Good Omens

There is, however, a Witchfinder Sergeant.

There is also, now, a Witchfinder Private. His name is Newton Pulsifer.

It was the advertisement that got him, in the Gazette, between a fridge for sale and a litter of not-exactly dalmatians:

JOIN THE PROFESSIONALS. PART TIME

ASSISTANT REQUIRED TO COMBAT THE FORCES OF

DARKNESS. UNIFORM, BASIC TRAINING PROVIDED.

FIELD PROMOTION CERTAIN. BE A MAN!

In his lunch hour he phoned the number at the bottom of the ad. A woman answered.

“Hello,” he began, tentatively. “I saw your advert.”

“Which one, love?”

“Er, the one in the paper.”

“Right, love. Well, Madame Tracy Draws Aside the Veil every afternoon except Thursdays. Parties welcome. When would you be wanting to Explore the Mysteries, love?”

Newton hesitated. “The advert says ‘Join the Professionals,”’ he said. “It didn’t mention Madame Tracy.”

“That’ll be Mister Shadwell you’ll be wanting, then. Just a sec, I’ll see if he’s in.”

Later, when he was on nodding terms with Madame Tracy, Newt learned that if he had mentioned the other ad, the one in the magazine, Madame Tracy would have been available for strict discipline and intimate massage every evening except Thursdays. There was yet another ad in a phone box somewhere. When, much later, Newt asked her what this one involved, she said “Thursdays.” Eventually there was the sound of feet in uncarpeted hallways, a deep coughing, and a voice the color of an old raincoat rumbled:

“Aye?”

“I read your advert. ‘Join the professionals.’ I wanted to know a bit more about it.”

“Aye. There’s many as would like to know more about it, an’ there’s many … ” the voice trailed off impressively, then crashed back to full volume, “. . . there’s many as WOULDN’T.”

“Oh,” squeaked Newton.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Newton. Newton Pulsifer.”

“LUCIFER? What’s that you say? Are ye of the Spawn of Darkness, a tempting beguiling creature from the pit, wanton limbs steaming from the fleshpots of Hades, in tortured and lubricious thrall to your Stygian and hellish masters?”

“That’s Pulsifer,” explained Newton. “With a P. I don’t know about the other stuff, but we come from Surrey.”

The voice on the phone sounded vaguely disappointed.

“Oh. Aye. Well, then. Pulsifer. Pulsifer. I’ve seen that name afore, maybe?”

“I don’t know,” said Newton. “My uncle runs a toy shop in Hounslow,” he added, in case this was any help.

“Is that sooo?” said Shadwell.

Mr. Shadwell’s accent was unplaceable. It careered around Britain like a milk race. Here a mad Welsh drill sergeant, there a High Kirk elder who’d just seen someone doing something on a Sunday, somewhere between them a dour Daleland shepherd, or bitter Somerset miser. It didn’t matter where the accent went; it didn’t get any nicer.

“Have ye all your own teeth?”

“Oh, yes. Except for fillings.”