Good Omens

tell Mr. Pickersgill,” said Brian. Mr. Pickersgill was the vicar. Currently he was in dispute with the Them over subjects ranging from climbing the yew tree in the churchyard to ringing the bells and running away.
    â€œI don’t reckon it’s allowed, going round setting fire to people,” said Adam. “Otherwise people’d be doin’ it all the time.”
    â€œIt’s all right if you’re religious,” said Brian reassuringly. “And it stops the witches from goin’ to Hell, so I expect they’d be quite grateful if they understood it properly.”
    â€œCan’t see Picky setting fire to anyone,” said Pepper.
    â€œOh, I dunno,” said Brian, meaningfully.
    â€œNot actually setting them on actual fire,” sniffed Pepper. “He’s more likely to tell their parents, and leave it up to them if anyone’s goin’ to be set on fire or not.”
    The Them shook their heads in disgust at the current low standards of ecclesiastical responsibility. Then the other three looked expectantly at Adam.
    They always looked expectantly at Adam. He was the one that had the ideas.
    â€œP’raps we ought to do it ourselves,” he said. “Someone ought to be doing something if there’s all these witches about. It’s—it’s like that Neighborhood Watch scheme.”
    â€œNeighborhood Witch,” said Pepper.
    â€œNo,” said Adam coldly.
    â€œBut we can’t be the Spanish Inquisition,” said Wensleydale. “We’re not Spanish.”
    â€œI bet you don’t have to be Spanish to be the Spanish Inquisition,” said Adam. “I bet it’s like Scottish eggs or American hamburgers. It just has to look Spanish. We’ve just got to make it look Spanish. Then everyone would know it’s the Spanish Inquisition.”
    There was silence.
    It was broken by the crackling of one of the empty crisp packets that accumulated wherever Brian was sitting. They looked at him.
    â€œI’ve got a bullfight poster with my name on it,” said Brian, slowly.
    LUNCHTIME CAME AND WENT. The new Spanish Inquisition reconvened.
    The Head Inquisitor inspected it critically.
    â€œWhat’re those?” he demanded.
    â€œYou click them together when you dance,” said Wensleydale, a shade defensively. “My aunt brought them back from Spain years ago. They’re called maracas, I think. They’ve got a picture of a Spanish dancer on them, look.”
    â€œWhat’s she dancing with a bull for?” said Adam.
    â€œThat’s to show it’s Spanish,” said Wensleydale. Adam let it pass.
    The bullfight poster was everything Brian had promised.
    Pepper had something rather like a gravy boat made out of raffia.
    â€œIt’s for putting wine in,” she said defiantly. “My mother brought it back from Spain.”
    â€œIt hasn’t got a bull on it,” said Adam severely.
    â€œIt doesn’t have to,” Pepper countered, moving just ever so slightly into a fighting stance.
    Adam hesitated. His sister Sarah and her boyfriend had also been to Spain. Sarah had returned with a very large purple toy donkey which, while definitely Spanish, did not come up to what Adam instinctively felt should be the tone of the Spanish Inquisition. The boyfriend, on the other hand, had brought back a very ornate sword which, despite its tendency to bend when picked up and go blunt when asked to cut paper, proclaimed itself to be made of Toledo steel. Adam had spent an instructive half-hour with the encyclopedia and felt that this was just what the Inquisition needed. Subtle hints had not worked, however.
    In the end Adam had taken a bunch of onions from the kitchen. They might well have been Spanish. But even Adam had to concede that, as decor for the Inquisitorial premises, they lacked that certain something. He was in no position to argue too vehemently about raffia wine holders.
    â€œVery good,” he said.
    â€œYou certain they’re Spanish onions?” said Pepper, relaxing.
    â€œ ’Course,” said Adam. “Spanish onions. Everyone knows that.”
    â€œThey could be French,” said Pepper doggedly. “France is famous for onions.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” said Adam, who was getting fed up with onions. “France is nearly Spanish, an’ I don’t expect witches know the difference, what with spendin’ all their time