Good Omens

was killed falling out of a very tall tree in Caterham, in 1933, while attempting to get a better view of something he believed was a satanic orgy of the most degenerate persuasion, but was, in fact, the Caterham and Whyteleafe Market Traders’ Association annual dinner and dance).
    There is, however, a Witchfinder Sergeant.
    There is also, now, a Witchfinder Private. His name is Newton Pulsifer.
    It was the advertisement that got him, in the Gazette , between a fridge for sale and a litter of not-exactly dalmatians:
    JOIN THE PROFESSIONALS. PART TIME
    ASSISTANT REQUIRED TO COMBAT THE FORCES OF
DARKNESS. UNIFORM, BASIC TRAINING PROVIDED.
FIELD PROMOTION CERTAIN. BE A MAN!
    In his lunch hour he phoned the number at the bottom of the ad. A woman answered.
    â€œHello,” he began, tentatively. “I saw your advert.”
    â€œWhich one, love?”
    â€œEr, the one in the paper.”
    â€œRight, love. Well, Madame Tracy Draws Aside the Veil every afternoon except Thursdays. Parties welcome. When would you be wanting to Explore the Mysteries, love?”
    Newton hesitated. “The advert says ‘Join the Professionals,”’ he said. “It didn’t mention Madame Tracy.”
    â€œThat’ll be Mister Shadwell you’ll be wanting, then. Just a sec, I’ll see if he’s in.”
    Later, when he was on nodding terms with Madame Tracy, Newt learned that if he had mentioned the other ad, the one in the magazine, Madame Tracy would have been available for strict discipline and intimate massage every evening except Thursdays. There was yet another ad in a phone box somewhere. When, much later, Newt asked her what this one involved, she said “Thursdays.” Eventually there was the sound of feet in uncarpeted hallways, a deep coughing, and a voice the color of an old raincoat rumbled:
    â€œAye?”
    â€œI read your advert. ‘Join the professionals.’ I wanted to know a bit more about it.”
    â€œAye. There’s many as would like to know more about it, an’ there’s many … ” the voice trailed off impressively, then crashed back to full volume, “. . . there’s many as WOULDN’T.”
    â€œOh,” squeaked Newton.
    â€œWhat’s your name, lad?”
    â€œNewton. Newton Pulsifer.”
    â€œ LUCIFER ? What’s that you say? Are ye of the Spawn of Darkness, a tempting beguiling creature from the pit, wanton limbs steaming from the fleshpots of Hades, in tortured and lubricious thrall to your Stygian and hellish masters?”
    â€œThat’s Pulsifer,” explained Newton. “With a P. I don’t know about the other stuff, but we come from Surrey.”
    The voice on the phone sounded vaguely disappointed.
    â€œOh. Aye. Well, then. Pulsifer. Pulsifer . I’ve seen that name afore, maybe?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Newton. “My uncle runs a toy shop in Hounslow,” he added, in case this was any help.
    â€œIs that sooo?” said Shadwell.
    Mr. Shadwell’s accent was unplaceable. It careered around Britain like a milk race. Here a mad Welsh drill sergeant, there a High Kirk elder who’d just seen someone doing something on a Sunday, somewhere between them a dour Daleland shepherd, or bitter Somerset miser. It didn’t matter where the accent went; it didn’t get any nicer.
    â€œHave ye all your own teeth?”
    â€œOh, yes. Except for fillings.”
    â€œAre ye fit?”
    â€œI suppose so,” Newt stuttered. “I mean, that was why I wanted to join the territorials. Brian Potter in Accounting can bench-press almost a hundred since he joined. And he paraded in front of the Queen Mother.”
    â€œHow many nipples?”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œNipples, laddie, nipples,” said the voice testily. “How many nipples hae ye got?”
    â€œEr. Two?”
    â€œGood. Have ye got your ane scissors?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œScissors! Scissors! Are ye deaf?”
    â€œNo. Yes. I mean, I’ve got some scissors. I’m not deaf.”
    THE COCOA HAD NEARLY ALL SOLIDIFIED. Green fur was growing on the inside of the mug.
    There was a thin layer of dust on Aziraphale, too.
    The stack of notes was building up beside him. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies was a mass of improvised bookmarks made of torn strips of Daily Telegraph .
    Aziraphale stirred, and pinched his nose.
    He was nearly there.
    He’d got the shape