Good Omens

where is this place, then—?”
    But mysteriously moving stones wasn’t Shadwell’s cup of tea or, rather, tin of milk.
    â€œFine, fine,” Shadwell reassured the caller. “We’ll get onto it right awa’. I’ll put my best squad on it and report success to ye any minute, I ha’ no doubt. Goodbye to you, sor. And bless you too, sor.” There was the ting of a receiver going back on the hook, and then Shadwell’s voice, no longer metaphorically crouched in deference, said, “‘Dear boy’! Ye great Southern pansy.” 27
    He shuffled back into the room, and then stared at Newt as if he had forgotten why he was there.
    â€œWhat was it ye was goin’ on about?” he said.
    â€œAll these things that are happening—” Newt began.
    â€œAye.” Shadwell continued to look through him while thoughtfully tapping the empty tin against his teeth.
    â€œWell, there’s this little town which has been having some amazing weather for the last few years,” Newt went on helplessly.
    â€œWhat? Rainin’ frogs and similar?” said Shadwell, brightening up a bit.
    â€œNo. It just has normal weather for the time of year.”
    â€œCall that a phenomena?” said Shadwell. “I’ve seen phenomenas that’d make your hair curl, laddie.” He started tapping again.
    â€œWhen do you remember normal weather for the time of year?” said Newt, slightly annoyed. “Normal weather for the time of year isn’t normal, Sergeant. It has snow at Christmas. When did you last see snow at Christmas? And long hot Augusts? Every year? And crisp autumns? The kind of weather you used to dream of as a kid? It never rained on November the Fifth and always snowed on Christmas Eve?”
    Shadwell’s eyes looked unfocused. He paused with the condensed milk tin halfway to his lips.
    â€œI never used to dream when I was a kid,” he said quietly.
    Newt was aware of skidding around the lip of some deep, unpleasant pit. He mentally backed away.
    â€œIt’s just very odd,” he said. “There’s a weatherman here talking about averages and norms and microclimates and things like that.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean?” said Shadwell.
    â€œMeans he doesn’t know why,” said Newt, who hadn’t spent years on the littoral of business without picking up a thing or two. He looked sidelong at the Witchfinder Sergeant.
    â€œWitches are well known for affecting the weather,” he prompted. “I looked it up in the Discouverie .”
    Oh God, he thought, or other suitable entity, don’t let me spend another evening cutting newspapers to bits in this ashtray of a room. Let me get out in the fresh air. Let me do whatever is the WA’s equivalent of going waterskiing in Germany.
    â€œIt’s only forty miles away,” he said tentatively. “I thought I could just sort of nip over there tomorrow. And have a look around, you know. I’ll pay my own petrol,” he added.
    Shadwell wiped his upper lip thoughtfully.
    â€œThis place,” he said, “it wouldna be called Tadfield, would it?”
    â€œThat’s right, Mr. Shadwell,” said Newt. “How did you know that?”
    â€œWonder what the Southerners is playing at noo?” said Shadwell under his breath.
    â€œWeeell,” he said, out loud. “And why not?”
    â€œWho’ll be playing, Sergeant?” said Newt.
    Shadwell ignored him. “Aye. I suppose it can’t do any harm. Ye’ll pay yer ane petrol, ye say?”
    Newt nodded.
    â€œThen ye’ll come here at nine o’ the clock in the morning,” he said, “afore ye go.”
    â€œWhat for?” said Newt.
    â€œYer armor o’ righteousness.”
    JUST AFTER NEWT HAD LEFT the phone rang again. This time it was Crowley, who gave approximately the same instructions as Aziraphale. Shadwell took them down again for form’s sake, while Madame Tracy hovered delightedly behind him.
    â€œTwo calls in one day, Mr. Shadwell,” she said. “Your little army must be marching away like anything!”
    â€œAch, awa’ wi’ ye, ye murrain plashed berrizene,” muttered Shadwell, and slammed the door. Tadfield, he thought. Och, weel. So long as they paid up on time …
    Neither Aziraphale or Crowley ran the Witch finder Army, but they both approved of it, or at least knew that it would be