Good Omens

very sensitive to vibration.”
    â€œAsk if my Ron is there,” said Mrs. Ormerod. She had a jaw like a brick.
    â€œI will, love, but you’ve got to be quiet while I make contact.”
    There was silence, broken only by Mr. Scroggie’s stomach rumbling. “Pardon, ladies,” he mumbled.
    Madame Tracy had found, through years of Drawing Aside the Veil and Exploring the Mysteries, that two minutes was the right length of time to sit in silence, waiting for the Spirit World to make contact. More than that and they got restive, less than that and they felt they weren’t getting their money’s worth.
    She did her shopping list in her head.
    Eggs. Lettuce. Ounce of cooking cheese. Four tomatoes. Butter. Roll of toilet paper. Mustn’t forget that, we’re nearly out. And a really nice piece of liver for Mr. Shadwell, poor old soul, it’s a shame …
    Time.
    Madame Tracy threw back her head, let it loll on one shoulder, then slowly lifted it again. Her eyes were almost shut.
    â€œShe’s going under now, dear,” she heard Mrs. Ormerod whisper to Julia Petley. “Nothing to be alarmed about. She’s just making herself a Bridge to the Other Side. Her spirit guide will be along soon.”
    Madame Tracy found herself rather irritated at being upstaged, and she let out a low moan. “Oooooooooh.”
    Then, in a high-pitched, quavery voice, “Are you there, my Spirit Guide?”
    She waited a little, to build up the suspense. Washing-up liquid. Two cans of baked beans. Oh, and potatoes.
    â€œHow?” she said, in a dark brown voice.
    â€œIs that you, Geronimo?” she asked herself.
    â€œIs um me, how,” she replied.
    â€œWe have a new member of the circle with us this afternoon,” she said.
    â€œHow, Miss Petley?” she said, as Geronimo. She had always understood that Red Indian spirit guides were an essential prop, and she rather liked the name. She had explained this to Newt. She didn’t know anything about Geronimo, he realized, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her.
    â€œOh,” squeaked Julia. “Charmed to make your acquaintance.”
    â€œIs my Ron there, Geronimo?” asked Mrs. Ormerod.
    â€œHow, squaw Beryl,” said Madame Tracy. “Oh there are so many um of the poor lost souls um lined up against um door to my teepee. Perhaps your Ron is amongst them. How.”
    Madame Tracy had learned her lesson years earlier, and now never brought Ron through until near the end. If she didn’t, Beryl Ormerod would occupy the rest of the seance telling the late Ron Ormerod everything that had happened to her since their last little chat. (“. . . now Ron, you remember, our Eric’s littlest, Sybilla, well you wouldn’t recognize her now, she’s taken up macramé, and our Letitia, you know, our Karen’s oldest, she’s become a lesbian but that’s all right these days and is doing a dissertation on the films of Sergio Leone as seen from a feminist perspective, and our Stan, you know, our Sandra’s twin, I told you about him last time, well, he won the darts tournament, which is nice because we all thought he was a bit of a mother’s boy, while the guttering over the shed’s come loose, but I spoke to our Cindi’s latest, who’s a jobbing builder, and he’ll be over to see to it on Sunday, and ohh, that reminds me … ”)
    No, Beryl Ormerod could wait. There was a flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a rumble of distant thunder. Madame Tracy felt rather proud, as if she had done it herself. It was even better than the candles at creating ambulance. Ambulance was what mediuming was all about.
    â€œNow,” said Madame Tracy in her own voice. “Mr. Geronimo would like to know, is there anyone named Mr. Scroggie here?”
    Scroggie’s watery eyes gleamed. “Erm, actually that’s my name,” he said, hopefully.
    â€œRight, well there’s somebody here for you.” Mr. Scroggie had been coming for a month now, and she hadn’t been able to think of a message for him. His time had come. “Do you know anyone named, um, John?”
    â€œNo,” said Mr. Scroggie.
    â€œWell, there’s some celestial interference here. The name could be Tom. Or Jim. Or, um, Dave.”
    â€œI knew a Dave when I was in Hemel Hempstead,” said Mr. Scroggie, a trifle doubtfully.
    â€œYes,