Good Omens

in an unfavorable report. “But you know me. Keen.”
    The senior demons did not speak.
    â€œSo I’ll be popping along,” Crowley babbled. “See you guys ar—see you. Er. Great. Fine. Ciao .”
    As the Bentley skidded off into the darkness Ligur said, “Wossat mean?”
    â€œIt’s Italian,” said Hastur. “I think it means ‘food.’”
    â€œFunny thing to say, then.” Ligur stared at the retreating taillights. “You trust him?” he said.
    â€œNo,” said Hastur.
    â€œRight,” said Ligur. It’d be a funny old world, he reflected, if demons went round trusting one another.
    CROWLEY, SOMEWHERE west of Amersham, hurtled through the night, snatched a tape at random and tried to wrestle it out of its brittle plastic box while staying on the road. The glare of a headlight proclaimed it to be Vivaldi’s Four Seasons . Soothing music, that’s what he needed.
    He rammed it into the Blaupunkt.
    â€œ Ohshit ohshitohshit. Why now? Why me?” he muttered, as the familiar strains of Queen washed over him.
    And suddenly, Freddie Mercury was speaking to him:
BECAUSE YOU’VE EARNED IT, CROWLEY .
    Crowley blessed under his breath. Using electronics as a means of communication had been his idea and Below had, for once, taken it up and, as usual, got it dead wrong. He’d hoped they could be persuaded to subscribe to Cellnet, but instead they just cut in to whatever it happened to be that he was listening to at the time and twisted it.
    Crowley gulped.
    â€œThank you very much, lord,” he said.
WE HAVE GREAT FAITH IN YOU, CROWLEY .
    â€œThank you, lord.”
THIS IS IMPORTANT, CROWLEY .
    â€œI know, I know.”
THIS IS THE BIG ONE, CROWLEY .
    â€œLeave it to me, lord.”
    THAT IS WHAT WE ARE DOING, CROWLEY. AND IF IT GOES WRONG, THEN THOSE INVOLVED WILL SUFFER GREATLY. EVEN YOU, CROWLEY. ESPECIALLY YOU .
    â€œUnderstood, lord.”
HERE ARE YOUR INSTRUCTIONS, CROWLEY .
    And suddenly he knew. He hated that. They could just as easily have told him, they didn’t suddenly have to drop chilly knowledge straight into his brain. He had to drive to a certain hospital.
    â€œI’ll be there in five minutes, lord, no problem.”
GOOD. I see a little silhouetto of a man scaramouche scaramouche will you do the fandango  …
    Crowley thumped the wheel. Everything had been going so well, he’d had it really under his thumb these few centuries. That’s how it goes, you think you’re on top of the world, and suddenly they spring Armageddon on you. The Great War, the Last Battle. Heaven versus Hell, three rounds, one Fall, no submission. And that’d be that. No more world. That’s what the end of the world meant . No more world. Just endless Heaven or, depending who won, endless Hell . Crowley didn’t know which was worse.
    Well, Hell was worse, of course, by definition. But Crowley remembered what Heaven was like, and it had quite a few things in common with Hell. You couldn’t get a decent drink in either of them, for a start. And the boredom you got in Heaven was almost as bad as the excitement you got in Hell.
    But there was no getting out of it. You couldn’t be a demon and have free will.
    . . . I will not let you go (let him go)  …
    Well, at least it wouldn’t be this year. He’d have time to do things. Unload long-term stocks, for a start.
    He wondered what would happen if he just stopped the car here, on this dark and damp and empty road, and took the basket and swung it round and round and let go and …
    Something dreadful, that’s what.
    He’d been an angel once. He hadn’t meant to Fall. He’d just hung around with the wrong people.
    The Bentley plunged on through the darkness, its fuel gauge pointing to zero. It had pointed to zero for more than sixty years now. It wasn’t all bad, being a demon. You didn’t have to buy petrol, for one thing. The only time Crowley had bought petrol was once in 1967, to get the free James Bond bullet-hole-in-the-windscreen transfers, which he rather fancied at the time.
    On the back seat the thing in the basket began to cry; the air-raid siren wail of the newly born. High. Wordless. And old .
    IT WAS QUITE A NICE HOSPITAL, thought Mr. Young. It would have been quiet, too, if it wasn’t for the nuns.
    He quite liked nuns. Not that he was a, you know, left-footer or anything like that.