Good Omens

“If that’s all right with you,” said Adam, with what he hoped was bitter and scathing sarcasm. “I mean, we wun’t want to go there if it wasn’t all right with you.”

“You cheeky little monkey,” said R. P. Tyler. “When I see your father, Adam Young, I will inform him in no uncertain terms that … ”

But the Them were already pedaling off down the road, in the direction of Lower Tadfield Air Base—traveling by the Them’s route, which was shorter and simpler and more scenic than the route suggested by Mr. Tyler.

R. P. TYLER HAD COMPOSED a lengthy mental letter on the failings of the youth of today. It covered falling educational standards, the lack of respect given to their elders and betters, the way they always seemed to slouch these days instead of walking with a proper upright bearing, juvenile delinquency, the return of compulsory National Service, birching, flogging, and dog licenses.

He was very satisfied with it. He had a sneaking suspicion that it would be too good for the Tadfield Advertiser, and had decided to send it to the Times.

Putputput putputput

“Excuse me, love,” said a warm female voice. “I think we’re lost.”

It was an aging motor scooter, and it was being ridden by a middle-aged woman. Clutching her tightly, his eyes screwed shut, was a raincoated little man with a bright green crash helmet on. Sticking up between them was what appeared to be an antique gun with a funnel-shaped muzzle.

“Oh. Where are you going?”

“Lower Tadfield. I’m not sure of the exact address, but we’re looking for someone,” said the woman, then, in a totally different voice she said, “His name is Adam Young.”

R. P. Tyler boggled. “You want that boy?” he asked. “What’s he done now—no, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Boy?” said the woman. “You didn’t tell me he was a boy. How old is he?” Then she said, “He’s eleven. Well, I do wish you’d mentioned this before. It puts a completely different complexion on things.”

R. P. Tyler just stared. Then he realized what was going on. The woman was a ventriloquist. What he had taken for a man in a green crash helmet, he now saw, was a ventriloquist’s dummy. He wondered how he could ever have assumed it was human. He felt the whole thing was in vaguely bad taste.

“I saw Adam Young not five minutes ago,” he told the woman. “He and his little cronies were on their way to the American air base.”

“Oh dear,” said the woman, paling slightly. “I’ve never really liked the Yanks. They’re really very nice people, you know. Yes, but you can’t trust people who pick up the ball all the time when they play football.”

“Ahh, excuse me,” said R. P. Tyler, “I think it’s very good. Very impressive. I’m deputy chairman of the local Rotary club, and I was wondering, do you do private functions?”

“Only on Thursdays,” said Madame Tracy, disapprovingly. “And I charge extra. And I wonder if you could direct us to—?”

Mr. Tyler had been here before. He wordlessly extended a finger.

And the little scooter went putputputputputput down the narrow country lane.

As it did so, the gray dummy in the green helmet turned around and opened one eye. “Ye great southern pillock,” it croaked.

R. P. Tyler was offended, but also disappointed. He’d hoped it would be more lifelike.

R. P. TYLER, ONLY TEN MINUTES away from the village, paused, while Shutzi attempted another of its wide range of eliminatory functions. He gazed over the fence.

His knowledge of country lore was a little hazy, but he felt fairly sure that if the cows lay down, it meant rain. If they were standing it would probably be fine. These cows were taking it in turns to execute slow and solemn somersaults; and Tyler wondered what it presaged for the weather.

He sniffed. Something was burning—there was an unpleasant smell of scorched metal and rubber and leather.

“Excuse me,” said a voice from behind him. R. P. Tyler turned around.

There was a large once-black car on fire in the lane and a man in sunglasses was leaning out of one window, saying through the smoke, “I’m sorry, I’ve managed to get a little lost. Can you direct me to Lower Tadfield Air Base? I know it’s around here somewhere.”

Your car is on fire.

No. Tyler just couldn’t bring himself to say it. I mean, the man had to know that, didn’t he? He was sitting in the middle of it. Possibly it was some kind of practical joke.

So instead he said, “I think you must have taken a wrong turn about a mile back. A signpost has blown down.”

The stranger smiled, “That must be it, “ he said. The orange flames flickering below him gave him an almost infernal appearance.