Good Omens

salespeople! Something dreadful ought to happen to them.
    He was assailed by a moment of sudden doubt. Today was Sunday, wasn’t it? A glance at the Sunday papers reassured him. If the Sunday Times said it was Sunday, you could be sure that they’d investigated the matter. And yesterday was Saturday. Of course. Yesterday was Saturday, and he’d never forget Saturday for as long as he lived, if only he could remember what it was he wasn’t meant to forget.
    Seeing that he was in the kitchen, Newt decided to make breakfast.
    He moved around the kitchen as quietly as possible, to avoid waking the rest of the household, and found every sound magnified. The antique fridge had a door that shut like the crack of doom. The kitchen tap dribbled like a diuretic gerbil but made a noise like Old Faithful. And he couldn’t find where anything was. In the end, as every human being who has ever breakfasted on their own in someone else’s kitchen has done since nearly the dawn of time, he made do with unsweetened instant black coffee. 55
    On the kitchen table was a roughly rectangular, leather-bound cinder. He could just make out the words ‘Ni e and Acc’ on the charred cover. What a difference a day made, he thought. It turns you from the ultimate reference book to a mere barbecue briquette.
    Now, then. How, exactly, had they got it? He recalled a man who smelled of smoke and wore sunglasses even in darkness. And there was other stuff, all running together … boys on bikes … an unpleasant buzzing … a small, grubby, staring face … It all hung around in his mind, not exactly forgotten but forever hanging on the cusp of recollection, a memory of things that hadn’t happened. 56 How could you have that?
    He sat staring at the wall until a knock at the door brought him back to earth.
    There was a small dapper man in a black raincoat standing on the doorstep. He was holding a cardboard box and he gave Newt a bright smile.
    â€œMr.”—he consulted a piece of paper in one hand—”Pulzifer?”
    â€œPulsifer,” said Newt. “It’s a hard ess .”
    â€œI’m ever so sorry,” said the man. “I’ve only ever seen it written down. Er. Well, then. It would appear that this is for you and Mrs. Pulsifer.”
    Newt gave him a blank look.
    â€œThere is no Mrs. Pulsifer,” he said coldly.
    The man removed his bowler hat.
    â€œOh, I’m terribly sorry,” he said.
    â€œI mean that … well, there’s my mother,” said Newt. “But she’s not dead, she’s just in Dorking. I’m not married.”
    â€œHow odd. The letter is quite, er, specific.”
    â€œWho are you?” said Newt. He was wearing only his trousers, and it was chilly on the doorstep.
    The man balanced the box awkwardly and fished out a card from an inner pocket. He handed it to Newt.
    GILES BADDICOMBE
    Robey, Robey, Redfearn and Bychance
    Solicitors
    13 Demdyke Chambers,
    PRESTON
    â€œYes?” he said politely. “And what can I do for you, Mr. Baddicombe?”
    â€œYou could let me in,” said Mr. Baddicombe.
    â€œYou’re not serving a writ or anything, are you?” said Newt. The events of last night hung in his memory like a cloud, constantly changing whenever he thought he could make out a picture, but he was vaguely aware of damaging things and had been expecting retribution in some form.
    â€œNo,” said Mr. Baddicombe, looking slightly hurt. “We have people for that sort of thing.”
    He wandered past Newt and put the box down on the table.
    â€œTo be honest,” he said, “we’re all very interested in this. Mr. Bychance nearly came down himself, but he doesn’t travel well these days.”
    â€œLook,” said Newt, “I really haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
    â€œThis,” said Mr. Baddicombe, proffering the box and beaming like Aziraphale about to attempt a conjuring trick, “is yours. Someone wanted you to have it. They were very specific.”
    â€œA present?” said Newt. He eyed the taped cardboard cautiously, and then rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a sharp knife.
    â€œI think more a bequest,” said Mr. Baddicombe. “You see, we’ve had it for three hundred years. Sorry. Was it something I said? Hold it under the tap, I should.”
    â€œWhat the hell is this all about?”