Good Omens

by Pratchett, Terry

  "Not really," said Crowley. The noise was growing.

  "People knew the difference between right and wrong in those days," said Aziraphale dreamily.

  "Well, yes. Think about it."

  "Ah. Yes. Too much messin' about?" "yes. "

  Aziraphale held up the sword. There was a whoomph as it suddenly flamed like a bar of magnesium.

  "Once you've learned how to do it, you never forget," he said.

  He smiled at Crowley.

  "I'd just like to say," he said, "if we don't get out of this, that . . . I'll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you."

  "That's right," said Crowley bitterly. "Make my day."

  Aziraphale held out his hand.

  "Nice knowing you," he said.

  Crowley took it.

  "Here's to the next time," he said. "And . . . Aziraphale?"

  "Yes."

  "Just remember I'll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking."

  There was a scuffing noise, and they were pushed aside by the small but dynamic shape of Shadwell, waving the Thundergun purposefully.

  "I wouldna' trust you two Southern nancy boys to kill a lame rat in a barrel," he said. "Who're we fightin' noo?"

  "The Devil," said Aziraphale, simply.

  Shadwell nodded, as if this hadn't come as a surprise, threw the gun down, and took off his hat to expose a forehead known and feared wherever street-fighting men were gathered together.

  "Ah reckoned so," he said. "In that case, I'm gonna use mah haid."

  Newt and Anathema watched the three of them walk unsteadily away from the jeep. With Shadwell in the middle, they looked like a stylized W.

  "What on earth are they going to do?" said Newt. "And what's happening-what's happening to them?"

  The coats of Aziraphale and Crowley split along the seams. If you were going to go, you might as well go in your own true shape. Feathers unfolded towards the sky.

  Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are the same as the wings of angels, although they're often better groomed.

  "Shadwell shouldn't be going with them!" said Newt, staggering to his feet.

  "What's a Shadwell?"

  "He's my serg-he's this amazing old man, you'd never believe it . . . I've got to help him!"

  "Help him?" said Anathema.

  "I took an oath and everything." Newt hesitated. "Well, sort of an oath. And he gave me a month's wages in advance!"

  "Who're those other two, then? Friends of yours-" Anathema began, and stopped. Aziraphale had half turned, and the profile had finally clicked into place.

  "I know where I've seen him before!" she shouted, pulling herself upright against Newt as the ground bounced up and down. "Come on!"

  "But something dreadful's going to happen!"

  "If he's damaged the book, you're bloody well right!"

  Newt fumbled in his lapel and found his official pin. He didn't know what they were going up against this time, but a pin was all he had.

  They ran . . .

  Adam looked around. He looked

  down. His face took on an expression of

  calculated innocence.

  There was a moment of conflict.

  But Adam was on his own ground.

  Always, and ultimately, on his own ground.

  He moved one hand

  around in a blurred half

  circle.

  . . . Aziraphale and Crowley felt the world change.

  There was no noise. There were no cracks. There was just that where there had been the beginnings of a volcano of Satanic power, there was just clearing smoke, and a car drawing slowly to a halt, its engine loud in the evening hush.

  It was an elderly car, but well preserved. Not using Crowley's method, though, where dents were simply wished away; this car looked like it did, you knew instinctively, because its owner had spent every weekend for two decades doing all the things the manual said should be done every weekend. Before every journey he walked around it and checked the lights and counted the wheels. Serious-minded men who smoked pipes and wore mustaches had written serious instructions saying that this should be done, and so he did it, because he was a serious-minded man who smoked a pipe and wore a mustache and did not take such injunctions lightly, because if you did, where would you be? He had exactly the right amount of insurance. He drove three miles below the speed limit, or forty miles per hour, whichever was the lower. He wore a tie, even on Saturdays.

  Archimedes said that with a long enough lever and a solid enough place to stand, he could move the world.

  He could have stood on Mr. Young.

  The car door opened and Mr. Young emerged.

  "What's going on here?" he said. "Adam? Adam!"

  But the Them were streaking towards the gate.

  Mr. Young looked at the shocked assembly. At least Crowley and Aziraphale had had enough self-control left to winch in their wings.

  "What's he been getting up to now?" he sighed, not really expecting an answer.

  "Where's that boy got to? Adam! Come back here this instant!"

  Adam seldom did what his father wanted.

  - - -

  Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger opened his eyes. The only thing strange about his surroundings was how familiar they were. There was his high school photograph on the wall, and his little Stars and Stripes flag in the toothmug, next to his toothbrush, and even his little teddy bear, still in its little uniform. The early afternoon sun flooded through his bedroom window.

  He could smell apple pie. That was one of the things he'd missed most about spending his Saturday nights a long way from home.

  He walked downstairs.

  His mother was at the stove, taking a huge apple pie out of the oven to cool.

  "Hi, Tommy," she said. "I thought you was in England."

  "Yes, Mom, I am normatively in England, Mom, protecting democratism, Mom, sir," said Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger.

  "That's nice, hon," said his mother. "Your Poppa's down in the Big Field, with Chester and Ted. They'll be pleased to see you."

  Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger nodded.

  He took off his military-issue helmet and his military-issue jacket, and he rolled up his military-issue shirtsleeves. For a moment he looked more thoughtful than he had ever done in his life. Part of his thoughts were occupied with apple pie.

  "Mom, if any throughput eventuates premising to interface with Sgt. Thomas A. Deisenburger telephonically, Mom, sir, this individual will-"

  "Sorry, Tommy?"

  Tom Deisenburger hung his gun on the wall, above his father's battered old rifle.

  "I said, if anyone calls, Mom, I'll be down in the Big Field, with Pop and Chester and Ted."

  - - -

  The van drove slowly up to the gates of the air base. It pulled over. The guard on the midnight shift looked in the window, checked the credentials of the driver, and waved him in.

  The van meandered across the concrete.

  It parked on the tarmac of the empty airstrip, near where two men sat, sharing a bottle of wine. One of the men wore dark glasses. Surprisingly, no one else seemed to be paying them the slightest attention.

  "Are you saying," said Crowley, "that He planned it this way all along? From the very beginning?"

  Aziraphale conscientiously wiped the top of the bottle and passed it back.

  "Could have," he said. "Could have. One could always ask Him, I suppose."

  "From what I remember," replied Crowley, thoughtfully, "-and we were never actually on what you might call speaking terms-He wasn't exactly one for a straight answer. In fact, in fact, he'd never answer at all. He'd just smile, as if He knew something that you didn't."

  "And of course that's true," said the angel. "Otherwise, what'd be the point?"

  There was a pause, and both beings stared reflectively off into the distance, as if they were remembering things that neither of them had thought of for a long time.


  The van driver got out of the van, carrying a cardboard box and a pair of tongs.

  Lying on the tarmac were a tarnished metal crown and a pair of scales. The man picked them up with the tongs and placed them in the box.

  Then he approached the couple with the bottle.

  "Excuse me, gents," he said, "but there's meant to be a sword around here somewhere as well, at least, that's what it says here at any rate, and I was wondering . . ."

  Aziraphale seemed embarrassed. He looked around himself, vaguely puzzled, then stood up, to discover that he had been sitting on the sword for the last hour or so. He reached down and picked it up. "Sorry," he said, and put the sword into the box.

  The van driver, who wore an International Express cap, said not to mention it, and really it was a godsend them both being there like this, since someone was going to have to sign to say that he'd duly collected what he'd been sent for, and this had certainly been a day to remember, eh?

  Aziraphale and Crowley both agreed with him that it had, and Aziraphale signed the clipboard that the van driver gave him, witnessing that a crown, a pair of balances, and a sword had been received in good order and were to be delivered to a smudged address and charged to a blurred account number.

  The man began to walk back to his van. Then he stopped, and turned.

  "If I was to tell my wife what happened to me today," he told them, a little sadly, "she'd never believe me. And I wouldn't blame her, because I don't either." And he climbed into his van, and he drove away.

  Crowley stood up, a little unsteadily. He reached a hand down to Aziraphale.

  "Come on," he said. "I'll drive us back to London."

  He took a Jeep. No one stopped them.

  It had a cassette player. This isn't general issue, even for American military vehicles, but Crowley automatically assumed that all vehicles he drove would have cassette players and therefore this one did, within seconds of his getting in.

  The cassette that he put on as he drove was marked Handel's Water Music, and it stayed Handel's Water Music all the way home.

  Sunday

  (The first day of the rest of their lives)

  At around half past ten the paper boy brought the Sunday papers to the front door of Jasmine Cottage. He had to make three trips.

  The series of thumps as they hit the mat woke up Newton Pulsifer.

  He left Anathema asleep. She was pretty shattered, poor thing. She'd been almost incoherent when he'd put her to bed. She'd run her life according to the Prophecies and now there were no more Prophecies. She must be feeling like a train which had reached the end of the line but still had to keep going, somehow.

  From now on she'd be able to go through life with everything coming as a surprise, just like everyone else. What luck.

  The telephone rang.

  Newt dashed for the kitchen and picked up the receiver on the second ring.

  "Hello?" he said.

  A voice of forced friendliness tinted with desperation gabbled at him.

  "No," he said, "I'm not. And it's not Devissey, it's Device. As in Nice. And she's asleep."

  "Well," he said, "I'm pretty sure she doesn't want any cavities insulated. Or double glazing. I mean, she doesn't own the cottage, you know. She's only renting it."

  "No, I'm not going to wake her up and ask her," he said. "And tell me, Miss, uh . . . right, Miss Morrow, why don't you lot take Sundays off, like everybody else does?"

  "Sunday," he said. "Of course it's not Saturday. Why would it be Saturday? Saturday was yesterday. It's honestly Sunday today, really. What do you mean, you've lost a day? 1 haven't got it. Seems to me you've got a bit carried away with selling . . . Hello?"

  He growled, and replaced the receiver.

  Telephone salespeople! Something dreadful ought to happen to them.

  He was assailed by a moment of sudden doubt. Today was Sunday, wasn't it? A glance at the Sunday papers reassured him. If the Sunday Times said it was Sunday, you could be sure that they'd investigated the matter. And yesterday was Saturday. Of course. Yesterday was Saturday, and he'd never forget Saturday for as long as he lived, if only he could remember what it was he wasn't meant to forget.

  Seeing that he was in the kitchen, Newt decided to make breakfast.

  He moved around the kitchen as quietly as possible, to avoid waking the rest of the household, and found every sound magnified. The antique fridge had a door that shut like the crack of doom. The kitchen tap dribbled like a diuretic gerbil but made a noise like Old Faithful. And he couldn't find where anything was. In the end, as every human being who has ever breakfasted on their own in someone else's kitchen has done since nearly the dawn of time, he made do with unsweetened instant black coffee.

  [Except for Giovanni Jacopo Casanova (1725-1798), famed amoutist and litterateur, who revealed in volume 12 of his Memoirs that, as a matter of course, he carried around with him at all times a small valise containing "a loaf of bread, a pot of choice Seville marmalade, a knife, fork, and small spoon for stirring, 2 fresh eggs packed with care in unspun wool, a tomato or love-apple, a small frying pan, a small sauce pan, a spirit burner, a chafing dish, a tin box of salted butter of the Italian type, 2 bone china plates. Also a portion of honey comb, as a sweetener, for my breath and for my coffee. Let my readers understand me when I say to them all: A true gentleman should always be able to break his fast in the manner of a gentleman, wheresoever he may find himself"]

  On the kitchen table was a roughly rectangular, leather-bound cinder. He could just make out the words 'Ni a and Ace' on the charred cover. What a difference a day made, he thought. It turns you from the ultimate reference book to a mere barbecue briquette.

  Now, then. How, exactly, had they got it? He recalled a man who smelled of smoke and wore sunglasses even in darkness. And there was other stuff, all running together . . . boys on bikes . . . an unpleasant buzzing . . . a small, grubby, staring face . . . It all hung around in his mind, not exactly forgotten but forever hanging on the cusp of recollection, a memory of things that hadn't happened. How could you have that?

  [And there was the matter of Dick Turpin. It looked like the same car, except that forever afterwards it seemed able to do 250 miles on a gallon of petrol, ran so quietly that you practically had to put your mouth over the exhaust pipe to see if the engine was firing, and issued its voice-synthesized warnings in a series of exquisite and perfectly-phrased haikus, each one original and apt . . .

  Late frost burns the bloom

  Would a fool not let the belt

  Restrain the body?

  . . . it would say. And,

  The cherry blossom

  Tumbles from the highest tree.

  One needs more petrol]

  He sat staring at the wall until a knock at the door brought him back to earth.

  There was a small dapper man in a black raincoat standing on the doorstep. He was holding a cardboard box and he gave Newt a bright smile.

  "Mr."-he consulted a piece of paper in one hand-"Pulzifer?"

  "Pulsifer," said Newt. "It's a hard ess"

  "I'm ever so sorry," said the man. "I've only ever seen it written down. Er. Well, then. It would appear that this is for you and Mrs. Pulsifer."

  Newt gave him a blank look.

  "There is no Mrs. Pulsifer," he said coldly.

  The man removed his bowler hat.

  "Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said.

  "I mean that . . . well, there's my mother," said Newt. "But she's not dead, she's just in Dorking. I'm not married."

  "How odd. The letter is quite, er, specific."

  "Who are you?" said Newt. He was wearing only his trousers, and it was chilly on the doorstep.

  The man balanced the box awkwardly and fished out a card from an inner pocket. He handed it to Newt.

  It read:

  Giles Baddicombe

  Robey, Robey, Redfearn and Bychance

  Solicitors

  13 Demdyke Chambers,

  PRESTON<
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  "Yes?" he said politely. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Baddicombe?"

  "You could let me in," said Mr. Baddicombe.

  "You're not serving a writ or anything, are you?" said Newt. The events of last night hung in his memory like a cloud, constantly changing whenever he thought he could make out a picture, but he was vaguely aware of damaging things and had been expecting retribution in some form.

  "No," said Mr. Baddicombe, looking slightly hurt. "We have people for that sort of thing."

  He wandered past Newt and put the box down on the table.

  "To be honest," he said, "we're all very interested in this. Mr. Bychance nearly came down himself, but he doesn't travel well these days."

  "Look," said Newt, "I really haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

  "This," said Mr. Baddicombe, proffering the box and beaming like Aziraphale about to attempt a conjuring trick, "is yours. Someone wanted you to have it. They were very specific."

  "A present?" said Newt. He eyed the taped cardboard cautiously, and then rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a sharp knife.

  "I think more a bequest," said Mr. Baddicombe. "You see, we've had it for three hundred years. Sorry. Was it something I said? Hold it under the tap, I should."

  "What the hell is this all about?" said Newt, but a certain icy suspicion was creeping over him. He sucked at the cut.

  "It's a funny story-do you mind if I sit down?-and of course I don't know the full details because I joined the firm only fifteen years ago, but . . ."

  . . . It had been a very small legal firm when the box had been cautiously delivered; Redfearn, Bychance and both the Robeys, let alone Mr. Baddicombe, were a long way in the future. The struggling legal clerk who had accepted delivery had been surprised to find, tied to the top of the box with twine, a letter addressed to himself.

  It had contained certain instructions and five interesting facts about the history of the next ten years which, if put to good use by a keen young man, would ensure enough finance to pursue a very successful legal career.

  All he had to do was see that the box was carefully looked after for rather more than three hundred years, and then delivered to a certain address . . .