Good Omens

“My bicycle. It’s bent all to—”

“Amazingly resilient, these old machines,” said the angel brightly, handing it to her. The front wheel gleamed in the moonlight, as perfectly round as one of the Circles of Hell.

She stared at it.

“Well, since that’s all sorted out,” said Crowley, “perhaps it’d be best if we just all got on our, er. Er. You wouldn’t happen to know the way to Lower Tadfield, would you?”

Anathema was still staring at her bicycle. She was almost certain that it hadn’t had a little saddlebag with a puncture repair kit when she set out.

“It’s just down the hill,” she said. “This is my bike, isn’t it?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Aziraphale, wondering if he’d overdone things.

“Only I’m sure Phaeton never had a pump.”

The angel looked guilty again.

“But there’s a place for one,” he said, helplessly. “Two little hooks.”

“Just down the hill, you said?” said Crowley, nudging the angel.

“I think perhaps I must have knocked my head,” said the girl.

“We’d offer to give you a lift, of course,” said Crowley quickly, “but there’s nowhere for the bike.”

“Except the luggage rack,” said Aziraphale.

“The Bentley hasn’t— Oh. Huh.”

The angel scrambled the spilled contents of the bike’s basket into the back seat and helped the stunned girl in after them.

“One does not,” he said to Crowley, “pass by on the other side.”

“Your one might not. This one does. We have got other things to do, you know.” Crowley glared at the new luggage rack. It had tartan straps.

The bicycle lifted itself up and tied itself firmly in place. Then Crowley got in.

“Where do you live, my dear?” Aziraphale oozed.

“My bike didn’t have lights, either. Well, it did, but they’re the sort you put those double batteries in and they went moldy and I took them off,” said Anathema. She glared at Crowley. “I have a bread knife, you know,” she said. “Somewhere.”

Aziraphale looked shocked at the implication.

“Madam, I assure you—”

Crowley switched on the lights. He didn’t need them to see by, but they made the other humans on the road less nervous.

Then he put the car into gear and drove sedately down the hill. The road came out from under the trees and, after a few hundred yards, reached the outskirts of a middle-sized village.

It had a familiar feel to it. It had been eleven years, but this place definitely rang a distant bell.

“Is there a hospital around here?” he said. “Run by nuns?”

Anathema shrugged. “Don’t think so,” she said. “The only large place is Tadfield Manor. I don’t know what goes on there.”

“Divine planning,” muttered Crowley under his breath.

“And gears,” said Anathema. “My bike didn’t have gears. I’m sure my bike didn’t have gears.”