Good Omens

“What was it ye was goin’ on about?” he said.

“All these things that are happening—” Newt began.

“Aye.” Shadwell continued to look through him while thoughtfully tapping the empty tin against his teeth.

“Well, there’s this little town which has been having some amazing weather for the last few years,” Newt went on helplessly.

“What? Rainin’ frogs and similar?” said Shadwell, brightening up a bit.

“No. It just has normal weather for the time of year.”

“Call that a phenomena?” said Shadwell. “I’ve seen phenomenas that’d make your hair curl, laddie.” He started tapping again.

“When do you remember normal weather for the time of year?” said Newt, slightly annoyed. “Normal weather for the time of year isn’t normal, Sergeant. It has snow at Christmas. When did you last see snow at Christmas? And long hot Augusts? Every year? And crisp autumns? The kind of weather you used to dream of as a kid? It never rained on November the Fifth and always snowed on Christmas Eve?”

Shadwell’s eyes looked unfocused. He paused with the condensed milk tin halfway to his lips.

“I never used to dream when I was a kid,” he said quietly.

Newt was aware of skidding around the lip of some deep, unpleasant pit. He mentally backed away.

“It’s just very odd,” he said. “There’s a weatherman here talking about averages and norms and microclimates and things like that.”

“What’s that mean?” said Shadwell.

“Means he doesn’t know why,” said Newt, who hadn’t spent years on the littoral of business without picking up a thing or two. He looked sidelong at the Witchfinder Sergeant.

“Witches are well known for affecting the weather,” he prompted. “I looked it up in the Discouverie.”

Oh God, he thought, or other suitable entity, don’t let me spend another evening cutting newspapers to bits in this ashtray of a room. Let me get out in the fresh air. Let me do whatever is the WA’s equivalent of going waterskiing in Germany.

“It’s only forty miles away,” he said tentatively. “I thought I could just sort of nip over there tomorrow. And have a look around, you know. I’ll pay my own petrol,” he added.

Shadwell wiped his upper lip thoughtfully.

“This place,” he said, “it wouldna be called Tadfield, would it?”

“That’s right, Mr. Shadwell,” said Newt. “How did you know that?”

“Wonder what the Southerners is playing at noo?” said Shadwell under his breath.

“Weeell,” he said, out loud. “And why not?”

“Who’ll be playing, Sergeant?” said Newt.

Shadwell ignored him. “Aye. I suppose it can’t do any harm. Ye’ll pay yer ane petrol, ye say?”

Newt nodded.

“Then ye’ll come here at nine o’ the clock in the morning,” he said, “afore ye go.”

“What for?” said Newt.

“Yer armor o’ righteousness.”

JUST AFTER NEWT HAD LEFT the phone rang again. This time it was Crowley, who gave approximately the same instructions as Aziraphale. Shadwell took them down again for form’s sake, while Madame Tracy hovered delightedly behind him.

“Two calls in one day, Mr. Shadwell,” she said. “Your little army must be marching away like anything!”