by Neil Gaiman
RUSSIAN AGENT
(tossing black bread)
Rudnitsky’s gone triple.
BRITISH AGENT
(cucumber sandwich)
If the treaty is signed, it will have global repercussions . . .
FRENCH AGENT
(baguette)
We will match their offer . . .
GOD (V.O.)
The Russian cultural attaché’s black bread is particularly sought after by the more discerning duck. Crowley and Aziraphale have been meeting here for quite some time.
Crowley and Aziraphale have been talking for a while when we reach them – talking like spies and feeding the ducks.
AZIRAPHALE
You’re sure it was the Antichrist?
CROWLEY
I should know. I delivered the baby. Not delivered-delivered it. You know. Handed it over.
Aziraphale is tossing a breadcrust to a drake. The drake pecks at it, then squawks, and dies.
AZIRAPHALE
Really, my dear, was that necessary?
CROWLEY
Sorry.
The drake returns to life, quacks and paddles off.
AZIRAPHALE
We knew something was going on, of course. I’ve made enquiries. An American diplomat. Really? As if Armageddon were a cinematographic show you wished to sell in as many countries as possible.
CROWLEY
The Earth and all the kingdoms thereof.
Aziraphale looks at Crowley for the first time.
AZIRAPHALE
We will win, of course.
CROWLEY
You really believe that?
AZIRAPHALE
Obviously. Heaven will finally triumph over Hell. It’s all going to be rather lovely.
Crowley starts walking through the park. Aziraphale reluctantly follows him.
CROWLEY
Out of interest, how many first class composers do your lot have in Heaven? Because Mozart’s one of ours. Beethoven. Schubert. All the Bachs . . .
AZIRAPHALE
They have already written their music . . .
CROWLEY
And you’ll never hear it again. No more Albert Hall. No more Glyndebourne. No more proms. No Compact Discs. Just celestial harmonies.
AZIRAPHALE
Well . . .
CROWLEY
And that’s just the start of what you’ll lose if you win. No more fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No gravlax with dill sauce. No more old bookshops. No more Regency silver snuffboxes.
AZIRAPHALE
But after we win, life will be better for everybody.
CROWLEY
You’ll be about as happy with a harp as I’ll be with a pitchfork.
AZIRAPHALE
We don’t play harps.
CROWLEY
And we don’t use pitchforks. You know what I mean.
AZIRAPHALE
But it’s part of the Divine Plan. The Four Horsemen will ride out.
CROWLEY
Where do they ride out from?
AZIRAPHALE
What?
CROWLEY
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Their arrival signals the end of days. War, Famine, Pestilence and Death. Where do they ride from? Do they have a stables somewhere?
AZIRAPHALE
You ought to know. They work for your lot, don’t they?
CROWLEY
Not as far as I know. Independent contractors, I expect. Specialists. In business for themselves.
AZIRAPHALE
I heard Pestilence retired.
CROWLEY
Really?
AZIRAPHALE
Yes. It’s Pollution, these days. I think this is a bit of a red herring. The point is, the Four Horsemen ride out. The seas will turn to blood . . .
CROWLEY
The seas are where your sushi comes from. And your herrings.
They’ve reached Crowley’s Bentley. He’s parked it on the Mall, somewhere you can’t park.
It already has a wheel clamp on it, and a TRAFFIC WARDEN is walking around it, writing things down in his electronic notebook.
CROWLEY (CONT’D)
We’ve only got eleven years. Then it’s all over. We have to work together
AZIRAPHALE
No.
CROWLEY
It’s the end of the world we’re talking about. Not some little temptation I’ve asked you to cover for me while you’re in Edinburgh for the festival. You can’t say no.
AZIRAPHALE
No.
CROWLEY
We can do something. I’ve got an idea.
AZIRAPHALE
No. I. Am. Not. Interested.
A breath. Crowley is about to fall apart. But he pulls himself together.
CROWLEY
Let’s have lunch. I still owe you one from . . .
Aziraphale glares at him. Then softens . . .
AZIRAPHALE
Paris. 1793.
CROWLEY
Oh, yes. The Reign of Terror. Was that one of yours or one of ours?
They get into the car . . .
The WHEEL CLAMPS FALL OFF.
AZIRAPHALE
Can’t recall. We had crêpes.
The traffic warden, who is looking triumphant, is startled when his handheld computer fizzles and sparks as the Bentley drives away. And the clamps are in the road.
161EXT. AFRICAN ROAD – DAY – 2007
A dusty red-painted truck rumbles along a dusty road that’s little more than a track. African music, African animals. A beautiful establishing shot.
GOD (V.O.)
At that time she was selling weapons. She never stuck at one job for very long. Three, four hundred years at the outside. You didn’t want to get in a rut.
162EXT. AFRICAN VILLAGE – DAY – 2007
A quiet, perfect village. Children run, laughing, through the streets. A woman sits beside her wares in the market. We see a truck stop in the street.
The DRIVER gets out and lifts the bonnet: thick smoke comes out. An African PASSER-BY walks over.
PASSER-BY
That does not look good.
The driver looks up, and we discover that she is a poised woman with the most amazing flame-red hair. She is WAR.
163INT. AFRICAN BAR – DAY – 2007
War opens a bottle of beer by casually slamming it and her hand against the counter, and drains it. The BARTENDER is a bored African woman in her mid 30s.
WAR
I got a truck. The Engine’s shot. Anyone around here repair trucks?
BARTENDER
Only Nathan. But he’s gone back to Kaounda to his father-in-law’s farm.
WAR
When’s he coming back?
BARTENDER
A week. Perhaps two weeks.
164EXT. AFRICAN ROAD – 2007
The passer-by walks around the truck. Then he peeks inside . . .
There are a lot of boxes in there. And the boxes are all stencilled with WARNINGS. High explosive. Ammunition. Guns. Rocket launchers . . .
165INT. AFRICAN BAR – DAY – 2007
An elderly payphone in the corner. War is talking.
WAR
Shipment’s delayed. You’ll just have to wait another two weeks to start your war.
There are TWO MEN sitting at a corner table, having an easy-going conversation, drinking and laughing.
WAR (CONT’D)
No, you listen to me. No. You may have bought the equipment, but it begins when I get there . . . Really? REALLY?
She puts down the phone, sits down at the table with the men.
WAR (CONT’D)
Hey. When was the last war in these parts?
The two men look at each other.
BAR CUSTOMER 1
I don’t think we’ve ever had one.
BAR CUSTOMER 2
We don’t go in for things like that here.
166EXT. AFRICAN ROAD – DAY – 2007
War looks ou
t at the lazy African paradise.
WAR
Oh, what the hell. I needed a holiday anyway.
TIME SHIFT:
167EXT. AFRICAN ROAD – EVENING – 2007
It’s 24 hours later. An explosion rocks the street. A GROUP OF MEN in improvised uniforms come charging down the street. A rattling of sub-machine gun fire takes them out. They fall.
We follow a grenade behind improvised sandbags. The PEOPLE BACK THERE see the grenade, and look horrified, as it blows up . . .
We look at the corpses on the street.
And then we see the (now very empty) truck.
Several women, one of them the bartender, are up on the truck. They have a rocket launcher.
BARTENDER
(fiercely)
If they want war, we will give them war, my sisters . . .
They fire the rocket launcher.
War strides down the street towards us. Explosions behind her. Nothing’s going to hurt her.
She smiles. Something goes BOOM.
168INT. THE RITZ – DAY
Aziraphale and Crowley are sitting at a table. They are concluding dessert, and Aziraphale is finishing his last bite with enthusiasm.
AZIRAPHALE
That was scrumptious. So, what are you in the mood for now?
CROWLEY
Alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.
AZIRAPHALE
Is that wise? I suppose it is. But let’s have it back at my place. Waiter!
169GOD VOICE-OVER SEQUENCE
A shot of New York . . .
GOD (V.O.)
This is bestselling author of diet books Doctor Raven Sable. He never actually earned the medical degree he claims, since there hadn’t been any universities in those days.
170EXT. NEW YORK – DAY – 2007
We are on Fifth Avenue: we zoom in on 666 Fifth Avenue, on the big 666 on the side of the building. And move through the window at the top of the building into . . .
171INT. NEW YORK, FANCY RESTAURANT – DAY – 2007
We pan across a restaurant. It’s a fancy restaurant. Dry ice and liquid nitrogen at tables. Molecular gastronomy. It’s very fancy . . .
RAVEN SABLE is dressed in black, and has a slightly sinister beard. He looks rich, classy and clever. He is FAMINE.
Sable looks on with approval as a WAITER brings his dining partner, FRANNIE, his accountant and financial manager, a nearly empty but beautiful plate . . .
WAITER
Your main course, madam. Chicken froth, on a reduction of broccoli gel, with a mushroom foam. And the chef recommends this, first . . .
He hands her a balloon.
FRANNIE
What is it? It looks like a balloon.
WAITER
A balloon filled with lavender-scented air. It is the first course. Let it waft about you, as you eat your dinner.
FRANNIE
I need another glass of wine.
WAITER
Of course.
They are interrupted by SHERRYL, a fashion model. Horrendously underweight. Beautiful but dear god how can a human being be that thin . . .?
SHERRYL
Uh. Dr Sable. I hope you don’t mind me interrupting you. But your book. It changed my life . . . Sherryl. Two Rs. And a Y.
She puts the book down on the table. Sable’s photo is on the cover: THE D-PLAN DIET. And the subtitle: ‘SLIM YOURSELF BEAUTIFUL – TERMINALLY!’
He signs, saying:
SABLE
There. A quote from the Book of the Revelation of St John.
SHERRYL
You don’t know how much this means to me.
She backs away.
FRANNIE
That girl looks like she’s starving to death.
SABLE
She is. She’s dying of hunger right now. Bon appetit. So. You saw the latest royalty statement?
Frannie is hungry. The molecular gastronomy is lost on her . . .
FRANNIE
Twelve million copies sold, Dr Sable.
SABLE
C’mon. Eat up. Molecular gastronomy. Amazing, huh?
FRANNIE
That’s a lot of copies . . .
SABLE
Now it’s time to go corporate. A chain of fast food outlets. Factories. The whole schmear.
Frannie has an ultra-thin, ultra-light black laptop. She’s stabbing at it . . .
FRANNIE
Already on it. We use the Cayman Islands as a . . . Dr Sable? Are you listening?
SABLE
Sorry – it just occurred to me. I’ve never seen a room full of rich people so hungry . . .
And he smiles.
172EXT. SOHO, AZIRAPHALE’S BOOKSHOP – EVENING – 2007
Crowley and Aziraphale are heading down the Soho pavement to the bookshop. They have eaten, and spent a very pleasant day together.
AZIRAPHALE
I have several very nice bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape in the back. I picked up a dozen cases of them in 1921, and I still have some left, for special occasions.
CROWLEY
Lovely. Not very big on wine in Heaven, are they, though? Not going to get any more nice little Châteauneuf-du-Papes in Heaven. Or single malt scotch. Or little frou-frou cocktails with umbrellas.
AZIRAPHALE
I told you, Crowley. I’m not helping you. I’m not interested. This is purely social. I’m an angel. You’re a demon. We’re hereditary enemies. Get thee behind me, foul fiend!
He unlocks the door to the bookshop.
AZIRAPHALE (CONT’D)
After you.
173EXT. OIL TANKER – DAY – 2007
WHITE is in their twenties. They are beautiful, in a dirty sort of way. Everything about them, overalls, face, hair, is slightly grimy . . . They are mopping a deck of an oil tanker . . . This is POLLUTION. FREEZE on their face.
GOD (V.O.)
This one is called White, or Albus, or Chalky, or Snowy. White’s had lots of interesting jobs in lots of interesting places . . . helped design the petrol engine, plastics and the ring-pull can . . . they can turn their hand to anything, White.
174EXT. OIL TANKER – DAY – 2007
A shot from above: the oil tanker on a blue sea . . .
GOD (V.O.)
The tanker is almost entirely automated. There’s almost nothing left that a person can do.
175INT. RESTRICTED AREA – DAY – 2007
WHITE walks to the Emergency Cargo Release switch. It says EMERGENCY OIL RELEASE, and it’s in the ‘off’ position. There are red lights on it.
White touches fingers to lips, as if blowing a kiss to the switch. The lights turn green.
White flicks the Cargo Release switch into the RELEASE position.
WHITE
(gently, wistfully.)
Oops.
176BIRD’S EYE VIEW: THE TANKER – DAY – 2007
We see the tanker below us, and, all around it, a huge black oil spill spreading out across the blue of the sea.
GOD (V.O.)
Afterwards, there was a huge amount of discussion as to whose fault it was. None of the ship’s officers ever worked again . . .
177EXT. TANKER DECK – DAY – 2007
A tiny ship, a little steamer, as different as can possibly be from the gleaming huge tanker, is passing in the background.
GOD (V.O.)
But no one gave any thought to Able Seaman White . . .
178EXT. SMALL SHIP – DAY
And there is White, eating crisps on the deck of the steamer. They toss the empty crisp packet overboard. Behind them, we pan up to see, are rusting barrels each stencilled with WEEDKILLER – TOXIC – EXTREMELY DANGEROUS and skull and crossbones . . .
GOD (V.O.)
Nobody ever does.
179EXT. HOSPITAL – NIGHT – 2007
Mr Young drives the car up to the main door. Deirdre comes out, with the baby. A bunch of Chattering Nuns wave goodbye, still chattering.
GOD (V.O.)
T
hat night, Arthur and Deirdre Young proudly took the baby they believed was theirs home to the quiet English village of Tadfield. The Antichrist had been on Earth for twenty-four hours.
