Good Omens

“So what exactly do you want me to do about this?” she was asking.

“Ach, ye beldame,” muttered Shadwell. She had one of her gentlemen callers in there, obviously.

“To be frank, dear lady, my plans at this point are perforce somewhat fluid.”

Shadwell’s blood ran cold. He marched through the bead curtain, shouting, “The sins of Sodom an’ Gomorrah! Takin’ advantage of a defenseless hoor! Over my dead body!”

Madame Tracy looked up, and smiled at him. There wasn’t anyone else in the room.

“Whurrizee?” asked Shadwell.

“Whom?” asked Madame Tracy.

“Some Southern pansy,” he said, “I heard him. He was in here, suggestin’ things to yer. I heard him.”

Madame Tracy’s mouth opened, and a voice said, “Not just A Southern Pansy, Sergeant Shadwell. THE Southern Pansy.”

Shadwell dropped his cigarette. He stretched out his arm, shaking slightly, and pointed his hand at Madame Tracy.

“Demon,” he croaked.

“No,” said Madame Tracy, in the voice of the demon. “Now, I know what you’re thinking, Sergeant Shadwell. You’re thinking that any second now this head is going to go round and round, and I’m going to start vomiting pea soup. Well, I’m not. I’m not a demon. And I’d like you to listen to what I have to say.”

“Daemonspawn, be silent,” ordered Shadwell. “I’ll no listen to yer wicked lies. Do yer know what this is? It’s a hand. Four fingers. One thumb. It’s already exorcised one of yer number this morning. Now get ye out of this gud wimmin’s head, or I’ll blast ye to kingdom come.”

“That’s the problem, Mr. Shadwell,” said Madame Tracy in her own voice. “Kingdom come. It’s going to. That’s the problem. Mr. Aziraphale has been telling me all about it. Now stop being an old silly, Mr. Shadwell, sit down, and have some tea, and he’ll explain it to you as well.”

“I’ll ne’r listen tae his hellish blandishments, woman,” said Shadwell.

Madame Tracy smiled at him. “You old silly,” she said.

He could have handled anything else.

He sat down.

But he didn’t lower his hand.

THE SWINGING OVERHEAD SIGNS proclaimed that the southbound carriageway was closed, and a small forest of orange cones had sprung up, redirecting motorists onto a co-opted lane of the northbound carriageway. Other signs directed motorists to slow down to thirty miles per hour. Police cars herded the drivers around like red-striped sheepdogs.

The four bikers ignored all the signs, and cones, and police cars, and continued down the empty southbound carriageway of the M6. The other four bikers, just behind them, slowed a little.

“Shouldn’t we, uh, stop or something?” asked Really Cool People.

“Yeah. Could be a pileup,” said Treading in Dogshit (formerly All Foreigners Especially The French, formerly Things Not Working Properly Even When You’ve Given Them a Good Thumping, never actually No Alcohol Lager, briefly Embarrassing Personal Problems, formerly known as Skuzz).

“We’re the other Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” said G.B.H. “We do what they do. We follow them.”

They rode south.

“IT’LL BE A WORLD JUST FOR US,” said Adam. “Everything’s always been messed up by other people but we can get rid of it all an’ start again. Won’t that be great?”

“YOU ARE, I TRUST, familiar with the Book of Revelation?” said Madame Tracy with Aziraphale’s voice.

“Aye,” said Shadwell, who wasn’t. His biblical expertise began and ended with Exodus, chapter twenty-two, verse eighteen, which concerned Witches, the suffering to live of, and why you shouldn’t. He had once glanced at verse nineteen, which was about putting to death people who lay down with beasts, bu

t he had felt that this was rather outside his jurisdiction.

“Then you have heard of the Antichrist?”