Good Omens

The light faded, but did not quite vanish. They’re leaving the line open, Aziraphale thought. I’m not getting out of this one.

“Hallo?” he said softly, “Anyone still there?”

There was silence.

Very carefully, he stepped over the circle and crept to the telephone. He opened his notebook and dialed another number.

After four rings it gave a little cough, followed by a pause, and then a voice which sounded so laid back you could put a carpet on it said, “Hi. This is Anthony Crowley. Uh. I—”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale tried to hiss and shout at the same time, “Listen! I haven’t got much time! The—”

“—probably not in right now, or asleep, and busy, or something, but—”

“Shutup! Listen! It was in Tadfield! It’s all in that book! You’ve got to stop—”

“—after the tone and I’ll get right back to you. Chow.”

“I want to talk to you now—”

BeeeEEeeeEEeee

“Stop making noises! It’s in Tadfield! That was what I was sensing! You must go there and—”

He took the phone away from his mouth.

“Bugger!” he said. It was the first time he’d sworn in more than six thousand years.

Hold on. The demon had another line, didn’t he? He was that kind of person. Aziraphale fumbled in the book, nearly dropping it on the floor. They would be getting impatient soon.

He found the other number. He dialed it. It was answered almost immediately, at the same time as the shop’s bell tingled gently.

Crowley’s voice, getting louder as it neared the mouthpiece, said, “—really mean it. Hallo?”

“Crowley, it’s me!”

“Ngh.” The voice was horribly noncommittal. Even in his present state, Aziraphale sensed trouble.

“Are you alone?” he said cautiously.

“Nuh. Got an old friend here.”

“Listen—!”

“Awa’ we ye, ye spawn o’ hell!”

Very slowly, Aziraphale turned around.

SHADWELL WAS TREMBLING with excitement. He’d seen it all. He’d heard it all. He hadn’t understood any of it, but he knew what people did with circles and candlesticks and incense. He knew that all right. He’d seen The Devil Rides Out fifteen times, sixteen times if you included the time he’d been thrown out of the cinema for shouting his unflattering opinions of amateur witchfinder Christopher Lee.

The buggers were using him. They’d been making fools out o’ the glorious traditions o’ the Army.

“I’ll have ye, ye evil bastard!” he shouted, advancing like a moth-eaten avenging angel. “I ken what ye be about, comin’ up here and seducin’ wimmen to do yer evil will!”

“I think perhaps you’ve got the wrong shop,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll call back later,” he told the receiver, and hung up.

“I could see what yer were aboot,” snarled Shadwell. There were flecks of foam around his mouth. He was more angry than he could ever remember.

“Er, things are not what they seem—” Aziraphale began, aware even as he said it that as conversational gambits went it lacked a certain polish.