Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch

“Yes,” said Adam.

  “Not much milit’ry about knobs and dials,” said Pepper.

  “I dunno, reely,” said Adam. “It’s amazin’ what you can do with knobs and dials.”

  “I got a kit for Christmas,” Wensleydale volunteered. “All electric bits. There were a few knobs and dials in it. You could make a radio or a thing that goes beep.”

  “I dunno,” said Adam thoughtfully, “I’m thinkin’ more of certain people patching into the worldwide milit’ry communications network and telling all the computers and stuff to start fightin’.”

  “Cor,” said Brian. “That’d be wicked.”

  “Sort of,” said Adam.

  IT IS A HIGH AND LONELY destiny to be Chairman of the Lower Tadfield Residents’ Association.

  R. P. Tyler, short, well-fed, satisfied, stomped down a country lane, accompanied by his wife’s miniature poodle, Shutzi. R. P. Tyler knew the difference between right and wrong; there were no moral grays of any kind in his life. He was not, however, satisfied simply with being vouchsafed the difference between right and wrong. He felt it his bounden duty to tell the world.

  Not for R. P. Tyler the soapbox, the polemic verse, the broadsheet. R. P. Tyler’s chosen forum was the letter column of the Tadfield Advertiser. If a neighbor’s tree was inconsiderate enough to shed leaves into R. P. Tyler’s garden, R. P. Tyler would first carefully sweep them all up, place them in boxes, and leave the boxes outside his neighbor’s front door, with a stern note. Then he would write a letter to the Tadfield Advertiser. If he sighted teenagers sitting on the village green, their portable cassette players playing, and they were enjoying themselves, he would take it upon himself to point out to them the error of their ways. And after he had fled their jeering, he would write to the Tadfield Advertiser on the Decline of Morality and the Youth of Today.

  Since his retirement last year the letters had increased to the point where not even the Tadfield Advertiser was able to print all of them. Indeed, the letter R. P. Tyler had completed before setting out on his evening walk had begun:

  Sirs,

  I note with distress that the newspapers of today no longer feel obligated to their public, we, the people who pay your wages …

  He surveyed the fallen branches that littered the narrow country road. I don’t suppose, he pondered, they think of the cleaning up bill when they send us these storms. Parish Council has to foot the bill to clean it all up. And we, the taxpayers, pay their wages …

  The they in this thought were the weather forecasters on Radio Four,51 whom R. P. Tyler blamed for the weather.

  Shutzi stopped by a roadside beech tree to cock its leg.

  R. P. Tyler looked away, embarrassed. It might be that the sole purpose of his evening constitutional was to allow the dog to relieve itself, but he was dashed if he’d admit that to himself. He stared up at the storm clouds. They were banked up high, in towering piles of smudged gray and black. It wasn’t just the flickering tongues of lightning that forked through them like the opening sequence of a Frankenstein movie; it was the way they stopped when they reached the borders of Lower Tadfield. And in their center was a circular patch of daylight; but the light had a stretched, yellow quality to it, like a forced smile.

  It was so quiet.

  There was a low roaring.

  Down the narrow lane came four motorbikes. They shot past him, and turned the corner, disturbing a cock pheasant who whirred across the lane in a nervous arc of russet and green.

  “Vandals!” called R. P. Tyler after them.

  The countryside wasn’t made for people like them. It was made for people like him.

  He jerked Shutzi’s lead, and they marched along the road.

  Five minutes later he turned the corner, to find three of the motorcyclists standing around a fallen signpost, a victim of the storm. The fourth, a tall man with a mirrored visor, remained on his bike.

  R. P. Tyler observed the situation, and leaped effortlessly to a conclusion. These vandals—he had, of course, been right—had come to the countryside in order to desecrate the War Memorial and to overturn signposts.

  He was about to advance on them sternly, when it came to him that he was outnumbered, four to one, and that they were taller

  than he was, and that they were undoubtedly violent psychopaths. No one but a violent psychopath rode motorbikes in R. P. Tyler’s world.

  So he raised his chin and began to strut past them, without apparently noticing they were there,52 all the while composing in his head a letter (Sirs, this evening I noted with distress a large number of hooligans on motorbicycles infesting Our Fair Village. Why, oh Why, does the government do nothing about this plague of … ).

  “Hi,” said one of the motorcyclists, raising his visor to reveal a thin face and a trim black beard. “We’re kinda lost.”

  “Ah,” said R. P. Tyler disapprovingly.

  “The signpost musta blew down,” said the motorcyclist.

  “Yes, I suppose it must,” agreed R. P. Tyler. He noticed with surprise that he was getting hungry.

  “Yeah. Well, we’re heading for Lower Tadfield.”

  An officious eyebrow raised. “You’re Americans. With the air force base, I suppose.” (Sirs, when I did national service I was a credit to my country. I notice with horror and dismay that airmen from the Tadfield Air Base are driving around our noble countryside dressed no better than common thugs. While I appreciate their importance in defending the freedom of the western world … )

  Then his love of giving instructions took over. “You go back down that road for half a mile, then first left, it’s in a deplorable state of disrepair I’m afraid, I’ve written numerous letters to the council about it, are you civil servants or civil masters, that’s what I asked them, after all, who pays your wages? then second right, only it’s not exactly right, it’s on the left but you’ll find it bends round toward the right eventually, it’s signposted Porrit’s Lane, but of course it isn’t Porrit’s Lane, you look at the ordinance survey map, you’ll see, it’s simply the eastern end of Forest Hill Lane, you’ll come out in the village, now you go past the Bull and Fiddle—that’s a public house—then when you get to the church (I have pointed out to the people who compile the ordinance survey map that it’s a church with a spire, not a church with a tower, indeed I have written to the Tadfield Advertiser, suggesting they mount a local campaign to get the map corrected, and I have every hope that once these people realize with whom they are dealing you’ll see a hasty U-turn from them) then you’ll get to a crossroads, now, you go straight across that crossroads and you’ll immediately come to a second crossroads, now, you can take either the left-hand fork or go straight on, either way you’ll arrive at the air base (although the left-hand fork is almost a tenth of a mile shorter) and you can’t miss it.”

  Famine stared at him blankly. “I, uh, I’m not sure I got that … ” he began.

  I DID. LET US GO.

  Shutzi gave a little yelp and darted behind R. P. Tyler, where it remained, shivering.

  The strangers climbed back onto their bikes. The one in white (a hippie, by the look of him, thought R. P. Tyler) dropped an empty crisp packet onto the grass shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” barked Tyler. “Is that your crisp packet?”

  “Oh, it’s not just mine,” said the boy. “It’s everybody’s.”

  R. P. Tyler drew himself up to his full height.53 “Young man,” he said, “how would you feel if I came over to your house and dropped litter everywhere?”

  Pollution smiled, wistfully. “Very, very pleased,” he breathed. “Oh, that would be wonderful.”

  Beneath his bike an oil slick puddled a rainbow on the wet road.

  Engines revved.

  “I missed something,” said War. “Now, why are we meant to make a U-turn by the church?”

  JUST FOLLOW ME, said the tall one in front, and the four rode off together.

  R. P. Tyler stared after them, until his attention was distracted by the sound of som
ething going clackclackclack. He turned. Four figures on bicycles shot past him, closely followed by the scampering figure of a small dog.

  “You! Stop!” shouted R. P. Tyler.

  The Them braked to a halt and looked at him.

  “I knew it was you, Adam Young, and your little, hmph, cabal. What, might I enquire, are you children doing out at this time of night? Do your fathers know you’re out?”

  The leader of the cyclists turned. “I can’t see how you can say it’s late,” he said, “seems to me, seems to me, that if the sun’s still out then it’s not late.”

  “It’s past your bedtime, anyway,” R. P. Tyler informed them, “and don’t stick out your tongue at me, young lady,” this was to Pepper, “or I will be writing a letter to your mother informing her of the lamentable and unladylike state of her offspring’s manners.”

  “Well ’scuse us,” said Adam, aggrieved. “Pepper was just looking at you. I didn’t know there was any lor against looking.”

  There was a commotion on the grass. Shutzi, who was a particularly refined toy French poodle, of the kind only possessed by people who were never able to fit children into their household budgets, was being menaced by Dog.

  “Master Young,” ordered R. P. Tyler, “please get your—your mutt away from my Shutzi.” Tyler did not trust Dog. When he had first met the dog, three days ago, it had snarled at him, and glowed its eyes red. This had impelled Tyler to begin a letter pointing out that Dog was undoubtedly rabid, certainly a danger to the community, and should be put down for the General Good, until his wife had reminded him that glowing red eyes weren’t a symptom of rabies, or, for that matter, anything seen outside of the kind of film that neither of the Tylers would be caught dead at but knew all they needed to know about, thank you very much.

  Adam looked astounded. “Dog’s not a mutt. Dog’s a remarkable dog. He’s clever. Dog, you get off Mr. Tyler’s horrible ol’ poodle.”

  Dog ignored him. He’d got a lot of dog catching-up still to do.

  “Dog,” said Adam, ominously. His dog slunk back to his master’s bicycle.

  “I don’t believe you have answered my question. Where are you four off to?”

  “To the air base,” said Brian.

  “If that’s all right with you,” said Adam, with what he hoped was bitter and scathing sarcasm. “I mean, we wun’t want to go there if it wasn’t all right with you.”

  “You cheeky little monkey,” said R. P. Tyler. “When I see your father, Adam Young, I will inform him in no uncertain terms that … ”

  But the Them were already pedaling off down the road, in the direction of Lower Tadfield Air Base—traveling by the Them’s route, which was shorter and simpler and more scenic than the route suggested by Mr. Tyler.

  R. P. TYLER HAD COMPOSED a lengthy mental letter on the failings of the youth of today. It covered falling educational standards, the lack of respect given to their elders and betters, the way they always seemed to slouch these days instead of walking with a proper upright bearing, juvenile delinquency, the return of compulsory National Service, birching, flogging, and dog licenses.

  He was very satisfied with it. He had a sneaking suspicion that it would be too good for the Tadfield Advertiser, and had decided to send it to the Times.

  Putputput putputput

  “Excuse me, love,” said a warm female voice. “I think we’re lost.”

  It was an aging motor scooter, and it was being ridden by a middle-aged woman. Clutching her tightly, his eyes screwed shut, was a raincoated little man with a bright green crash helmet on. Sticking up between them was what appeared to be an antique gun with a funnel-shaped muzzle.

  “Oh. Where are you going?”

  “Lower Tadfield. I’m not sure of the exact address, but we’re looking for someone,” said the woman, then, in a totally different voice she said, “His name is Adam Young.”

  R. P. Tyler boggled. “You want that boy?” he asked. “What’s he done now—no, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  “Boy?” said the woman. “You didn’t tell me he was a boy. How old is he?” Then she said, “He’s eleven. Well, I do wish you’d mentioned this before. It puts a completely different complexion on things.”

  R. P. Tyler just stared. Then he realized what was going on. The woman was a ventriloquist. What he had taken for a man in a green crash helmet, he now saw, was a ventriloquist’s dummy. He wondered how he could ever have assumed it was human. He felt the whole thing was in vaguely bad taste.

  “I saw Adam Young not five minutes ago,” he told the woman. “He and his little cronies were on their way to the American air base.”

  “Oh dear,” said the woman, paling slightly. “I’ve never really liked the Yanks. They’re really very nice people, you know. Yes, but you can’t trust people who pick up the ball all the time when they play football.”

  “Ahh, excuse me,” said R. P. Tyler, “I think it’s very good. Very impressive. I’m deputy chairman of the local Rotary club, and I was wondering, do you do private functions?”

  “Only on Thursdays,” said Madame Tracy, disapprovingly. “And I charge extra. And I wonder if you could direct us to—?”

  Mr. Tyler had been here before. He wordlessly extended a finger.

  And the little scooter went putputputputputput down the narrow country lane.

  As it did so, the gray dummy in the green helmet turned around and opened one eye. “Ye great southern pillock,” it croaked.

  R. P. Tyler was offended, but also disappointed. He’d hoped it would be more lifelike.

  R. P. TYLER, ONLY TEN MINUTES away from the village, paused, while Shutzi attempted another of its wide range of eliminatory functions. He gazed over the fence.

  His knowledge of country lore was a little hazy, but he felt fairly sure that if the cows lay down, it meant rain. If they were standing it would probably be fine. These cows were taking it in turns to execute slow and solemn somersaults; and Tyler wondered what it presaged for the weather.

  He sniffed. Something was burning—there was an unpleasant smell of scorched metal and rubber and leather.

  “Excuse me,” said a voice from behind him. R. P. Tyler turned around.

  There was a large once-black car on fire in the lane and a man in sunglasses was leaning out of one window, saying through the smoke, “I’m sorry, I’ve managed to get a little lost. Can you direct me to Lower Tadfield Air Base? I know it’s around here somewhere.”

  Your car is on fire.

  No. Tyler just couldn’t bring himself to say it. I mean, the man had to know that, didn’t he? He was sitting in the middle of it. Possibly it was some kind of practical joke.

  So instead he said, “I think you must have taken a wrong turn about a mile back. A signpost has blown down.”

  The stranger smiled, “That must be it, “ he said. The orange flames flickering below him gave him an almost infernal appearance.

  The wind blew towards Tyler, across the car, and he felt his eyebrows frizzle.

  Excuse me, young man, but your car is on fire and you’re sitting in it without burning and incidentally it’s red hot in places.

  No.

  Should he ask the man if he wanted him to phone the A.A.?

  Instead he explained the route carefully, trying not to stare.

  “That’s terrific. Much obliged,” said Crowley, as he began to wind up the window.

  R. P. Tyler had to say something.

  “Excuse me, young man,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  I mean, it’s not the kind of thing you don’t notice, your car being on fire.

  A tongue of flame licked across the charred dashboard.

  “Funny weather we’re having, isn’t it?” he said, lamely.

  “Is it?” said Crowley. “I honestly hadn’t noticed.” And he reversed back down the country lane in his burning car.

  “That’s probably because your car is on fire,” said R. P. Tyler sharply. He jerked Shutzi’s lea
d, dragged the little dog to heel.

  To The Editor

  Sir,

  I would like to draw your attention to a recent tendency I have noticed for today’s young people to ignore perfectly sensible safety precautions while driving. This evening I was asked for directions by a gentleman whose car was …

  No.

  Driving a car that …

  No.

  It was on fire …

  His temper getting worse, R. P. Tyler stomped the final stretch back into the village.

  “HOY!” SHOUTED R. P. TYLER. “YOUNG!”

  Mr. Young was in his front garden, sitting on his deck chair, smoking his pipe.

  This had more to do with Deirdre’s recent discovery of the menace of passive smoking and banning of smoking in the house than he would care to admit to his neighbors. It did not improve his temper. Neither did being addressed as Young by Mr. Tyler.

  “Yes?”

  “Your son, Adam.”

  Mr. Young sighed. “What’s he done now?”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Mr. Young checked his watch. “Getting ready for bed, I would assume.”

  Tyler grinned, tightly, triumphantly. “I doubt it. I saw him and his little fiends, and that appalling mongrel, not half an hour ago, cycling towards the air base.”

  Mr. Young puffed on his pipe.

  “You know how strict they are up there,” said Mr. Tyler, in case Mr. Young hadn’t got the message.

  “You know what a one your son is for pressing buttons and things,” he added.

  Mr. Young took his pipe out of his mouth and examined the stem thoughtfully.

  “Hmp,” he said.

  “I see,” he said.

  “Right,” he said.

  And he went inside.

  AT EXACTLY THAT SAME MOMENT, four motorbikes swished to a halt a few hundred yards from the main gate. The riders switched off their engines and raised their helmet visors. Well, three of them did.

  “I was rather hoping we could crash through the barriers,” said War wistfully.

  “That’d only cause trouble,” said Famine.

  “Good.”

  “Trouble for us, I mean. The power and phone lines must be down, but they’re bound to have generators and they’ll certainly have radio. If someone starts reporting that terrorists have invaded the base then people’ll start acting logically and the whole Plan collapses.”