“Come on,” he said. “Let’s have a look around while everyone’s busy.”
BULLETS STREAKED ACROSS THE NIGHT.
Jonathan Parker, Purchasing Section, was wriggling through the bushes when one of them put an arm around his neck.
Nigel Tompkins spat a cluster of rhododendron leaves out of his mouth.
“Down there it’s company law,” he hissed, through mud-encrusted features, “but up here it’s me … ”
“THAT WAS A PRETTY LOW TRICK,” said Aziraphale, as they strolled along the empty corridors.
“What’d I do? What’d I do?” said Crowley, pushing open doors at random.
“There are people out there shooting one another!”
“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? They’re doing it themselves. It’s what they really want to do. I just assisted them. Think of it as a microcosm of the universe. Free will for everyone. Ineffable, right?”
Aziraphale glared.
“Oh, all right,” said Crowley wretchedly. “No one’s actually going to get killed. They’re all going to have miraculous escapes. It wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.”
Aziraphale relaxed. “You know, Crowley,” he said, beaming, “I’ve always said that, deep down inside, you’ [re really quite a—”
“All right, all right,” Crowley snapped. “Tell the whole blessed world, why don’t you?”
AFTER A WHILE, loose alliances began
to emerge. Most of the financial departments found they had interests in common, settled their differences, and ganged up on Forward Planning.
When the first police car arrived, sixteen bullets from a variety of directions had hit it in the radiator before it had got halfway up the drive. Two more took out its radio antenna, but they were too late, too late.
MARY HODGES WAS just putting down the phone when Crowley opened her office door.
“It must be terrorists,” she snapped. “Or poachers.” She peered at the pair of them. “You are the police, aren’t you?” she said.
Crowley saw her eyes begin to widen.
Like all demons, he had a good memory for faces, even after eleven years, the loss of a wimple, and the addition of some rather severe makeup. He snapped his fingers. She settled back in her chair, her face becoming a blank and amiable mask.
“There was no need for that,” said Aziraphale.
“Good”—Crowley glanced at his watch—“morning, ma’am,” he said, in a sing-song voice. “We’re just a couple of supernatural entities and we were just wondering if you might help us with the whereabouts of the notorious Son of Satan.” He smiled coldly at the angel. “I’ll wake her up again, shall I? And you can say it.”
“Well. Since you put it like that … ” said the angel slowly.
“Sometimes the old ways are best,” said Crowley. He turned to the impassive woman.
“Were you a nun here eleven years ago?” he said.
“Yes,” said Mary.
“There!” said Crowley to Aziraphale. “See? I knew I wasn’t wrong.”
“Luck of the devil,” muttered the angel.
“Your name then was Sister Talkative. Or something.”
“Loquacious,” said Mary Hodges in a hollow voice.