– – -
It was a hot, silent August day far from Central London. By the side of the Tadfield road the dust weighed down the hogweed. Bees buzzed in the hedges. The air had a leftover and reheated feel.
There was a sound like a thousand metal voices shouting "Hail!" cut off abruptly.
And there was a black dog in the road.
It had to be a dog. It was dog‑shaped.
There are some dogs which, when you meet them, remind you that, despite thousands of years of man‑made evolution, every dog is still only two meals away from being a wolf. These dogs advance deliberately, purposefully, the wilderness made flesh, their teeth yellow, their breath a‑stink, while in the distance their owners witter, "He's an old soppy really, just poke him if he's a nuisance," and in the green of their eyes the red campfires of the Pleistocene gleam and flicker . . .
This dog would make even a dog like that slink nonchalantly behind the sofa and pretend to be extremely preoccupied with its rubber bone.
It was already growling, and the growl was a low, rumbling snarl of spring‑coiled menace, the sort of growl that starts in the back of one throat and ends up in someone else's.
Saliva dripped from its jaws and sizzled on the tar.
It took a few steps forward, and sniffed the sullen air.
Its ears flicked up.
There were voices, a long way off. A voice. A boyish voice, but one it had been created to obey, could not help but obey. When that voice said "Follow," it would follow; when it said "Kill," it would kill. His master's voice.
It leapt the hedge and padded across the field beyond. A grazing bull eyed it for a moment, weighed its chances, then strolled hurriedly toward the opposite hedge.
The voices were coming from a copse of straggly trees. The black hound slunk closer, jaws streaming.
One of the other voices said: "He never will. You're always saying he will, and he never does. Catch your dad giving you a pet. An int'restin' pet, anyway. It'll prob'ly be stick insects. That's your dad's idea of int'restin'."
The hound gave the canine equivalent of a shrug, but immediately lost interest because now the Master, the Center of its Universe, spoke.
"It'll be a dog," it said.
"Huh. You don't know it's going to be a dog. No one's said it's going to be a dog. How d'you know it's goin' to be a dog if no one's said? Your dad'd be complaining about the food it eats the whole time."
"Privet." This third voice was rather more prim than the first two. The owner of a voice like that would be the sort of person who, before making a plastic model kit, would not only separate and count all the parts before commencing, as per the instructions, but also paint the bits that needed painting first and leave them to dry properly prior to construction. All that separated this voice from chartered accountancy was a matter of time.
"They don't eat privet, Wensley. You never saw a dog eatin' privet."
"Stick insects do, I mean. They're jolly interesting, actually. They eat each other when they're mating."
There was a thoughtful pause. The hound slunk closer, and realized that the voices were coming from a hole in the ground.
The trees in fact concealed an ancient chalk quarry, now half overgrown with thorn trees and vines. Ancient, but clearly not disused. Tracks crisscrossed it; smooth areas of slope indicated regular use by skateboards and Wall‑of‑Death, or at least Wall‑of‑Seriously‑Grazed‑Knee, cyclists. Old bits of dangerously frayed rope hung from some of the more accessible greenery. Here and there sheets of corrugated iron and old wooden boards were wedged in branches. A burnt‑out, rusting Triumph Herald Estate was visible, half‑submerged in a drift of nettles.
In one corner a tangle of wheels and corroded wire marked the site of the famous Lost Graveyard where the supermarket trolleys came to die.
If you were a child, it was paradise. The local adults called it The Pit.
The hound peered through a clump of nettles, and spotted four figures sitting in the center of the quarry on that indispensable prop to good secret dens everywhere, the common milk crate.
"They don't!"
"They do."
"Bet you they don't," said the first speaker. It had a certain timbre to it that identified it as young and female, and it was tinted with horrified fascination.
"They do, actually. I had six before we went on holiday and I forgot to change the privet and when I came back I had one big fat one."
"Nah. That's not stick insects, that's praying mantises. I saw on the television where this big female one ate this other one and it dint hardly take any notice."
There was another crowded pause.
"What're they prayin' about?" said his Master's voice.
"Dunno. Prayin' they don't have to get married, I s'pect."
The hound managed to get one huge eye against an empty knothole in the quarry's broken‑down fence, and squinted downward.
"Anyway, it's like with bikes," said the first speaker authoritatively. "I thought I was going to get this bike with seven gears and one of them razorblade saddles and purple paint and everything, and they gave me this light blue one. With a basket. A girl's bike."
"Well. You're a girl," said one of the others.
"That's sexism, that is. Going around giving people girly presents just because they're a girl."
"I'm going to get a dog," said his Master's voice, firmly. His Master had his back to him; the hound couldn't quite make out his features.
"Oh, yeah, one of those great big Rottenweilers, yeah?" said the girl, with withering sarcasm.
"No, it's going to be the kind of dog you can have fun with," said his Master's voice. "Not a big dog‑"
‑the eye in the nettles vanished abruptly downwards‑
"‑but one of those dogs that's brilliantly intelligent and can go down rabbit holes and has one funny ear that always looks inside out. And a proper mongrel, too. A pedigree mongrel."
Unheard by those within, there was a tiny clap of thunder on the lip of the quarry. It might have been caused by the sudden rushing of air into the vacuum caused by a very large dog becoming, for example, a small dog.
The tiny popping noise that followed might have been caused by one ear turning itself inside out.
"And I'll call him . . ." said his Master's voice. "I'll call him . . ."
"Yes?" said the girl. "What're you goin' to call it?"
The hound waited. This was the moment. The Naming. This would give it its propose, its function, its identity. Its eyes glowed a dull red, even though they were a lot closer to the ground, and it dribbled into the nettles.
"I'll call him Dog," said his Master, positively. "It saves a lot of trouble, a name like that."
The hell‑hound paused. Deep in its diabolical canine brain it knew that something was wrong, but it was nothing if not obedient and its great sudden love of its Master overcame all misgivings. Who was it to say what size it should be, anyway?
It trotted down the slope to meet its destiny.
Strange, though. It had always wanted to jump up at people but, now, it realized that against all expectation it wanted to wag its tail at the same time.
– – -
"You said it was him!" moaned Aziraphale, abstractedly picking the final lump of cream‑cake from his lapel. He licked his fingers clean.
"It was him," said Crowley. "I mean, I should know, shouldn't I?"
"Then someone else must be interfering."
"There isn't anyone else! There's just us, right? Good and Evil. One side or the other."
He thumped the steering wheel.
"You'll be amazed at the kind of things they can do to you, down there," he said.
"I imagine they're very similar to the sort of things they can do to one up there," said Aziraphale.
"Come off it. Your lot get ineffable mercy," said Crowley sourly.
"Yes? Did you ever visit Gomorrah?"
"Sure," said the demon. "There was this great little tavern where
you could get these terrific fermented date‑palm cocktails with nutmeg and crushed lemongrass‑"
"I meant afterwards."
"Oh."
Aziraphale said: "Something must have happened in the hospital."
"It couldn't have! It was full of our people!"
"Whose people?" said Aziraphale coldly.
"My people," corrected Crowley. "Well, not my people. Mmm, you know. Satanists."
He tried to say it dismissively. Apart from, of course, the fact that the world was an amazing interesting place which they both wanted to enjoy for as long as possible, there were few things that the two of them agreed on, but they did see eye to eye about some of those people who, for one reason or another, were inclined to worship the Prince of Darkness. Crowley always found them embarrassing. You couldn't actually be rude to them, but you couldn't help feeling about them the same way that, say, a Vietnam veteran would feel about someone who wears combat gear to Neighborhood Watch meetings.
Besides, they were always so depressingly enthusiastic. Take all that stuff with the inverted crosses and pentagrams and cockerels. It mystified most demons. It wasn't the least bit necessary. All you needed to become a Satanist was an effort of will. You could be one all your life without ever knowing what a pentagram was, without ever seeing a dead cockerel other than as Chicken Marengo.
Besides, some of the old‑style Satanists tended, in fact, to be quite nice people. They mouthed the words and went through the motions, just like the people they thought of as their opposite numbers, and then went home and lived lives of mild unassuming mediocrity for the rest of the week with never an unusually evil thought in their heads.
And as for the rest of it . . .
There were people who called themselves Satanists who made Crowley squirm. It wasn't just the things they did, it was the way they blamed it all on Hell. They'd come up with some stomach‑churning idea that no demon could have thought of in a thousand years, some dark and mindless unpleasantness that only a fully‑functioning human brain could conceive, then shout "The Devil Made Me Do It" and get the sympathy of the court when the whole point was that the Devil hardly ever made anyone do anything. He didn't have to. That was what some humans found hard to understand. Hell wasn't a major reservoir of evil, any more than Heaven, in Crowley's opinion, was a fountain of goodness; they were just sides in the great cosmic chess game. Where you found the real McCoy, the real grace and the real heart‑stopping evil, was right inside the human mind.
"Huh," said Aziraphale. "Satanists."
"I don't see how they could have messed it up," said Crowley. "I mean, two babies. It's not exactly taxing, is it . . .?" He stopped. Through the mists of memory he pictured a small nun, who had struck him at the time as being remarkably loose‑headed even for a Satanist. And there had been someone else. Crowley vaguely recalled a pipe, and a cardigan with the kind of zigzag pattern that went out of style in 1938. A man with "expectant father" written all over him.
There must have been a third baby.
He told Aziraphale.
"Not a lot to go on," said the angel.
"We know the child must be alive," said Crowley, "so‑"
"How do we know?"
"If it had turned up Down There again, do you think I'd still be sitting here?"
"Good point."
"So all we've got to do is find it," said Crowley. "Go through the hospital records." The Bentley's engine coughed into life and the car leapt forward, forcing Aziraphale back into the seat.
"And then what?" he said.
"And then we find the child."
"And then what?" The angel shut his eyes as the car crabbed around a corner.
"Don't know."
"Good grief."
"I suppose‑get off the road you clown‑your people wouldn't consider‑‑and the scooter you rode in onl‑giving me asylum?"
"I was going to ask you the same thing‑Watch out for that pedestrian!"
"It's on the street, it knows the risks it's taking!" said Crowley, easing the accelerating car between a parked car and a taxi and leaving a space which would have barely accepted even the best credit card.
"Watch the roadl Watch the road! Where is this hospital, anyway?"
"Somewhere south of Oxford!"
Aziraphale grabbed the dashboard. "You can't do ninety miles an hour in Central London!"
Crowley peered at the dial. "Why not?" he said.
"You'll get us killed!" Aziraphale hesitated. "Inconveniently discorporated," he corrected, lamely, relaxing a little. "Anyway, you might kill other people."
Crowley shrugged. The angel had never really come to grips with the twentieth century, and didn't realize that it is perfectly possible to do ninety miles an hour down Oxford Street. You just arranged matters so that no one was in the way. And since everyone knew that it was impossible to do ninety miles an hour down Oxford Street, no one noticed.
At least cars were better than horses. The internal combustion engine had been a godse‑a blessi‑a windfall for Crowley. The only horses he could be seen riding on business, in the old days, were big black jobs with eyes like flame and hooves that struck sparks. That was de rigueur for a demon. Usually, Crowley fell off. He wasn't much good with animals.
Somewhere around Chiswick, Aziraphale scrabbled vaguely in the scree of tapes in the glove compartment.
"What's a Velvet Underground?" he said.
"You wouldn't like it," said Crowley.
"Oh," said the angel dismissively. "Be‑bop."
"Do you know, Aziraphale, that probably if a million human beings were asked to describe modern music, they wouldn't use the term 'bebop'?' said Crowley.
"Ah, this is more like it. Tchaikovsky," said Aziraphale, opening a case and slotting its cassette into the Blaupunkt.
"You won't enjoy it," sighed Crowley. "It's been in the car for more than a fortnight."
A heavy bass beat began to thump through the Bentley as they sped past Heathrow.
Aziraphale's brow furrowed.
"I don't recognize this," he said. "What is it?"
"It's Tchaikovsky's 'Another One Bites the Dust'," said Crowley, closing his eyes as they went through Slough.
To while away the time as they crossed the sleeping Chilterns, they also listened to William Byrd's "We Are the Champions" and Beethoven's "I Want To Break Free." Neither were as good as Vaughan Williams's "Fat‑Bottomed Girls."
– – -
It is said that the Devil has all the best tunes.
This is broadly true. But Heaven has the best choreographers.
– – -
The Oxfordshire plain stretched out to the west, with a scattering of lights to mark the slumbering villages where honest yeomen were settling down to sleep after a long day's editorial direction, financial consulting, or software engineering.
Up here on the hill a few glow‑worms were lighting up.
The surveyor's theodolite is one of the more direful symbols of the twentieth century. Set up anywhere in open countryside, it says: there will come Road Widening, yea, and two‑thousand‑home estates in keeping with the Essential Character of the Village. Executive Developments will be manifest.
But not even the most conscientious surveyor surveys at midnight, and yet here the thing was, tripod legs deep in the turf. Not many theodolites have a hazel twig strapped to the top, either, or crystal pendulums hanging from them and Celtic runes carved into the legs.
The soft breeze flapped the cloak of the slim figure who was adjusting the knobs of the thing. It was quite a heavy cloak, sensibly waterproof, with a warm lining.
Most books on witchcraft will tell you that witches work naked. This is because most books on witchcraft are written by men.
The young woman's name was Anathema Device. She was not astonishingly beautiful. All her features, considered individually, were extremely pretty, but the entirety of her face gave the impression that it had been put together hurriedly from stock w
ithout reference to any plan. Probably the most suitable word is "attractive," although people who knew what it meant and could spell it might add "vivacious," although there is something very Fifties about "vivacious," so perhaps they wouldn't.
Young women should not go alone on dark nights, even in Oxfordshire. But any prowling maniac would have had more than his work cut out if he had accosted Anathema Device. She was a witch, after all. And precisely because she was a witch, and therefore sensible, she put little faith in protective amulets and spells; she saved it all for a foot‑long bread knife which she kept in her belt.
She sighted through the glass and made another adjustment.
She muttered under her breath.
Surveyors often mutter under their breath. They mutter things like "Soon have a relief road through here faster than you can say Jack Robinson," or "That's three point five meters, give or take a gnat's whisker."
This was an entirely different kind of muttering.
"Darksome night/And shining Moon," muttered Anathema, "East by South/By West by southwest . . . west‑southwest . . . got you . . ."
She picked up a folded Ordinance Survey map and held it in the torchlight. Then she produced a transparent ruler and a pencil and carefully drew a line across the map. It intersected another pencil line.
She smiled, not because anything was particularly amusing, but because a tricky job had been done well.
Then she collapsed the strange theodolite, strapped it onto the back of a sit‑up‑and‑beg black bicycle leaning against the hedge, made sure the Book was in the basket, and wheeled everything out to the misty lane.
It was a very ancient bike, with a frame apparently made of drainpipes. It had been built long before the invention of the three‑speed gear, and possibly only just after the invention of the wheel.
But it was nearly all downhill to the village. Hair streaming in the wind, cloak ballooning behind her like a sheet anchor, she let the two-wheeled juggernaut accelerate ponderously through the warm air. At least there wasn't any traffic at this time of night.
– – -
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