Good Omens

"LUCIFER? What's that you say? Are ye of the Spawn of Darkness, a tempting beguiling creature from the pit, wanton limbs steaming from the fleshpots of Hades, in tortured and lubricious thrall to your stygian and hellish masters?"

"That's Pulsifer," explained Newton. "With a P. I don't know about the other stuff, but we come from Surrey."

The voice on the phone sounded vaguely disappointed.

"Oh. Aye. Well, then. Pulsifer. Pulsifer. I've seen that name afore, maybe?"

"I don't know," said Newton. "My uncle runs a toy shop in Hounslow," he added, in case this way any help.

"Is that sooo?" said Shadwell.

Mr. Shadwell's accent was unplaceable. It careered around Britain like a milk race. Here a mad Welsh drill sergeant, there a High Kirk elder who'd just seen someone doing something on a Sunday, somewhere between them a dour Daleland shepherd, or bitter Somerset miser. It didn't matter where the accent went; it didn't get any nicer.

"Have ye all your own teeth?"

"Oh yes. Except for fillings."

"Are ye fit?"

"I suppose so," Newt stuttered. "I mean, that was why I wanted to join the territorials. Brian Potter in Accounting can bench-press almost a hundred since he joined. And he paraded in front of the Queen Mother."

"How many nipples?"

"Pardon?"

"Nipples, laddie, nipples," said the voice testily. "How many nipples hae ye got?"

"Er. Two?"

"Good. Have ye got your ane scissors?"

"What?"

"Scissors! Scissors! Are ye deaf?"

"No. Yes. I mean, I've got some scissors. I'm not deaf."

* * *

The cocoa had nearly all solidified. Green fur was growing on the inside of the mug.

There was a thin layer of dust on Aziraphale, too.

The stack of notes was building up beside him. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies was a mass of improvised bookmarks made of torn strips of Daily Telegraph.

Aziraphale stirred, and pinched his nose.

He was nearly there.

He'd got the shape of it.

He'd never met Agnes. She was too bright, obviously. Normally Heaven or Hell spotted the prophetic types and broadcast enough noises on the same mental channel to prevent any undue accuracy. Actually that was rarely necessary; they normally found ways of generating their own static in self-defense against the images that echoed around their heads.

* * *

Poor old St. John had his mushrooms, for example. Mother Shipton had her ale. Nostradamus had his collection of interesting oriental preparations. St. Malachi had his still.

Good old Malachi. He'd been a nice old boy, sitting there, dreaming about future popes. Complete piss artist, of course. Could have been a real thinker, if it hadn't been for the poteen.

A sad end. Sometimes you really had to hope that the ineffable plan had been properly thought out.

Thought. There was something he had to do. Oh, yes. Phone his contact, get things sorted out.

He stood up, stretched his limbs, and made a phone call.

Then he thought: why not? Worth a try.

He went back and shuffled through his sheaf of notes. Apes really had been good. And clever. No one was interested in accurate prophecies.

Paper in hand, he phoned Directory Enquiries.

"Hallo? Good afternoon. So kind. Yes. This will be a Tadfield number, I think. Or Lower Tadfield… ah. Or possibly Norton, I'm not sure of the precise code. Yes. Young. Name of Young. Sorry, no initial. Oh. Well, can you give me all of them? Thank you."

Back on the table, a pencil picked itself up and scribbled furiously.

At the third name it broke its point.

"Ah," said Aziraphale, his mouth suddenly running on automatic while his mind exploded. "I think that's the one. Thank you. So kind. Good day to you."

He hung up almost reverentially, took a few deep breaths, and dialed again. The last three digits gave him some trouble, because his hand was shaking.

He listened to the ringing tone. Then a voice answered. It was a middle-aged voice, not unfriendly, but probably it had been having a nap and was not feeling at its best.

It said "Tadfield Six double-six."

Aziraphale's hand started to shake.

"Hallo?" said the receiver. "Hallo."

Aziraphale got a grip on himself.

"Sorry," he said, "Right number."

He replaced the receiver.

* * *

Newt wasn't deaf. And he did have his own scissors.

He also had a huge pile of newspapers.

If he had known that army life consisted chiefly of applying the one to the other, he used to muse, he would never have joined.

Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell had made him a list, which was taped to the wall in Shadwell's tiny crowded flat situated over Rajit's Newsagents and Video Rental. The list read:

Witches.

Unexplainable Phenomenons. Phenomenatrices. Phenomenice. Things, ye ken well what I mean.