Good Omens

“There’s something odd about this area,” said Aziraphale. “Can’t you feel it?”

“What?”

“Slow down a moment.”

The Bentley slowed again.

“Odd,” muttered the angel, “I keep getting these flashes of, of … ”

He raised his hands to his temples.

“What? What?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale stared at him.

“Love,” he said. “Someone really loves this place.”

“Pardon?”

“There seems to be this great sense of love. I can’t put it any better than that. Especially not to you.”

“Do you mean like—” Crowley began.

There was a whirr, a scream, and a clunk. The car stopped.

Aziraphale blinked, lowered his hands, and gingerly opened the door.

“You’ve hit someone,” he said.

“No I haven’t,” said Crowley. “Someone’s hit me.”

They got out. Behind the Bentley a bicycle lay in the road, its front wheel bent into a creditable Mobius shape, its back wheel clicking ominously to a standstill.

“Let there be light,” said Aziraphale. A pale blue glow filled the lane.

From the ditch beside them someone said, “How the hell did you do that?”

The light vanished.

“Do what?” said Aziraphale guiltily.

“Uh.” Now the voice sounded muzzy. “I think I hit my head on something … ”

Crowley glared at a long metallic streak on the Bentley’s glossy paintwork and a dimple in the bumper. The dimple popped back into shape. The paint healed.

“Up you get, young lady,” said the angel, hauling Anathema out of the bracken. “No bones broken.” It was a statement, not a hope; there had been a minor fracture, but Aziraphale couldn’t resist an opportunity to do good.

“You didn’t have any lights,” she began.

“Nor did you,” said Crowley guiltily. “Fair’s fair.”

“Doing a spot of astronomy, were we?” said Aziraphale, setting the bike upright. Various things clattered out of its front basket. He pointed to the battered theodolite

.

“No,” said Anathema, “I mean, yes. And look what you’ve done to poor old Phaeton.”

“I’m sorry?” said Aziraphale.