Good Omens

Brian scratched his nose. “I reckon it’d be brilliant without Greasy Johnson,” he said. “Remember what he did at my birthday party? And I got into trouble about it.”

“I dunno,” said Pepper. “I mean, it wouldn’t be so interesting without ole Greasy Johnson and his gang. When you think about it. We’ve had a lot of fun with ole Greasy Johnson and the Johnsonites. We’d probably have to find some other gang or something.”

“Seems to me,” said Wensleydale, “that if you asked people in Lower Tadfield, they’d say they’d be better off without the Johnsonites or the Them.”

Even Adam looked shocked at this. Wensleydale went on stoically: “The old folks’ club would. An’ Picky. An’—”

“But we’re the good ones … ” Brian began. He hesitated. “Well, all right,” he said, “but I bet they’d think it’d be a jolly sight less interestin’ if we all weren’t here.”

“Yes,” said Wensleydale. “That’s what I mean.

“People round here don’t want us or the Johnsonites,” he went on morosely, “the way they’re always goin’ on about us just riding our bikes or skateboarding on their pavements and making too much noise and stuff. It’s like the man said in the history books. A plaque on both your houses.”

This met with silence.

“One of those blue ones,” said Brian, eventually, “saying ‘Adam Young Lived Here,’ or somethin’?”

Normally an opening like this could lead to five minutes’ rambling discussion when the Them were in the mood, but Adam felt that this was not the time.

“What you’re all sayin’,” he summed up, in his best chairman tones, “is that it wouldn’t be any good at all if the Greasy Johnsonites beat the Them or the other way round?”

“That’s right,” said Pepper. “Because,” she added, “if we beat them, we’d have to be our own deadly enemies. It’d be me an’ Adam against Brian an’ Wensley.” She sat back. “Everyone needs a Greasy Johnson,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Adam. “That’s what I thought. It’s no good anyone winning. That’s what I thought.” He stared at Dog, or through Dog.

“Seems simple enough to me,” said Wensleydale, sitting back. “I don’t see why it’s taken thousands of years to sort out.”

“That’s because the people trying to sort it out were men,” said Pepper, meaningfully.

“Don’t see why you have to take sides,” said Wensleydale.

“Of course I have to take sides,” said Pepper. “Everyone has to take sides in something.”

Adam appeared to reach a decision.

“Yes. But I reckon you can make your own side. I think you’d better go and get your bikes,” he said quietly. “I think we’d better sort of go and talk to some people.”

PUTPUTPUTPUTPUTPUT, went Madame Tracy’s motor scooter down Crouch End High street. It was the only vehicle moving on a suburban London street jammed with immobile cars and taxis and red London buses.

“I’ve never seen a traffic jam like it,” said Madame Tracy. “I wonder if there’s been an accident.”

“Quite possibly,” said Aziraphale. And then, “Mr. Shadwell, unless you put your arms round me you’re going to fall off. This thing wasn’t built for two people, you know.”

“Three,” muttered Shadwell, gripping the seat with one white-knuckled hand, and his Thundergun with the other.

“Mr. Shadwell, I won’t tell you again.”

“Ye’ll have ter stop, then, so as I can adjust me weapon,” sighed Shadwell.

Madame Tracy giggled dutifully, but she pulled over to the curb, and stopped the motor scooter.

Shadwell sorted himself out, and put two grudging arms around Madame Tracy, while the Thundergun stuck up between them like a chaperon.

They rode through the rain without talking for another ten minutes, putputputputput, as Madame Tracy carefully negotiated her way around the cars and the buses.

Madame Tracy found her eyes being moved down to the speedometer—rather foolishly, she thought, since it hadn’t worked since 1974, and it hadn’t worked very well before that.

“Dear lady, how fast would you say we were going?” asked Aziraphale.