"Thank you," said Aziraphale. The bitterness in his voice would have soured milk. "I'd forgotten about ineffability, obviously."
"We thought you had."
"May I ask," said the angel, "to whom have I been speaking?"
The voice said, "We are the Metatron."[31]
"Oh, yes. Of course. Oh. Well. Thank you very much. Thank you."
Behind him the letterbox tilted open, revealing a pair of eyes.
"One other thing," said the voice. "You will of course be joining us, won't you?"
"Well, er, of course it has been simply ages since I've held a flaming sword‑" Aziraphale began.
"Yes, we recall," said the voice. "You will have a lot of opportunity to relearn."
"Ah. Hmm. What sort of initiating event will precipitate the war?" said Aziraphale.
"We thought a mufti‑nation nuclear exchange would be a nice start."
"Oh. Yes. Very imaginative." Aziraphale's voice was flat and hopeless.
"Good. We will expect you directly, then," said the voice.
"Ah. Well. I'll just clear up a few business matters, shall I?" said Aziraphale desperately.
"There hardly seems to be any necessity," said the Metatron.
Aziraphale drew himself up. "I really feel that probity, not to say morality, demands that as a reputable businessman I should‑"
"Yes, yes," said the Metatron, a shade testily. "Point taken. We shall await you, then."
The light faded, but did not quite vanish. They're leaving the line open, Aziraphale thought. I'm not getting out of this one.
"Hallo?" he said softly, "Anyone still there?"
There was silence.
Very carefully, he stepped over the circle and crept to the telephone. He opened his notebook and dialed another number.
After four rings it gave a little cough, followed by a pause, and then a voice which sounded so laid back you could put a carpet on it said, "Hi. This is Anthony Crowley. Uh. I‑"
"Crowley!" Aziraphale tried to hiss and shout at the same time, "Listen! I haven't got much time! The‑"
"‑probably not in right now, or asleep, and busy, or something, but –"
"Shutup! Listen! It was in Tadfield! It's all in that book! You've got to stop‑"
"‑after the tone and I'll get right back to you. Chow."
"I want to talk to you now‑"
BeeeEEeeeEEeee
"Stop making noises! It's in Tadfield! That was what I was sensing! You must go there and‑"
He took the phone away from his mouth.
"Bugger!" he said. It was the first time he'd sworn in more than four thousand years.
Hold on. The demon had another line, didn't he? He was that kind of person. Aziraphale fumbled in the book, nearly dropping it on the floor. They would be getting impatient soon.
He found the other number. He dialed it. It was answered almost immediately, at the same time as the shop's bell tingled gently.
Crowley's voice, getting louder as it neared the mouthpiece, said, "‑really mean it. Hallo?"
"Crowley, it's me!"
"Ngh." The voice was horribly noncommittal. Even in his present state, Aziraphale sensed trouble.
"Are you alone?" he said cautiously.
"Nuh. Got an old friend here."
"Listen‑1"
"Awa' we ye, ye spawn o' hell!"
Very slowly, Aziraphale turned around.
– – -
Shadwell was trembling with excitement. He'd seen it all. He'd heard it all. He hadn't understood any of it, but he knew what people did with circles and candlesticks and incense. He knew that all right. He'd seen The Devil Rides Out fifteen times, sixteen times if you included the time he'd been thrown out of the cinema for shouting his unflattering opinions of amateur witchfinder Christopher Lee.
The buggers were using him. They'd been making fools out o' the glorious traditions o' the Army.
"I'll have ye, ye evil bastard!" he shouted, advancing like a motheaten avenging angel. "I ken what ye be about, cumin' up here and seducin' wimmen to do yer evil will!"
"I think perhaps you've got the wrong shop," said Aziraphale. "I'll call back later," he told the receiver, and hung up.
"I could see what yer were about," snarled Shadwell. There were flecks of foam around his mouth. He was more angry than he could ever remember.
"Er, things are not what they seem‑" Aziraphale began, aware even as he said it that as conversational gambits went it lacked a certain polish.
"I bet they ain't!" said Shadwell triumphantly.
"No, I mean‑"
Without taking his eyes off the angel, Shadwell shuffled backwards and grabbed the shop door, slamming it hard so that the bell jangled.
"Bell," he said.
He grabbed The Nice and Accurate Prophecies and thumped it down heavily on the table.
"Book, " he snarled.
He fumbled in his pocket and produced his trusty Ronson.
"Practically candle!" he shouted, and began to advance.
In his path, the circle glowed with a faint blue light.
"Er," said Aziraphale, "I think it might not be a very good idea to-"
Shadwell wasn't listening. "By the powers invested in me by virtue o' my office o' Witchfinder," he intoned, "I charge ye to quit from this place‑"
"You see, the circle‑"
"‑and return henceforth to the place from which ye came, pausin' not to‑"
"‑it would really be unwise for a human to set foot in it without-"
"‑and deliver us frae evil-"
"Keep out of the circle, you stupid man!"
"‑never to come again to vex‑"
"Yes, yes, but please keep out of‑"
Aziraphale ran toward Shadwell, waving his hands urgently.
"‑returning NAE MORE!" Shadwell finished. He pointed a vengeful, black‑nailed finger.
Aziraphale looked down at his feet, and swore for the second time in five minutes. He'd stepped into the circle.
"Oh, fuck, " he said.
There was a melodious twang, and the blue glow vanished. So did Aziraphale.
Thirty seconds went by. Shadwell didn't move. Then, with a trembling left hand, he reached up and carefully lowered his right hand.
"Hallo?" he said. "Hallo?"
No one answered.
Shadwell shivered. Then, with his hand held out in front of him like a gun that he didn't dare fire and didn't know how to unload, he stepped out into the street, letting the door slam behind him.
It shook the floor. One of Aziraphale's candles fell over, spilling burning wax across the old, dry wood.
* * * * *
Crowley's London flat was the epitome of style. It was everything that a flat should be: spacious, white, elegantly furnished, and with that designer unlived‑in look that only comes from not being lived in.
This is because Crowley did not live there.
It was simply the place he went back to, at the end of the day, when he was in London. The beds were always made; the fridge was always stocked with gourmet food that never went off (that was why Crowley had a fridge, after all), and for that matter the fridge never needed to be defrosted, or even plugged in.
The lounge contained a huge television, a white leather sofa, a video and a laserdisc player, an ansaphone, two telephones‑the ansaphone line, and the private line (a number so far undiscovered by the legions of telephone salesmen who persisted in trying to sell Crowley double glazing, which he already had, or life insurance, which he didn't need)‑and a square matte black sound system, the kind so exquisitely engineered that it just has the on‑off switch and the volume control. The only sound equipment Crowley had overlooked was speakers; he'd forgotten about them. Not that it made any difference. The sound reproduction was quite perfect anyway.
There was an unconnected fax machine with the intelligence of a computer and a computer with the intelligence of a retarded ant. Nevertheless, Crowley upgraded it every fe
w months, because a sleek computer was the sort of thing Crowley felt that the sort of human he tried to be would have. This one was like a Porsche with a screen. The manuals were still in their transparent wrapping.[32]
In fact the only things in the flat Crowley devoted any personal attention to were the houseplants. They were huge and green and glorious, with shiny, healthy, lustrous leaves.
This was because, once a week, Crowley went around the flat with a green plastic plant mister, spraying the leaves, and talking to the plants.
He had heard about talking to plants in the early seventies, on Radio Four, and thought it an excellent idea. Although talking is perhaps the wrong word for what Crowley did.
What he did was put the fear of God into them.
More precisely, the fear of Crowley.
In addition to which, every couple of months Crowley would pick out a plant that was growing too slowly, or succumbing to leaf‑wilt or browning, or just didn't look quite as good as the others, and he would carry it around to all the other plants. "Say goodbye to your friend," he'd say to them. "He just couldn't cut it . . ."
Then he would leave the flat with the offending plant, and return an hour or so later with a large, empty flower pot, which he would leave somewhere conspicuously around the flat.
The plants were the most luxurious, verdant, and beautiful in London. Also the most terrified.
The lounge was lit by spotlights and white neon tubes, of the kind one casually props against a chair or a corner.
The only wall decoration was a framed drawing‑the cartoon for the Mona Lisa, Leonardo da Vinci's original sketch. Crowley had bought it from the artist one hot afternoon in Florence, and felt it was superior to the final painting.[33]
Crowley had a bedroom, and a kitchen, and an office, and a lounge, and a toilet: each room forever clean and perfect.
He had spent an uncomfortable time in each of these rooms, during the long wait for the End of the world.
He had phoned his operatives in the Witchfinder Army again, to try to get news, but his contact, Sergeant Shadwell, had just gone out, and the dimwitted receptionist seemed unable to grasp that he was willing to talk to any of the others.
"Mr. Pulsifer is out too, love," she told him. "He went down to Tadfield this morning. On a mission."
"I'll speak to anyone," Crowley had explained.
"I'll tell Mr. Shadwell that," she had said, "when he gets back. Now if you don't mind, it's one of my mornings, and I can't leave my gentleman like that for long or he'll catch his death. And at two I've got Mrs. Ormerod and Mr. Scroggie and young Julia coming over for a sitting, and there's the place to clean and all beforehand. But I'll give Mr. Shadwell your message."
Crowley gave up. He tried to read a novel, but couldn't concentrate. He tried to sort his CDs into alphabetical order, but gave up when he discovered they already were in alphabetical order, as was his bookcase, and his collection of Soul Music.[34]
Eventually he settled down on the white leather sofa and gestured on the television.
"Reports are coming in," said a worried newscaster, "uh, reports are, well, nobody seems to know what's going on, but reports available to us would seem to, uh, indicate an increase in international tensions that would have undoubtedly been viewed as impossible this time last week when, er, everyone seemed to be getting on so nicely. Er.
"This would seem at least partly due to the spate of unusual events which have occurred over the last few days.
"Off the coast of Japan-" CROWLEY?
"Yes," admitted Crowley.
WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, CROWLEY? WHAT EXACTLY HAVE YOU BEEN DOING?
"How do you mean?" Crowley asked, although he already knew.
THE BOY CALLED WARLOCK. WE HAVE BROUGHT HIM TO THE FIELDS OF MEGGIDO. THE DOG IS NOT WITH HIM. THE CHILD KNOWS NOTHING OF THE GREAT WAR. HE IS NOT OUR MASTER'S SON.
"Ah," said Crowley.
IS THAT ALL YOU CAN SAY, CROWLEY? OUR TROOPS ARE ASSEMBLED, THE FOUR BEASTS HAVE BEGUN TO RIDE‑BUT WHERE ARE THEY RIDING TO? SOMETHING HAS GONE WRONG, CROWLEY AND IT IS YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. AND, IN ALL PROBABILITY, YOUR FAULT. WE TRUST YOU HAYS A PERFECTLY REASONABLE EXPLANATION FOR ALL THIS . . .
"Oh yes," agreed Crowley, readily. "Perfectly reasonable."
. . . BECAUSE YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE YOUR CHANCE TO EXPLAIN IT ALL TO US YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE ALL THE TIME
THERE IS TO EXPLAIN. AND WE WILL LISTEN WITH GREAT INTEREST TO EVERYTHING YOU HAVE TO SAY. AND YOUR CONVERSATION. AND THE CIRCUMSTANCES THAT WILL ACCOMPANY IT, WILL PROVIDE A SOURCE OF ENTERTAINMENT AND PLEASURE FOR ALL THE DAMNED OF HELL, CROWLEY BECAUSE NO MATTER HOW RACKED WITH TORMENT, NO MATTER WHAT AGONIES THE LOWEST OF THE DAMNED ARE SUFFERING, CROWLEY, YOU WILL HAVE IT WORSE‑
With a gesture, Crowley turned the set off.
The dull gray‑green screen continued enunciating; the silence formed itself into words.
DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT TRYING TO ESCAPE US, CROWLEY THERE IS NO ESCAPE. STAY WHERE YOU ARE. YOU WILL BE . . . COLLECTED . . .
Crowley went to the window and looked out. Something black and car‑shaped was moving slowly down the street toward him. It was car-shaped enough to fool the casual observer. Crowley, who was observing very carefully, noticed that not only were the wheels not going round, but they weren't even attached to the car. It was slowing down as it passed each house; Crowley assumed that the car's passengers (neither of them would be driving; neither of them knew how) were peering out at the house numbers.
He had a little time. Crowley went into the kitchen, and got a plastic bucket from under the sink. Then he went back into the lounge.
The Infernal Authorities had ceased communicating. Crowley turned the television to the wall, just in case.
He walked over to the Mona Lisa.
Crowley lifted the picture down from the wall, revealing a safe. It was not a wall safe; it had been bought from a company that specialized in servicing the nuclear industry.
He unlocked it, revealing an inner door with a dial tumble lock. He spun the dial (4‑0‑0‑4 was the code, easy to remember, the year he had slithered onto this stupid, marvelous planet, back when it was gleaming and new).
Inside the safe were a thermos flask, two heavy PVC gloves, of the kind that covered one's entire arms, and some tongs.
Crowley paused. He eyed the flask nervously.
(There was a crash from downstairs. That had been the front door . . .)
He pulled on the gloves and gingerly took the flask, and the tongs, and the bucket‑and, as an afterthought, he grabbed the plant mister from beside a luxuriant rubber plant‑and headed for his office, walking like a man carrying a thermos flask full of something that might cause, if he dropped it or even thought about dropping it, the sort of explosion that impels graybeards to make statements like "And where this crater is now, once stood the City of Wah‑Shing‑Ton," in SF B‑movies.
He reached his office, nudged open the door with his shoulder. Then he bent his legs, and slowly put things down on the floor. Bucket . . . tongs . . . plant mister . . . and finally, deliberately, the flask.
A bead of sweat began to form on Crowley's forehead, and trickled down into one eye. He flicked it away.
Then, with care and deliberation, he used the tongs to unscrew the top of the flask . . . carefully . . . carefully . . . that was it . . .
(A pounding on the stairs below him, and a muffled scream. That would have been the little old lady on the floor below.)
He could not afford to rush.
He gripped the flask with the tongs, and taking care not to spill the tiniest drop, he poured the contents into the plastic bucket. One false move was all it would take.
There.
Then he opened the office door about six inches, and placed the bucket on top.
He used the tongs to replace the top of the flask, then (‑a crash from his outer hallway‑) pulled off the PVC gloves, picked up the plant mister, and settled himself behind his desk.
"Crawlee . . .?" called a guttural voice. Hastur.
"He's through there," hissed another voice. "I can feel the slimy little creep." Ligur.
Hastur and Ligur.
Now, as Crowley would be the first to protest, most demons weren't deep down evil. In the great cosmic game they felt they occupied the same position as tax inspectors‑doing an unpopular job, maybe, but essential to the overall operation of the whole thing. If it came to that, some angels weren't paragons of virtue; Crowley had met one or two who, when it came to righteously smiting the ungodly, smote a good deal harder than was strictly necessary. On the whole, everyone had a job to do, and just did it.
And on the other hand, you got people like Ligur and Hastur, who took such a dark delight in unpleasantness you might even have mistaken them for human.
Crowley leaned back in his executive chair. He forced himself to relax and failed appallingly.
"In here, people," he called.
"We want a word with you," said Ligur (in a tone of voice intended to imply that "word" was synonymous with "horrifically painful eternity"), and the squat demon pushed open the office door.
The bucket teetered, then fell neatly on Ligur's head.
Drop a lump of sodium in water. Watch it flame and burn and spin around crazily, flaring and sputtering. This was like that; just nastier.
The demon peeled and flared and flickered. Oily brown smoke oozed from it, and it screamed and it screamed and it screamed. Then it crumpled, folded in on itself, and what was left lay glistening on the burnt and blackened circle of carpet, looking like a handful of mashed slugs.
"Hi," said Crowley to Hastur, who had been walking behind Ligur, and had unfortunately not been so much as splashed.
There are some things that are unthinkable: there are some depths that not even demons would believe other demons would stoop to.
". . . Holy water. You bastard," said Hastur. "You complete bastard. He hadn't never done nothing to you."
"Yet," corrected Crowley, who felt a little more comfortable, now the odds were closer to even. Closer, but not yet even, not by a long shot. Hastur was a Duke of Hell. Crowley wasn't even a local counsellor.
"Your fate will be whispered by mothers in dark places to frighten their young," said Hastur, and then felt that the language of Hell wasn't up to the job. "You're going to get taken to the bloody cleaners, pal," he added.
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