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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.
Newt was looking for either. He sighed and picked up another newspaper, scanned the front page, opened it, ignored page two (never anything on there) then blushed crimson as he performed the obligatory nipple count on page three. Shadwell had been insistent about this. “Ye can’t trust them, the cunning buggers,” he said. “It’d be just like them to come right out in the open, like, defyin’ us.”
A couple in black turtleneck sweaters glowered at the camera on page nine. They claimed to lead the largest coven in Saffron Walden, and to restore sexual potency by the use of small and very phallic dolls. The newspaper was offering ten of the dolls to readers who were prepared to write “My Most Embarrassing Moment of Impotency” stories. Newt cut the story out and stuck it into a scrapbook.
There was a muffled thumping on the door.
Newt opened it; a pile of newspapers stood there. “Shift yerself, Private Pulsifer,” it barked, and it shuffled into the room. The newspapers fell to the floor, revealing Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, who coughed, painfully, and relit his cigarette, which had gone out.
“You want to watch him. He’s one o’ them,” he said.
“Who, sir?”
“Tak yer ease, Private. Him. That little brown feller. Mister so-called Rajit. It’s them terrible forn arts. The ruby squinty eye of the little yellow god. Women wi’ too many arms. Witches, the lot o’ them.”
“He does give us the newspapers free, though, Sergeant,” said Newt. “And they’re not too old.”
“And voodoo. I bet he does voodoo. Sacrificing chickens to that Baron Saturday. Ye know, tall darkie bugger in the top hat. Brings people back from the dead, aye, and makes them work on the Sabbath day. Voodoo.” Shadwell sniffed speculatively.
Newt tried to picture Shadwell’s landlord as an exponent of voodoo. Certainly Mr. Rajit worked on the Sabbath. In fact, with his plump quiet wife and plump cheerful children he worked around the clock, never mind the calendar, diligently filling the area’s needs in the matter of soft drinks, white bread, tobacco, sweets, newspapers, magazines, and the type of top-shelf pornography that made Newt’s eyes water just to think about. The worst you could imagine Mr. Rajit doing with a chicken was selling it after the “Sell-By” date.
“But Mister Rajit’s from Bangladesh, or India, or somewhere,” he said. “I thought voodoo came from the West Indies.”
“Ah,” said Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, and took another drag on his cigarette. Or appeared to. Newt had never actually quite seen one of his superior’s cigarettes—it was something to do with the way he cupped his hands. He even made the ends disappear when he’d finished with them. “Ah.”
“Well, doesn’t it?”
“Hidden wisdom, lad. Inner mili’try secrets of the Witchfinder army. When you’re all initiated proper ye’ll know the secret truth. Some voodoo may come from the West Indies. I’ll grant ye that. Oh yes, I’ll grant ye that. But the worst kind. The darkest kind, that comes from, um … ”
“Bangladesh?”
“Errrukh! Yes lad, that’s it. Words right out of me mouth. Bangladesh. Exactly.”
