Good Omens (28 page)

The little red message light began to flash.

On and off and on and off, like a tiny, red, angry eye.

Crowley really wished he had some more holy water and the time to hold the cassette in it until it dissolved. But getting hold of Ligur's terminal bath had been dangerous enough, he'd had it for years just in case, and even its presence in the room made him uneasy. Or … or maybe … yes, what
would
happen if he put the cassette in the car? He could play Hastur over and over again, until he turned into Freddie Mercury. No. He might be a bastard, but you could only go so far.

There was a rumble of distant thunder.

He had no time to spare.

He had nowhere to go.

He went anyway. He ran down to his Bentley and drove toward the West End as if all the demons of hell were after him. Which was more or less the case.

MADAME TRACY HEARD Mr. Shadwell's slow tread come up the stairs. It was slower than usual, and paused every few steps. Normally he came up the stairs as if he hated every one of them.

She opened her door. He was leaning against the landing wall.

“Why, Mr. Shadwell,” she said, “whatever have you done to your hand?”

“Get away frae me, wumman,” Shadwell groaned. “I dinna know my ane powers!”

“Why are you holding it out like that?”

Shadwell tried to back into the wall.

“Stand back, I tell ye! I canna be responsible!”

“What on earth has happened to you, Mr. Shadwell?” said Madame Tracy, trying to take his hand.

“Nothing on earth! Nothing on earth!”

She managed to grab his arm. He, Shadwell, scourge of evil, was powerless to resist being drawn into her flat.

He'd never been in it before, at least in his waking moments. His dreams had furnished it in silks, rich hangings, and what he thought of as scented ungulants. Admittedly, it did have a bead curtain in the entrance to the kitchenette and a lamp made rather inexpertly from a Chianti bottle, because Madame Tracy's apprehension of what was chic, like Aziraphale's, had grounded around 1953. And there was a table in the middle of the room with a velvet cloth on it and, on the cloth, the crystal ball which increasingly was Madame Tracy's means of earning a living.

“I think you could do with a good lie-down, Mr. Shadwell,” she said, in a voice that brooked no argument, and led him on into the bedroom. He was too bewildered to protest.

“But young Newt is out there,” Shadwell muttered, “in thrall to heathen passions and occult wiles.”

“Then I'm sure he'll know what to do about them,” said Madame Tracy briskly, whose mental picture of what Newt was going through was probably much closer to reality than was Shadwell's. “And I'm sure he wouldn't like to think of you getting yourself worked up into a state here. Just you lie down, and I'll make us both a nice cup of tea.”

She disappeared in a clacking of bead curtains.

Suddenly Shadwell was alone on what he was just capable of recalling, through the wreckage of his shattered nerves, was a bed of sin, and right at this moment was incapable of deciding whether that was in fact better or worse than
not
being alone on a bed of sin. He turned his head to take in his surroundings.

Madame Tracy's concepts of what was erotic stemmed from the days when young men grew up thinking that women had beach balls affixed firmly in front of their anatomy, Brigitte Bardot could be called a sex kitten without anyone bursting out laughing, and there really were magazines with names like
Girls, Giggles and Garters
. Somewhere in this cauldron of permissiveness she had picked up the idea that soft toys in the bedroom created an intimate, coquettish air.

Shadwell stared for some time at a large, threadbare teddy bear, which had one eye missing and a torn ear. It probably had a name like Mr. Buggins.

He turned his head the other way. His gaze was blocked by a pajama case shaped like an animal that may have been a dog but, there again, might have been a skunk. It had a cheery grin.

“Urg,” he said.

But recollection kept storming back. He really had done it. No one else in the Army had ever exorcised a demon, as far as he knew. Not Hopkins, not Siftings, not Diceman. Probably not even Witchfinder Company Sergeant Major Narker,
³⁸
who held the all-time record for most witches found. Sooner or later every Army runs across its ultimate weapon and now it existed, Shadwell reflected, on the end of his arm.

Well, screw No First Use. He'd have a bit of a rest, seeing as he was here, and then the Powers of Darkness had met their match at last …

When Madame Tracy brought the tea in he was snoring. She tactfully closed the door, and rather thankfully as well, because she had a seance due in twenty minutes and it was no good turning down money these days.

Although Madame Tracy was by many yardsticks quite stupid, she had an instinct in certain matters, and when it came to dabbling in the occult her reasoning was faultless. Dabbling, she'd realized, was exactly what her customers wanted. They didn't want to be shoved in it up to their necks. They didn't want the multi-planular mysteries of Time and Space, they just wanted to be reassured that Mother was getting along fine now she was dead. They wanted just enough Occult to season the simple fare of their lives, and preferably in portions no longer than forty-five minutes, followed by tea and biscuits.

They certainly didn't want odd candles, scents, chants, or mystic runes. Madame Tracy had even removed most of the Major Arcana from her Tarot card pack, because their appearance tended to upset people.

And she made sure that she had always put sprouts on to boil just before a seance. Nothing is more reassuring, nothing is more true to the comfortable spirit of English occultism, than the smell of Brussels sprouts cooking in the next room.

IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON, and the heavy storm clouds had turned the sky the color of old lead. It would rain soon, heavily, blindingly. The firemen hoped the rain would come soon. The sooner the better.

They had arrived fairly promptly, and the younger firemen were dashing around excitedly, unrolling their hosepipe and flexing their axes; the older firemen knew at a glance that the building was a dead loss, and weren't even sure that the rain would stop it spreading to neighboring buildings, when a black Bentley skidded around the corner and drove up onto the pavement at a speed somewhere in excess of sixty miles per hour, and stopped with a screech of brakes half an inch away from the wall of the bookshop. An extremely agitated young man in dark glasses got out and ran toward the door of the blazing bookshop.

He was intercepted by a fireman.

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” asked the fireman.

“Don't be stupid! Do I
look
like I run a bookshop?”

“I really wouldn't know about that, sir. Appearances can be very deceptive. For example, I am a fireman. However, upon meeting me socially, people unaware of my occupation often suppose that I am, in fact, a chartered accountant or company director. Imagine me out of uniform, sir, and what kind of man would you see before you? Honestly?”

“A prat,” said Crowley, and he ran into the bookshop.

This sounds easier than it actually was, since in order to manage it Crowley needed to avoid half a dozen firemen, two policemen, and a number of interesting Soho night people,
³⁹
out early, and arguing heatedly amongst themselves about which particular section of society had brightened up the afternoon, and why.

Crowley pushed straight through them. They scarcely spared him a glance.

Then he pushed open the door, and stepped into an inferno.

The whole bookshop was ablaze. “Aziraphale!” he called. “Aziraphale, you—you
stupid
—
Aziraphale?
Are you here?”

No answer. Just the crackle of burning paper, the splintering of glass as the fire reached the upstairs rooms, the crash of collapsing timbers.

He scanned the shop urgently, desperately, looking for the angel, looking for
help
.

In the far corner a bookshelf toppled over, cascading flaming books across the floor. The fire was all around him, and Crowley ignored it. His left trouser leg began to smolder; he stopped it with a glance.

“Hello? Aziraphale! For Go—, for Sa—, for
somebody's
sake! Aziraphale!”

The shop window was smashed from outside. Crowley turned, startled, and an unexpected jet of water struck him full in the chest, knocking him to the ground.

His shades flew to a far corner of the room, and became a puddle of burning plastic. Yellow eyes with slitted vertical pupils were revealed. Wet and steaming, face ash-blackened, as far from cool as it was possible for him to be, on all fours in the blazing bookshop, Crowley cursed Aziraphale, and the ineffable plan, and Above, and Below.

Then he looked down, and saw it. The book. The book that the girl had left in the car in Tadfield, on Wednesday night. It was slightly scorched around the cover, but miraculously unharmed. He picked it up, stuffed it into his jacket pocket, stood up, unsteadily, and brushed himself off.

The floor above him collapsed. With a roar and gargantuan shrug the building fell in on itself, in a rain of brick and timber and flaming debris.

Outside, the passersby were being herded back by the police, and a fireman was explaining to anyone who would listen, “I couldn't stop him. He must have been mad. Or drunk. Just ran in. I couldn't stop him. Mad. Ran straight in. Horrible way to die. Horrible, horrible. Just ran straight in … ”

Then Crowley came out of the flames.

The police and the firemen looked at him, saw the expression on his face, and stayed exactly where they were.

He climbed into the Bentley and reversed back into the road, swung around a fire truck, into Wardour Street, and into the darkened afternoon.

They stared at the car as it sped away. Finally one policeman spoke. “Weather like this, he ought to of put his lights on,” he said, numbly.

“Especially driving like that. Could be dangerous,” agreed another, in flat, dead tones, and they all stood there in the light and the heat of the burning bookshop, wondering what was happening to a world they had thought they understood.

There was a flash of lightning, blue-white, strobing across the cloud-black sky, a crack of thunder so loud it hurt, and a hard rain began to fall.

SHE RODE A RED MOTORBIKE. Not a friendly Honda red; a deep, bloody red, rich and dark and hateful. The bike was apparently, in every other respect, ordinary except for the sword, resting in its scabbard, set onto the side of the bike.

Her helmet was crimson, and her leather jacket was the color of old wine. In ruby studs on the back were picked out the words HELL'S ANGELS.

It was ten past one in the afternoon and it was dark and humid and wet. The motorway was almost deserted, and the woman in red roared down the road on her red motorbike, smiling lazily.

It had been a good day so far. There was something about the sight of a beautiful woman on a powerful motorbike with a sword stuck on the back that had a powerful effect on a certain type of man. So far four traveling salesmen had tried to race her, and bits of Ford Sierra now decorated the crash barriers and bridge supports along forty miles of motorway.

She pulled up at a service area, and went into the Happy Porker Café. It was almost empty. A bored waitress was darning a sock behind the counter, and a knot of black-leathered bikers, hard, hairy, filthy, and huge, were clustered around an even taller individual in a black coat. He was resolutely playing something that in bygone years would have been a fruit machine, but now had a video screen, and advertised itself as TRIVIA SCRABBLE.

The audience were saying things like:

“It's ‘D'! Press ‘D'—
The Godfather must
've got more Oscars than
Gone with the Wind!
”

“Puppet on a String! Sandie Shaw! Honest. I'm bleeding positive!”

“1666!”

“No, you great pillock! That was the fire! The Plague was 1665!”

“It's ‘B'—the Great Wall of China
wasn't
one of the Seven Wonders of the world!”

There were four options: Pop Music, Sport, Current Events, and General Knowledge. The tall biker, who had kept his helmet on, was pressing the buttons, to all intents and purposes oblivious of his supporters. At any rate, he was consistently winning.

The red rider went over to the counter.

“A cup of tea, please. And a cheese sandwich,” she said.

“You on your own, then, dear?” asked the waitress, passing the tea, and something white and dry and hard, across the counter.

“Waiting for friends.”

“Ah,” she said, biting through some wool. “Well, you're better off waiting in here. It's hell out there.”

“No,” she told her. “Not yet.”

She picked a window table, with a good view of the parking lot, and she waited.

She could hear the Trivia Scrabblers in the background.

“Thass a new one, ‘How many times has England been officially at war with France since 1066?”'

“Twenty? Nah, s' never twenty … Oh. It was. Well, I never.”

“American war with Mexico? I know that. It's June 1845. ‘D'—see! I tol' you!”

The second-shortest biker, Pigbog (6' 3"), whispered to the shortest, Greaser (6' 2"):

“What happened to ‘Sport,' then?” He had LOVE tattooed on one set of knuckles, HATE on the other.

“It's random wossit, selection, innit. I mean they do it with microchips. It's probably got, like, millions of different subjects in there, in its RAM.” He had FISH across his right-hand knuckle, and CHIP on the left.

“Pop Music, Current Events, General Knowledge, and War. It's just I've never seen ‘War' before. That's why I mentioned it.” Pigbog cracked his knuckles, loudly, and pulled the ring tab on a can of beer. He swigged back half a can, belched carelessly, then sighed. “I just wish they'd do more bleeding Bible questions.”