Good Omens

of it.
    He’d never met Agnes. She was too bright, obviously. Normally Heaven or Hell spotted the prophetic types and broadcast enough noises on the same mental channel to prevent any undue accuracy. Actually that was rarely necessary; they normally found ways of generating their own static in self-defense against the images that echoed around their heads. Poor old St. John had his mushrooms, for example. Mother Shipton had her ale. Nostradamus had his collection of interesting oriental preparations. St. Malachi had his still.
    Good old Malachi. He’d been a nice old boy, sitting there, dreaming about future popes. Complete piss artist, of course. Could have been a real thinker, if it hadn’t been for the poteen.
    A sad end. Sometimes you really had to hope that the ineffable plan had been properly thought out.
    Thought. There was something he had to do. Oh, yes. Phone his contact, get things sorted out.
    He stood up, stretched his limbs, and made a phone call.
    Then he thought: why not? Worth a try.
    He went back and shuffled through his sheaf of notes. Agnes really had been good. And clever. No one was interested in accurate prophecies.
    Paper in hand, he phoned Directory Enquiries.
    â€œHallo? Good afternoon. So kind. Yes. This will be a Tadfield number, I think. Or Lower Tadfield … ah. Or possibly Norton, I’m not sure of the precise code. Yes. Young. Name of Young. Sorry, no initial. Oh. Well, can you give me all of them? Thank you.”
    Back on the table, a pencil picked itself up and scribbled furiously.
    At the third name it broke its point.
    â€œAh,” said Aziraphale, his mouth suddenly running on automatic while his mind exploded. “I think that’s the one. Thank you. So kind. Good day to you.”
    He hung up almost reverentially, took a few deep breaths, and dialed again. The last three digits gave him some trouble, because his hand was shaking.
    He listened to the ringing tone. Then a voice answered. It was a middle-aged voice, not unfriendly, but probably it had been having a nap and was not feeling at its best.
    It said “Tadfield Six double-six.”
    Aziraphale’s hand started to shake.
    â€œHallo?” said the receiver. “Hallo.”
    Aziraphale got a grip on himself.
    â€œSorry,” he said, “right number.”
    He replaced the receiver.
    NEWT WASN’T DEAF. And he did have his own scissors.
    He also had a huge pile of newspapers.
    If he had known that army life consisted chiefly of applying the one to the other, he used to muse, he would never have joined.
    Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell had made him a list, which was taped to the wall in Shadwell’s tiny crowded flat situated over Rajit’s Newsagents and Video Rental. The list read:
Witches.
Unexplainable
Phenomenons. Phenomenatrices. Phenomenice. Things, ye ken well what I mean.
    Newt was looking for either. He sighed and picked up another newspaper, scanned the front page, opened it, ignored page two (never anything on there) then blushed crimson as he performed the obligatory nipple count on page three. Shadwell had been insistent about this. “Ye can’t trust them, the cunning buggers,” he said. “It’d be just like them to come right out in the open, like, defyin’ us.”
    A couple in black turtleneck sweaters glowered at the camera on page nine. They claimed to lead the largest coven in Saffron Walden, and to restore sexual potency by the use of small and very phallic dolls. The newspaper was offering ten of the dolls to readers who were prepared to write “My Most Embarrassing Moment of Impotency” stories. Newt cut the story out and stuck it into a scrapbook.
    There was a muffled thumping on the door.
    Newt opened it; a pile of newspapers stood there. “Shift yerself, Private Pulsifer,” it barked, and it shuffled into the room. The newspapers fell to the floor, revealing Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, who coughed, painfully, and relit his cigarette, which had gone out.
    â€œYou want to watch him. He’s one o’ them ,” he said.
    â€œWho, sir?”
    â€œTak yer ease, Private. Him. That little brown feller. Mister so-called Rajit. It’s them terrible forn arts. The ruby squinty eye of the little yellow god. Women wi’ too many arms. Witches, the lot o’ them.”
    â€œHe does give us the newspapers free, though, Sergeant,” said Newt. “And they’re not too