Good Omens

Adam doubted that she was a witch. Adam had a very clear mental picture of a witch. The Youngs restricted themselves to the only possible choice amongst the better class of Sunday newspaper, and so a hundred years of enlightened occultism had passed Adam by. She didn’t have a hooked nose or warts, and she was young … well, quite young. That was good enough for him.

“Hallo,” he said, unslouching.

She blew her nose and stared at him.

What was looking over the hedge should be described at this point. What Anathema saw was, she said later, something like a prepubescent Greek god. Or maybe a Biblical illustration, one which showed muscular angels doing some righteous smiting. It was a face that didn’t belong in the twentieth century. It was thatched with golden curls which glowed. Michelangelo should have sculpted it.

He probably would not have included the battered sneakers, frayed jeans, or grubby T-shirt, though.

“Who’re you?” she said.

“I’m Adam Young,” said Adam. “I live just down the lane.”

“Oh. Yes. I’ve heard of you,” said Anathema, dabbing at her eyes. Adam preened.

“Mrs. Henderson said I was to be sure to keep an eye out for you,” she went on.

“I’m well known around here,” said Adam.

“She said you were born to hang,” said Anathema.

Adam grinned. Notoriety wasn’t as good as fame, but was heaps better than obscurity.

“She said you were the worst of the lot of Them,” said Anathema, looking a little more cheerful. Adam nodded.

“She said, ‘You watch out for Them, Miss, they’re nothing but a pack of ringleaders. That young Adam’s full of the Old Adam,’ ” she said.

“What’ve you been cryin’ for?” said Adam bluntly.

“Oh? Oh, I’ve just lost something,” said Anathema. “A book.”

“I’ll help you look for it, if you like,” said Adam gallantly. “I know quite a lot about books, actually. I wrote a book once. It was a triffic book. It was nearly eight pages long. It was about this pirate who was a famous detective. And I drew the pictures.” And then, in a flash of largess, he added, “If you like I’ll let you read it. I bet it was a lot more excitin’ than any book you’ve lost. ’Specially the bit in the spaceship where the dinosaur comes out and fights with the cowboys. I bet it’d cheer you up, my book. It cheered up Brian no end. He said he’d never been so cheered up.”

“Thank you, I’m sure your book is a very good book,” she said, endearing herself to Adam forever. “But I don’t need you to help look for my book—I think it’s too late now.”

She looked thoughtfully at Adam. “I expect you know this area very well?” she said.

“For miles an’ miles,” said Adam.

“You haven’t seen two men in a big black car?” said Anathema.

“Did they steal it?” said Adam, suddenly full of interest. Foiling a gang of international book thieves would make a rewarding end to the day.

“Not really. Sort of. I mean, they didn’t mean to. They were looking for the Manor, but I went up there today and no one knows anything about them. There was some sort of accident or something, I believe.”

She stared at Adam. There was something odd about him, but she couldn’t put her f

inger on it. She just had an urgent feeling that he was important and shouldn’t be allowed to drift away. Something about him …

“What’s the book called?” said Adam.

“The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch,” said Anathema.

“Which what?”

“No. Witch. Like in Macbeth,” said Anathema.

“I saw that,” said Adam. “It was really interesting, the way them kings carried on. Gosh. What’s nice about ’em?”