Good Omens

is going to burn to death. And, Shadwell realizes in his dream, it is a horrible way to die.
The flames lick higher.
And the woman looks up. She is staring straight at him, invisible though he is. And she is smiling.
And then it all goes boom.
        A crash of thunder.
    That was thunder, thought Shadwell, as he woke up, with the unshakable feeling that someone was still staring at him.
    He opened his eyes, and thirteen glass eyes watched from the various shelves of Madame Tracy's boudoir, staring out from a variety of fuzzy faces.
    He looked away, and into the eyes of someone staring intently at him. It was him.
    Och, he thought in terror, I'm havin' one o' them out.. o'.. yer.. body experiences, I can see mah ane self, I'm a goner this time right enough ...
    He made frantic swimming motions in an effort to reach his own body and then, as these things do, the perspectives clicked into place.
    Shadwell relaxed, and wondered why anyone would want to put a mirror on his bedroom ceiling. He shook his head, baffled.
    He climbed out of the bed, pulled on his boots, and stood up, warily. Something was missing. A cigarette. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, pulled out a tin, and began to roll a cigarette.

    He'd been dreaming, he knew. Shadwell didn't remember the dream, but it made him feel uncomfortable, whatever it was.
    He lit the cigarette. And he saw his right hand: the ultimate weapon. The doomsday device. He pointed one finger at the one.. eyed teddy bear on the mantelpiece.
    "Bang," he said, and chuckled, dustily. He wasn't used to chuckling, and he began to cough, which meant he was back on familiar territory. He wanted something to drink. A sweet can of condensed milk.
    Madame Tracy would have some.
    He stomped out of her boudoir, heading toward the kitchen.
    Outside the little kitchen he paused. She was talking to someone. A man.
    "So what exactly do you want me to do about this?" she was ask ing.
    "Ach, ye beldame," muttered Shadwell. She had one of her gentlemen callers in there, obviously.
    "To be frank, dear lady, my plans at this point are perforce somewhat fluid."
    Shadwell's blood ran cold. He marched through the bead curtain, shouting, "The sins of Sodom an' Gomorrah! Takin' advantage of a defenseless hour! Over my dead body!"
    Madame Tracy looked up, and smiled at him. There wasn't anyone else in the room.
    "Whurrizee?" asked Shadwell.
    "Whom?" asked Madame Tracy.
    "Some Southern pansy," he said, "I heard him. He was in here, suggestin' things to yer. I heard him."
    Madame Tracy's mouth opened, and a voice said, "Not just A Southern Pansy, Sergeant Shadwell. THE Southern Pansy."
    Shadwell dropped his cigarette. He stretched out his arm, shaking slightly, and pointed his hand at Madame Tracy.
    "Demon," he croaked.
    "No," said Madame Tracy, in the voice of the demon. " Now, I know what you're thinking, Sergeant Shadwell. You're thinking that any second now this head is going to go round and round, and I'm going to start vomiting pea soup. Well, I'm not. I'm not a demon. And I'd like you to listen to what I have to say. "
    "Daemonspawn, be silent," ordered Shadwell. "I'll no listen to yer wicked lies. Do yer know what this is? It's a hand. Four fingers. One thumb. It's already exorcised one of yer number this morning. Now get ye out of this gud wimmin's head, or I'll blast ye to kingdom come."
    "That's the problem, Mr. Shadwell," said Madame Tracy in her own voice. "Kingdom come. It's going to. That's the problem. Mr. Aziraphale has been telling me all about it. Now stop being an old silly, Mr. Shadwell, sit down, and have some tea, and he'll explain it to you as well."
    "I'll ne'r listen tae his hellish blandishments, woman," said Shadwell.
    Madame Tracy smiled at him. "You old silly, " she said.
    He could have handled anything else.
    He sat down.
    But he didn't lower his hand.
    * * *

        The swinging overhead signs proclaimed that the southbound carriageway was closed, and a small forest of orange cones had sprung up, redirecting motorists onto a co.. opted lane of the northbound carriageway. Other signs directed motorists to slow down to thirty miles per hour. Police cars herded the drivers around like red.. striped sheepdogs.
    The four bikers ignored all the signs, and cones, and police cars, and continued down the empty