Good Omens

“Very good,” he said.

“You certain they’re Spanish onions?” said Pepper, relaxing.

“ ’Course,” said Adam. “Spanish onions. Everyone knows that.”

“They could be French,” said Pepper doggedly. “France is famous for onions.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Adam, who was getting fed up with onions. “France is nearly Spanish, an’ I don’t expect witches know the difference, what with spendin’ all their time flyin’ around at night. It all looks like the Continong to witches. Anyway, if you don’t like it you can jolly well go and start your own Inquisition, anyway.”

For once, Pepper didn’t push it. She’d been promised the post of Head Torturer. No one doubted who was going to be Chief Inquisitor. Wensleydale and Brian were less enthralled with their roles of Inquisitorial Guards.

“Well, you don’t know any Spanish,” said Adam, whose lunch hour had included ten minutes with a phrase book Sarah had bought in a haze of romanticism in Alicanté.

“That doesn’t matter, because actually you have to talk in Latin,” said Wensleydale, who had also been doing some slightly more accurate lunchtime reading.

“And Spanish,” said Adam firmly. “That’s why it’s the Spanish Inquisition.”

“I don’t see why it shouldn’t be a British Inquisition,” said Brian. “Don’t see why we should of fought the Armada and everything, just to have their smelly Inquisition.”

This had been slightly bothering Adam’s patriotic sensibilities as well.

“I reckon,” he said, “that we should sort of start Spanish, and then make it the British Inquisition when we’ve got the hang of it. And now,” he added, “the Inquisitorial Guard will go and fetch the first witch, por favor.”

The new inhabitant of Jasmine Cottage would have to wait, they’d decided. What they needed to do was start small and work their way up.

“ART THOU A WITCH, oh lay?” said the Chief Inquisitor.

“Yes,” said Pepper’s little sister, who was six and built like a small golden-haired football.

“You mustn’t say yes, you’ve got to say no,” hissed the Head Torturer, nudging the suspect.

“And then what?” demanded the suspect.

“And then we torture you to make you say yes,” said the Head Torturer. “I told you. It’s good fun, the torturin’. It doesn’t hurt. Hastar lar visa,” she added quickly.

The little suspect gave the decor of the Inquisitorial headquarters a disparaging look. There was a decided odor of onions.

“Huh,” she said. “I want to be a witch, wiv a warty nose an’ a green skin an’ a lovely cat an’ I’d call it Blackie, an’ lots of potions an’—”

The Head Torturer nodded to the Chief Inquisitor.

“Look,” said Pepper, desperately, “no one’s saying you can’t be a witch, you jus’ have to say you’re not a witch. No point in us taking all this trouble,” she added severely, “if you’re going to go round saying yes the minute we ask you.”

The suspect considered this.

“But I wants to be a witch,” she wailed. The male Them exchanged exhausted glances. This was out of their league.

“If you just say no,” said Pepper, “you can have my Sindy stable set. I’ve never ever used it,” she added, glaring at the other Them and daring them to make a comment.

“You have used it,” snapped her sister, “I’ve seen it and it’s all worn out and the bit where you put the hay is broke and—”

Adam gave a magisterial cough.

“Art thou a witch, viva espana?” he repeated.

The sister took a look at Pepper’s face, and decided not to chance it.

“No,” she decided.