Good Omens(59)

“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. Yell pay yer ane petrol, ye say?”

Newt nodded.

“Then yell 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!”

“Ach, awa' wi' ye, ye murrain plashed berrizene,” muttered Shadwell, and slammed the door. Tadfield, he thought. Och, weel. So long as they paid up on time ...

Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley ran the Witchfinder Army, but they both approved of it, or at least knew that it would be approved of by their superiors. So it appeared on the list of Aziraphale's agencies because it was, well, a Witchfinder Army, and you had to support anyone calling themselves witchfinders in the same way that the U.S.A. had to support anyone calling themselves anti.. communist. And it appeared on Crowley's list for the slightly more sophisticated reason that people like Shadwell did the cause of Hell no harm at all. Quite the reverse, it was felt.

Strictly speaking, Shadwell didn't run the WA either. According to Shadwell's pay ledgers it was run by Witchfinder General Smith. Under him were Witchfinder Colonels Green and Jones, and Witchfinder Majors Jackson, Robinson, and Smith (no relation). Then there were Witchfinder Majors Saucepan, Tin, Milk, and Cupboard, because Shadwell's limited imagination had been beginning to struggle at this point. And Witchfinder Captains Smith, Smith, Smith, and Smythe and Ditto. And five hundred Witchfinder Privates and Corporals and Sergeants. Many of them were called Smith, but this didn't matter because neither Crowley nor Aziraphale had ever bothered to read that far. They simply handed over the pay.

After all, both lots put together only came to around £60 a year.

Shadwell didn't consider this in any way criminal. The army was a sacred trust, and a man had to do something. The old ninepences weren't coming in like they used to.

Saturday

t was very early on Saturday morning, on the last day of the world, and the sky was redder than blood.

The International Express delivery man rounded the corner at a careful thirty.. five miles an hour, shifted down to second, and pulled up on the grass verge.

He got out of the van, and immediately threw himself into a ditch to avoid an oncoming lorry that had barrelled around the bend at something well in excess of eighty miles an hour.

He got up, picked up his glasses, put them back on, retrieved his parcel and clipboard, brushed the grass and mud from his uniform, and, as an afterthought, shook his fist at the rapidly diminishing lorry.

“Shouldn't be allowed, bloody lorries, no respect for other road users, what I always say, what I always say, is remember that without a car, son, you're just a pedestrian too ...”

He climbed down the grassy verge, clambered over a low fence, and found himself beside the river Uck.

The International Express delivery man walked along the banks of the river, holding the parcel.

Farther down the riverbank sat a young man dressed all in white. He was the only person in sight. His hair was white, his skin chalk pale, and he sat and stared up and down the river, as if he were admiring the view. He looked like Victorian Romantic poets looked just before the consumption and drug abuse really started to cut it.