,
two people, they say two can live as cheaply as one.”

(Or five hundred and eighteen, thought Shadwell, remembering the massed ranks of the Witchfinder Army.)

She giggled. “I just wonder
where
I could find someone to settle down with … ”

Shadwell realized that she was talking about him.

He wasn't sure about this. He had a distinct feeling that leaving Witchfinder Private Pulsifer with the young lady in Tadfield had been a bad move, as far as the Witchfinder Army
Booke of Rules and Reggulations
was concerned. And this seemed even more dangerous.

Still, at his age, when you're getting too old to go crawling about in the long grass, when the chill morning dew gets into your bones …

(
An' tomorrow we could hide, an' it'd be the witches' turn to find us …
)

Madame Tracy opened another bottle of Guinness, and giggled. “Oh Mister S,” she said, “you'll be
think
ing I'm trying to get you tiddly.”

He grunted. There was a formality that had to be observed in all this.

Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell took a long, deep drink of Guinness, and he popped the question.

Madame Tracy giggled. “Honestly, you old silly,” she said, and she blushed a deep red. “How many do you think?”

He popped it again.

“Two,” said Madame Tracy.

“Ah, weel. That's all reet then,” said Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell (retired).

IT WAS SUNDAY AFTERNOON.

High over England a 747 droned westwards. In the first-class cabin a boy called Warlock put down his comic and stared out of the window.

It had been a very strange couple of days. He still wasn't certain why his father had been called to the Middle East. He was pretty sure that his father didn't know, either. It was probably
something
cultural. All that had happened was a lot of funny-looking guys with towels on their heads and very bad teeth had shown them around some old ruins. As ruins went, Warlock had seen better. And then one of the old guys had said to him, wasn't there anything he wanted to do? And Warlock had said he'd like to leave.

They'd looked very unhappy about that.

And now he was going back to the States. There had been some sort of problem with tickets or flights or airport destination-boards or something. It was weird; he was pretty sure his father had meant to go back to England. Warlock liked England. It was a nice country to be an American in.

The plane was at that point passing right above the Lower Tadfield bedroom of Greasy Johnson, who was aimlessly leafing through a photography magazine that he'd bought merely because it had a rather good picture of a tropical fish on the cover.

A few pages below Greasy's listless finger was a spread on American football, and how it was really catching on in Europe. Which was odd—because when the magazine had been printed, those pages had been about photography in desert conditions.

It was about to change his life.

And Warlock flew on to America. He deserved something (after all, you never forget the first friends you ever had, even if you were all a few hours old at the time) and the power that was controlling the fate of all mankind at that precise time was thinking: Well, he's going to
America
, isn't he? Don't see how you could have anythin' better than going to
America
.

They've got thirty-nine flavors of ice cream there. Maybe even more.

THERE WERE A MILLION exciting things a boy and his dog could be doing on a Sunday afternoon. Adam could think of four or five hundred of them without even trying. Thrilling things, stirring things, planets to be conquered, lions to be tamed, lost South American worlds teeming with dinosaurs to be discovered and befriended.

He sat in the garden, and scratched in the dirt with a pebble, looking despondent.

His father had found Adam asleep on his return from the air base—sleeping, to all intents and purposes, as if he had been in bed all evening. Even snoring once in a while, for verisimilitude.

At breakfast the next morning, however, it was made clear that this had not been enough. Mr. Young disliked gallivanting about of a Saturday evening on a wild-goose chase. And if, by some unimaginable fluke, Adam was not responsible for the night's disturbances—whatever they had been, since nobody had seemed very clear on the details, only that there had been disturbances of some sort—then he was undoubtedly guilty of
something
. This was Mr. Young's attitude, and it had served him well for the last eleven years.

Adam sat dispiritedly in the garden. The August sun hung high in an August blue and cloudless sky, and behind the hedge a thrush sang, but it seemed to Adam that this was simply making it all much worse.

Dog sat at Adam's feet. He had tried to help, chiefly by exhuming a bone he had buried four days earlier and dragging it to Adam's feet, but all Adam had done was stare at it gloomily, and eventually Dog had taken it away and inhumed it once more. He had done all he could.

“Adam?”

Adam turned. Three faces stared over the garden fence.

“Hi,” said Adam, disconsolately.

“There's a circus come to Norton,” said Pepper. “Wensley was down there, and he saw them. They're just setting up.”

“They've got tents, and elephants and jugglers and pratic'ly wild animals and stuff and—and everything!” said Wensleydale.

“We thought maybe we'd all go down there an' watch them setting up,” said Brian.

For an instant Adam's mind swam with visions of circuses. Circuses were boring, once they were set up. You could see better stuff on television any day. But the
setting up
 … Of course they'd all go down there, and they'd help them put up the tents, and wash the elephants, and the circus people would be so impressed with Adam's natural
rappore
with animals such that, that night, Adam (and Dog, the World's Most Famous Performing Mongrel) would lead the elephants into the circus ring and …

It was no good.

He shook his head sadly. “Can't go anywhere,” he said.
“They
said so.”

There was a pause.

“Adam,” said Pepper, a trifle uneasily, “what
did
happen last night?”

Adam shrugged. “Just stuff. Doesn't matter,” he said. “'Salways the same. All you do is try to help, and people would think you'd
murdered
someone or something.”

There was another pause, while the Them stared at their fallen leader.

“When d'you think they'll let you out, then?” asked Pepper.

“Not for years an' years. Years an' years an'
years
. I'll be an old man by the time they let me out,” said Adam.

“How about tomorrow?” asked Wensleydale.

Adam brightened. “Oh,
tomorrow'll
be all right,” he pronounced. “They'll have forgotten about it by then. You'll see. They always do.” He looked up at them, a scruffy Napoleon with his laces trailing, exiled to a rose-trellissed Elba.
“You
all go,” he told them, with a brief, hollow laugh. “Don't you worry about
me
. I'll be all right. I'll see you all tomorrow.”