Good Omens

…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…

"…although of course the firm had changed hands many times over the centuries," said Mr. Baddicombe. "But the box has always been part of the chattels, as it were."

"I didn't even know they made Heinz Baby Foods in the seventeenth century," said Newt.

"That was just to keep it undamaged in the car," said Mr. Baddicombe.

"And no one's opened it all these years?" said Newt.

"Twice, I believe," said Mr. Baddicombe. "In 1757, by Mr. George Cranby, and in 1928 by Mr. Arthur Bychance, father of the present Mr. Bychance." He coughed. "Apparently Mr. Cranby found a letter—"

"—addressed to himself," said Newt.

Mr. Baddicombe sat back hurriedly. "My word. How did you guess that?"

"I think I recognize the style," said Newt grimly. "What happened to them?"

"Have you heard this before?" said Mr. Baddicombe suspiciously.

"Not in so many words. They weren't blown up, were they?"

"Well… Mr. Cranby had a heart attack, it is believed. And Mr. Bychance went very pale and put his letter back in its envelope, I understand, and gave very strict instructions that the box wasn't to be opened again in his lifetime. He said anyone who opened the box would be sacked without references."

"A dire threat," said Newt, sarcastically.

"It was, in 1928. Anyway, their letters are in the box."

New pulled the cardboard aside.

There was a small ironbound chest inside. It had no lock.

"Go on, lift it out," said Mr. Baddicombe excitedly. "I must say I'd very much like to know what's in there. We've had bets on it, in the office…"

"I'll tell you what," said Newt, generously, "I'll make us some coffee, and you can open the box."

"Me? Would that be proper?"

"I don't see why not." Newt eyed the saucepans hanging over the stove. One of them was big enough for what he had in mind.

"Go on," he said. "Be a devil. I don't mind. You—you could have power of attorney, or something."

Mr. Baddicombe took off his overcoat. "Well," he said, rubbing his hands together, "since you put it like that it'd be something to tell my grandchildren."

Newt picked up the saucepan and laid his hand gently on the door handle. "I hope so," he said.

"Here goes."

Newt heard a faint creak.

"What can you see?" he said.

"There's the two opened letters… oh, and a third one… addressed to…"

Newt heard the snap of a wax seal and the clink of something on the table. Then there was a gasp, the clatter of a chair, the sound of running feet in the hallway, the slam of a door, and the sound of a car engine being jerked into life and then redlined down the lane.

Newt took the saucepan off his head and came out from behind the door.

He picked up the letter and was not one hundred percent surprised to see that it was addressed to Mr. G. Baddicombe. He unfolded it.

It read: "Here is A Florin, lawyer; nowe, runne faste, lest thee Worlde knoe the Truth about yowe and Mistrefs Spiddon the Type Writinge Machine slavey."

Newt looked at the other letters. The crackling paper of the one addressed to George Cranby said: "Remove thy thievinge Hande, Master Cranby. I minde well how yowe swindled the Widdowe Plashkin this Michelmas past, yowe skinnie owlde Snatch-pastry."

Newt wondered what a snatch-pastry was. He would be prepared to bet that it didn't involve cookery.

The one that had awaited the inquisitive Mr. Bychance said: "Yowe left them, yowe cowarde. Returne this letter to the hocks, lest the Worlde knoe the true Events of June 7th, Nineteen Hundred and Sixteene."

Under the letters was a manuscript. Newt stared at it.

"What's that?" said Anathema.

He spun around. She was leaning against the doorframe, like an attractive yawn on legs.

Newt backed against the table. "Oh, nothing. Wrong address. Nothing. Just some old box. Junk mail. You know how—"

"On a Sunday?" she said, pushing him aside.

He shrugged as she put her hands around the yellowed manuscript and lifted it out.

"Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter," she read slowly, "Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef l Oh, my…"

She laid it reverentially on the table and prepared to turn the first page.

Newt's hand landed gently on hers.

"Think of it like this," he said quietly. "Do you want to be a descendant for the rest of your life?"

She looked up. Their eyes met.

* * *

It was Sunday, the first day of the rest of the world, around eleven-thirty.