Good Omens

“It means we’re in trouble,” said Pigbog.

And then the tall stranger reached up a pale motorbike gauntlet, and raised the visor of his helmet, and Big Ted found himself wishing, for the first time in his existence, that he’d lived a better life.

“Jesus Christ!” he moaned.

“I think He may be along in a minute,” said Pigbog urgently. “He’s probably looking for somewhere to park his bike. Let’s go and, and join a youf club or somethin’ … ”

But Big Ted’s invincible ignorance was his shield and armor. He didn’t move.

“Cor,” he said. “Hell’s Angels.”

War flipped him a lazy salute.

“That’s us, Big Ted,” she said. “The real McCoy.”

Famine nodded. “The Old Firm,” he said.

Pollution removed his helmet and shook out his long white hair. He had taken over when Pestilence, muttering about penicillin, had retired in 1936. If only the old boy had known what opportunities the future had held …

“Others promise,” he said, “we deliver.”

Big Ted looked at the fourth Horseman. “’Ere, I seen you before,” he said. “You was on the cover of that Blue Oyster Cult album. An’ I got a ring wif your … your … your head on it.”

I GET EVERYWHERE.

“Cor.” Big Ted’s big face screwed up with the effort of thought.

“Wot kind of bike you ridin’?” he said.

THE STORM RAGED around the quarry. The rope with the old car tire on it danced in the gale. Sometimes a sheet of iron, relic of an attempt at a tree house, would shake loose from its insubstantial moorings and sail away.

The Them huddled together, staring at Adam. He seemed bigger, somehow. Dog sat and growled. He was thinking of all the smells he would lose. There were no smells in Hell, apart from the sulphur. While some of them here, were, were … well, the fact was, there were no bitches in Hell either.

Adam was marching about excitedly, waving his hands in the air.

“There’ll be no end to the fun we can have,” he said. “There’ll be exploring and everything. I ’spect I can soon get the ole jungles to grow again.”

“But—but who—who’ll do the, you know, all the cooking and washing and suchlike?” quavered Brian.

“No one’ll have to do any of that stuff,” said Adam. “You can have all the food you like, loads of chips, fried onion rings, anything you like. An’ never have to wear any new clothes or have a bath if you don’t want to or anything. Or go to school or anything. Or do anything you don’t want to do, ever again. It’ll be wicked!”

THE MOON CAME UP over the Kookamundi Hills. It was very bright tonight.

Johnny Two Bones sat in the red basin of the desert. It was a sacred place, where two ancestral rocks, formed in the Dreamtime, lay as they had since the beginning. Johnny Two Bones’ walkabout was coming to an end. His cheeks and chest were smeared with red ochre, and he was singing an old song, a sort of singing map of the hills, and he was drawing patterns in the dust with his spear.

He had not eaten for two days; he had not slept. He was approaching a trance state, making him one with the Bush, putting him into communion with his ancestors.

He was nearly there.

Nearly …

He blinked. Looked around wonderingly.

“Excuse me, dear boy,” he said to himself, out loud, in precise, enunciated tones. “But have you any idea where I am?”

“Who said that?” said Johnny Two Bones.

His mouth opened. “I did.”