Good Omens

“Any sign of him?” said the boy in white.

They shook their heads.

An argument had broken out around the video screen (current categories showing on the screen were War, Famine, Pollution, and Pop Trivia 1962–1979).

“Elvis Presley? ’Sgotta be ‘C’—it was 1977 he snuffed it, wasn’t it?”

“Nah. ‘D.’ 1976. I’m positive.”

“Yeah. Same year as Bing Crosby.”

“And Marc Bolan. He was dead good. Press ‘D,’ then. Go on.”

The tall figure made no motion to press any of the buttons.

“Woss the matter with you?” asked Big Ted, irritably. “Go on. Press ‘D.’ Elvis Presley died in 1976.”

I DON’T CARE WHAT IT SAYS, said the tall biker in the helm

et, I NEVER LAID A FINGER ON HIM.

The three people at the table turned as one. Red spoke. “When did you get here?” she asked.

The tall man walked over to the table, leaving the astonished bikers, and his winnings, behind him. I NEVER WENT AWAY, he said, and his voice was a dark echo from the night places, a cold slab of sound, gray, and dead. If that voice was a stone it would have had words chiseled on it a long time ago: a name, and two dates.

“Your tea’s getting cold, lord,” said Famine.

“It’s been a long time,” said War.

There was a flash of lightning, almost immediately followed by a low rumble of thunder.

“Lovely weather for it,” said Pollution.

YES.

The bikers around the game were getting progressively baffled by this exchange. Led by Big Ted, they shambled over to the table and stared at the four strangers.

It did not escape their notice that all four strangers had HELL’S ANGELS on their jackets. And they looked dead dodgy as far as the Angels were concerned: too clean for a start; and none of the four looked like they’d ever broken anyone’s arm just because it was Sunday afternoon and there wasn’t anything good on the telly. And one was a woman, too, only not ridin’ around on the back of someone’s bike but actually allowed one of her own, like she had any right to it.

“You’re Hell’s Angels, then?” asked Big Ted, sarcastically. If there’s one thing real Hell’s Angels can’t abide, it’s weekend bikers.40

The four strangers nodded.

“What chapter are you from, then?”

The Tall Stranger looked at Big Ted. Then he stood up. It was a complicated motion; if the shores of the seas of night had deck chairs, they’d open up something like that.

He seemed to be unfolding himself forever.

He wore a dark helmet, completely hiding his features. And it was made of that weird plastic, Big Ted noted. Like, you looked in it, and all you could see was your own face.

REVELATIONS, he said. CHAPTER SIX.

“Verses two to eight,” added the boy in white, helpfully.

Big Ted glared at the four of them. His lower jaw began to protrude, and a little blue vein in his temple started to throb. “Wossat mean then?” he demanded.

There was a tug at his sleeve. It was Pigbog. He had gone a peculiar shade of gray, under the dirt.