Good Omens

as well send money to a Satanist hotline to cover your bets, although to be frank when the fire falls and the seas of blood rise you lot are all going to be civilian casualties either way. Between our war and your war, they’re going to kill everyone and let God sort it out—right?
    â€œAnyway, sorry to stand here wittering, I’ve just a quick question—where am I?”
    Marvin O. Bagman was gradually going purple.
    â€œIt’s the devil! Lord protect me! The devil is speakin’ through me!” he erupted, and interrupted himself, “Oh no, quite the opposite in fact. I’m an angel. Ah. This has to be America, doesn’t it? So sorry, can’t stay … ”
    There was a pause. Marvin tried to open his mouth, but nothing happened. Whatever was in his head looked around. He looked at the studio crew, those who weren’t phoning the police, or sobbing in corners. He looked at the gray-faced cameramen.
    â€œGosh,” he said, “am I on television?”
    CROWLEY WAS DOING a hundred and twenty miles an hour down Oxford Street.
    He reached into the glove compartment for his spare pair of sunglasses, and found only cassettes. Irritably he grabbed one at random and pushed it into the slot.
    He wanted Bach, but he would settle for The Traveling Wilburys.
    All we need is , Radio Gaga , sang Freddie Mercury.
    All I need is out, thought Crowley.
    He swung around the Marble Arch Roundabout the wrong way, doing ninety. Lightning made the London skies flicker like a malfunctioning fluorescent tube.
    A livid sky on London, Crowley thought , And I knew the end was near. Who had written that? Chesterton, wasn’t it? The only poet in the twentieth century to even come close to the Truth.
    The Bentley headed out of London while Crowley sat back in the driver’s seat and thumbed through the singed copy of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.
    Near the end of the book he found a folded sheet of paper covered in Aziraphale’s neat copperplate handwriting. He unfolded it (while the Bentley’s gearstick shifted itself down to third and the car accelerated around a fruit lorry, which had unexpectedly backed out of a side street), and then he read it again.
    Then he read it one more time, with a slow sinking feeling at the base of his stomach.
    The car changed direction suddenly. It was now heading for the village of Tadfield, in Oxfordshire. He could be there in an hour if he hurried.
    Anyway, there wasn’t really anywhere else to go.
    The cassette finished, activating the car radio.
    â€œ. . . Gardeners’ Question Time coming to you from Tadfield Gardening Club. We were last here in 1953, a very nice summer, and as the team will remember it’s a rich Oxfordshire loam in the East of the parish, rising to chalk in the West, the kind of place oi say, don’t matter what you plant here, it’ll come up beautiful. Isn’t that right, Fred?”
    â€œYep,” said Professor Fred Windbright, Royal Botanical Gardens, “couldn’t of put it better meself.”
    â€œRight—First question for the team, and this comes from Mr. R.P. Tyler, chairman of the local Residents Association, I do believe.”
    â€œâ€™hem. That’s right. Well, I’m a keen rose grower, but my prize-winning Molly McGuire lost a couple of blossoms yesterday in a rain of what were apparently fish. What does the team recommend for this, other than place netting over the garden? I mean, I’ve written to the council … ”
    â€œNot a common problem, I’d say. Harry?”
    â€œMr. Tyler, let me ask you a question—were these fresh fish, or preserved?”
    â€œFresh, I believe.”
    â€œWell, you’ve got no problems, my friend. I hear you’ve also been having rains of blood in these parts—and I wish we had these up in the Dales, where my garden is. Save me a fortune in fertilizers. Now, what you do is, you dig them in to your … ” CROWLEY?
    Crowley said nothing.
    CROWLEY. THE WAR HAS BEGUN, CROWLEY. WE NOTE WITH INTEREST THAT YOU AVOIDED THE FORCES WE EMPOWERED TO COLLECT YOU.
    â€œMm,” Crowley agreed.
    CROWLEY … WE WILL WIN THIS WAR. BUT EVEN IF WE LOSE, AT LEAST AS FAR AS YOU ARE CONCERNED, IT WILL MAKE NO DIFFERENCE AT ALL. FOR AS LONG AS THERE IS ONE DEMON LEFT IN HELL, CROWLEY, YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD BEEN CREATED MORTAL.
    Crowley was silent.
    MORTALS CAN HOPE FOR DEATH,