Good Omens

“Aye,” said Shadwell, who had seen a film once which explained it all. Something about sheets of glass falling off lorries and slicing people’s heads off, as he recalled. No proper witches to speak of. He’d gone to sleep halfway through.

“The Antichrist is alive on earth at this moment, Sergeant. He is bringing about Armageddon, the Day of Judgment, even if he himself does not know it. Heaven and Hell are both preparing for war, and it’s all going to be very messy.”

Shadwell merely grunted.

“I am not actually permitted to act directly in this matter, Sergeant. But I am sure that you can see that the imminent destruction of the world is not something any reasonable man would permit. Am I correct?”

“Aye. S’pose,” said Shadwell, sipping condensed milk from a rusting can Madame Tracy had discovered under the sink.

“Then there is only one thing to be done. And you are the only man I can rely on. The Antichrist must be killed, Sergeant Shadwell. And you must do it.”

Shadwell frowned. “I wouldna know about that,” he said. “The witchfinder army only kills witches. ’Tis one of the rules. And demons and imps, o’ course.”

“But, but the Antichrist is more than just a witch. He—he’s THE witch. He’s just about as witchy as you can get.”

“Wud he be harder to get rid of than, say, a demon?” asked Shadwell, who had begun to brighten.

“Not much more,” said Aziraphale, who had never done other to get rid of demons than to hint to them very strongly that he, Aziraphale, had some work to be getting on with, and wasn’t it getting late? And Crowley had always got the hint.

Shadwell looked down at his right hand, and smiled. Then he hesitated.

“This Antichrist—how many nipples has he?”

The end justifies the means, thought Aziraphale. And the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.46 And he lied cheerfully and convincingly: “Oodles. Pots of them. His chest is covered with them—he makes Diana of the Ephesians look positively nippleless.”

“I wouldna know about this Diana of yours,” said Shadwell, “but if he’s a witch, and it sounds tae me like he is, then, speaking as a sergeant in the WA, I’m yer man.”

“Good,” said Aziraphale through Madame Tracy.

“I’m not sure about this killing business,” said Madame Tracy herself. “But if it’s this man, this Antichrist, or everybody else, then I suppose we don’t really have any choice.”

“Exactly, dear lady,” she replied. “Now, Sergeant Shadwell. Have you a weapon?”

Shadwell rubbed his right hand with his left, clenching and unclenching the fist. “Aye,” he said. “I have that.” And he raised two fingers to his lips and blew on them gently.

There was a pause. “Your hand?” asked Aziraphale.

“Aye. ’Tis a turrible weapon. It did for ye, daemonspawn, did it not?”

“Have you anything more, uh, substantial? How about the Golden Dagger of Meggido? Or the Shiv of Kali?”

Shadwell shook his head. “I’ve got some pins,” he suggested. “And the Thundergun of Witchfinder-Colonel Ye-Shall-Not-Eat-Any-Living-Thing-With-The-Blood-Neither-Shall-Ye-Use-Enchantment-Nor-Observe-Times Dalrymple … I could load it with silver bullets.”

“That’s werewolves, I believe,” said Aziraphale.

“Garlic?”

“Vampires.”

Shadwell shrugged. “Aye, weel, I dinna have any fancy bullets anyway. But the Thundergun will fire anything. I’ll go and fetch it.”

He shuffled out, thinking, why do I need another weapon? I’m a man with a hand.

“Now, dear lady,” said Aziraphale. “I trust you have a reliable mode of transportation at your disposal.”

“Oh, yes,” said Madame Tracy. She went over to the corner of the kitchen and picked up a pink motorbike helmet, with a yellow sunflower painted on it, and put it on, strapping it under her chin. Then she rummaged in a cupboard, pulled out three or four hundred plastic shopping bags and a heap of yellowing local newspapers, then a dusty day-glo green helmet with EASY RIDER written across the top, a present from her niece Petula twenty years before.

Shadwell, returning with the Thundergun over his shoulder, stared at her unbelieving.