Good Omens

“Could be a her,” said Newt. “This is the twentieth century, after all. Equal opportunities.”

“I don’t think you’re taking this entirely seriously,” she said severely. “Anyway, there isn’t any evil here. That’s what I don’t understand. There’s just love.”

“Sorry?” said Newt.

She gave him a helpless look. “It’s hard to describe it,” she said. “Something or someone loves this place. Loves every inch of it so powerfully that it shields and protects it. A deep-down, huge, fierce love. How can anything bad start here? How can the end of the world start in a place like this? This is the kind of town you’d want to raise your kids in. It’s a kids’ paradise.” She smiled weakly. “You should see the local kids. They’re unreal! Right out of the Boys’ Own Paper! All scabby knees and ‘brilliant!’ and bulls-eyes—”

She nearly had it. She could feel the shape of the thought, she was gaining on it.

“What’s this place?” said Newt.

“What?” Anathema screamed, as her train of thought was derailed.

Newt’s finger tapped at the map.

“‘Disused aerodrome,’ it says. Just here, look, west of Tadfield itself—”

Anathema snorted. “Disused? Don’t you believe it. Used to be a wartime fighter base. It’s been Upper Tadfield Air Base for about ten years or so. And before you say it, the answer’s no. I hate everything about the bloody place, but the colonel’s saner than you are by a long way. His wife does yoga, for God’s sake.”

Now. What was it she’d said before? The kids round here …

She felt her mental feet slipping away from under her, and she fell back into the more personal thought waiting there to catch her. Newt was okay, really. And the thing about spending the rest of your life with him was, he wouldn’t be around long enough to get on your nerves.

The radio was talking about South American rainforests.

New ones.

It began to hail.

BULLETS OF ICE shredded the leaves around the Them as Adam led them down into the quarry.

Dog slunk along with his tail between his legs, whining.

This wasn’t right, he was thinking. Just when I was getting the hang of rats. Just when I’d nearly sorted out that bloody German Shepherd across the road. Now He’s going to end it all and I’ll be back with the ole glowin’ eyes and chasin’ lost souls. What’s the sense in that? They don’t fight back, and there’s no taste to ’em …

Wensleydale, Brian, and Pepper were not thinking quite so coherently. All that they were aware of was that they could no more not follow Adam than fly; to try to resist the force marching them forward would simply result in multiply broken legs, and they’d still have to march.

Adam wasn’t thinking at all. Something had opened in his mind and was aflame.

He sat them down on the crate.

“We’ll all be all right down here,” he said.

“Er,” said Wensleydale, “don’t you think our mothers and fathers—”

“Don’t you worry about them,” said Adam loftily. “I can make some new ones. There won’t be any of this being in bed by half past nine, either. You don’t ever have to go to bed ever, if you don’t want to. Or tidy your room or anything. You just leave it all to me and it will be great.” He gave them a manic smile. “I’ve got some new friends comin’,” he confided. “You’ll like ’em.”

“But—” Wensleydale began.

“You jus’ think of all the amazin’ stuff afterwards,” said Adam enthusiastically. “You can fill up America with all new cowboys an’ Indians an’ policemen an’ gangsters an’ cartoons an’ spacemen and stuff. Won’t that be fantasti

c?”

Wensleydale looked miserably at the other two. They were sharing a thought that none of them would be able to articulate very satisfactorily even in normal times. Broadly, it was that there had once been real cowboys and gangsters, and that was great. And there would always be pretend cowboys and gangsters, and that was also great. But real pretend cowboys and gangsters, that were alive and not alive and could be put back in their box when you were tired of them—this did not seem great at all. The whole point about gangsters and cowboys and aliens and pirates was that you could stop being them and go home.

“But before all that,” said Adam darkly, “we’re really goin’ to show ’em … ”

THERE WAS A TREE in the plaza. It wasn’t very big and the leaves were yellow and the light it got through the excitingly dramatic smoked glass was the wrong sort of light. And it was on more drugs than an Olympic athlete, and loudspeakers nested in the branches. But it was a tree, and if you half-closed your eyes and looked at it over the artificial waterfall, you could almost believe that you were looking at a sick tree through a fog of tears.