Good Omens

Shadwell looked down at his right hand,andsmiled. Then he hesitated.

"This Antichrist‑how many nipples has he?"

The end justifies the means, thought Aziraphale. And the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.[45] And he lied cheerfully and convinc­ingly: "Oodles. Pots of them. His chest is covered with them‑he makes Diana of the Ephesians look positively nippleless."

"I wouldna know about this Diana of yours," said Shadwell, "but if he's a witch, and it sounds tae me like he is, then, speaking as a sergeant in the WA, I'm yer man."

"Good, " said Aziraphale through Madame Tracy.

"I'm not sure about this killing business," said Madame Tracy her­self. "But if it's this man, this Antichrist, or everybody else, then I suppose we don't really have any choice."

"Exactly, dear lady," she replied. "Now, Sergeant Shadwell. Have you a weapon?"

Shadwell rubbed his right hand with his left, clenching and un­clenching the fist. "Aye," he said. "I have that." And he raised two fingers to his lips and blew on them gently.

There was a pause. "Your hand?" asked Aziraphale.

"Aye. 'Tis a turrible weapon. It did for ye, daemonspawn, did it not?"

"Have you anything more, uh, substantial? How about the Golden Dagger of Meggido? Or the Shiv of Kali?"

Shadwell shook his head. "I've got some pins," he suggested. "And the Thundergun of Witchfinder‑Colonel Ye‑Shall‑Not‑Eat‑Any‑Living­Thing‑With‑The‑Blood‑ Neither‑Shall‑Ye‑Use‑Enchantment‑ Nor‑Observe­Times Dalrymple . . . I could load it with silver bullets."

"That's werewolves, I believe, " said Aziraphale.

"Garlic?"

"Vampires."

Shadwell shrugged. "Aye, week I di

He shuffled out, thinking, why do I need another weapon? I'm a man with a hand.

"Now, dear lady," said Aziraphale. "Itrust you have a reliable mode of transportation at your disposal. "

"Oh yes," said Madame Tracy. She went over to the corner of the kitchen and picked up a pink motorbike helmet, with a yellow sunflower painted on it, and put it on, strapping it under her chin. Then she rum­maged in a cupboard, pulled out three or four hundred plastic shopping bags and a heap of yellowing local newspapers, then a dusty day‑glo green helmet with EASY RIDER written across the top, a present from her niece Petula twenty years before.

Shadwell, returning with the Thundergun over his shoulder, stared at her unbelieving.

"I don't know what you're staring at, Mr. Shadwell," she told him. "It's parked in the road downstairs." She passed him the helmet. "You've got to put it on. It's the law. I don't think you're really allowed to have three people on a scooter, even if two of them are, er, sharing. But it's an emergency. And I'm sure you'll be quite safe, if you hold on to me nice and tight." And she smiled. "Won't that be fun?"

Shadwell paled, muttered something inaudible, and put on the green helmet.

"What was that, Mr. Shadwell?" Madame Tracy looked at him sharply.

"I said, De'il ding a divot aff yer wame wi' a flaughter spade," said Shadwell.

"That'll be quite enough of that kind of language, Mr. Shadwell," said Madame Tracy, and she marched him out of the hall and down the stairs to Crouch End High Street, where an elderly scooter waited to take the two, well, call it three of them away.

– – -

The lorry blocked the road. And the corrugated iron blocked the road. And a thirty‑foot‑high pile of fish blocked the road. It was one of the most effectively blocked roads the sergeant had ever seen.

The rain wasn't helping.

"Any idea when the bulldozers are likely to get here?" he shouted into his radio.

"We're crrrrk doing the best we crrrrk, " came the reply.

He felt something tugging at his trouser cuff, and looked down.

"Lobsters?" He gave a little skip, and a jump, and wound up on the top of the police car. "Lobsters," he repeated. There were about thirty of them‑some over two feet long. Most of them were on their way up the motorway; half a dozen had stopped to check out the police car.

"Something wrong, Sarge?" asked the police constable, who was taking down the lorry driver's details on the hard shoulder.

"I just don't like lobsters," said the sergeant, grimly, shutting his eyes. "Bring me out in a rash. Too many legs. I'll just sit up here a bit, and you can tell me when they've all gone."

He sat on the top of the car, in the rain, and felt the water seeping into the bottom of his trousers.

There was a low roar. Thunder? No. It was continuous, and getting closer. Motorbikes. The sergeant opened one eye.

Jesus Christ!

There were four of them, and they had to be doing over a hundred. He was about to climb down, to wave at them, to shout, but they were past him, heading straight for the upturned lorry.

There was nothing the sergeant could do. He closed his eyes again, and listened for the collision. He could hear them coming closer. Then:

Whoosh.

Whoosh.

Whoosh.

And a voice in his head that said, I'LL CATCH UP WITH THE REST OF YOU.

("Did you see that?" asked Really Cool People. "They flew right over it!"

"kin'ell!" said G.B.H. "If they can do it, we can too!")

The sergeant opened his eyes. He turned to the police constable and opened his mouth.

The police constable said, "They. They actually. They flew righ . . ."

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Splat.

There was another rain of fish, although of shorter duration, and more easily explicable. A leather jacketed arm waved feebly from the large pile of fish. A motorbike wheel spun hopelessly.

That was Skuzz, semi‑conscious, deciding that if there was one thing he hated even more than the French it was being up to his neck in fish with what felt like a broken leg. He truly hated that.

He wanted to tell G.B.H. about his new role; but he couldn't move. Something wet and slippery slithered up one sleeve.

Later, when they'd dragged him out of the fish pile, and he'd seen the other three bikers, with the blankets over their heads, he realized it was too late to tell them anything.

That was why they hadn't been in that Book of Revelations Pigbog had been going on about. They'd never made it that far down the motor­way.

Skuzz muttered something. The police sergeant leaned over. "Don't try to speak, son," he said. "The ambulance'll be here soon."

"Listen," croaked Skuzz. "Got something important to tell you. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse . . . they're right bastards, all four of them."

"He's delirious," a

"I'm sodding not. I'm People Covered In Fish," croaked Skuzz, and passed out.

45

This is not actually true. The road to Hell is paved with frozen door‑to‑door salesmen. On weekends many of the younger demons go ice‑skating down it.