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The southern pansy.
They’d each been here, just once, spending as little time as possible in the room and, in Aziraphale’s case, trying not to touch any flat surface. The other one, the flash Southern bastard in the sunglasses, was—Shadwell suspected—not someone he ought to offend. In Shadwell’s simple world, anyone in sunglasses who wasn’t actually on a beach was probably a criminal. He suspected that Crowley was from the Mafia, or the underworld, although he would have been surprised how right he nearly was. But the soft one in the camelhair coat was a different matter, and he’d risked trailing him back to his base once, and he could remember the way. He thought Aziraphale was a Russian spy. He could ask him for money. Threaten him a bit.
It was terribly risky.
Shadwell pulled himself together. Even now young Newt might be suffering unimaginable tortures at the hands of the daughters o’ night and he, Shadwell, had sent him.
“We canna leave our people in there,” he said, and put on his thin overcoat and shapeless hat and went out into the street.
The weather seemed to be blowing up a bit.
AZIRAPHALE WAS DITHERING. He’d been dithering for some twelve hours. His nerves, he would have said, were all over the place. He walked around the shop, picking up bits of paper and dropping them again, fiddling with pens.
He ought to tell Crowley.
No, he didn’t. He wanted to tell Crowley. He ought to tell Heaven.
He was an angel, after all. You had to do the right thing. It was built in. You see a wile, you thwart. Crowley had put his finger on it, right enough. He ought to have told Heaven right from the start.
But he’d known him for thousands of years. They got along. They nearly understood one another. He sometimes suspected they had far more in common with one another than with their respective superiors. They both liked the world, for one thing, rather than viewing it simply as the board on which the cosmic game of chess was being played.
Well, of course, that was it. That was the answer, staring him in the face. It’d be true to the spirit of his pact with Crowley if he tipped Heaven the wink, and then they could quietly do something about the child, although nothing too bad of course because we were all God’s creatures when you got down to it, even people like Crowley and the Antichrist, and the world would be saved and there wouldn’t have to be all that Armageddon business, which would do nobody any good anyway, because everyone knew Heaven would win in the end, and Crowley would be bound to understand.
Yes. And then everything would be all right.
There was a knock at the shop door, despite the closed sign. He ignored it.
Getting in touch with Heaven for two-way communications was far more difficult for Aziraphale than it is for humans, who don’t expect an answer and in nearly all cases would be rather surprised to get one.
He pushed aside the paper-laden desk and rolled up the threadbare bookshop carpet. There was a small circle chalked on the floorboards underneath, surrounded by suitable passages from the Cabala. The angel lit seven candles, which he placed ritually at certain points around the circle. Then he lit some incense, which was not necessary but did make the place smell nice.
And then he stood in the circle and said the Words.
Nothing happened.
He said the Words again.
Eventually a bright blue shaft of light shot down from the ceiling and filled the circle.
A well-educated voice said, “Well?”
“It’s me, Aziraphale.”
“We know,” said the voice.
“I’ve got great news! I’ve located the Antichrist! I can give you his address and everything!”
There was a pause. The blue light flickered.
“Well?” it said again.
“But, d’you see, you can ki—can stop it all happening! In the nick of time! You’ve only got a few hours! You can stop it all and there needn’t be the war and everyone will be saved!”
He beamed madly into the light.
“Yes?” said the voice.
“Yes, he’s in a place called Lower Tadfield, and the address—”
