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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 need
ed 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 few 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.33
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.34
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.35
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.
