The Bentley's engine went pink, pink as it cooled. Crowley's temper, on the other hand, was heating up.
"You said you saw it signposted," he said.
"Well, we flashed by so quickly. Anyway, I thought you'd been here before."
"Eleven years ago!"
Crowley hurled the map onto the back seat and started the engine again.
"Perhaps we should ask someone," said Aziraphale.
"Oh, yes," said Crowley. "We'll stop and ask the first person we see walking along a‑a track in the middle of the night, shall we?"
He jerked the car into gear and roared out into the beech‑hung lane.
"There's something odd about this area," said Aziraphale. "Can't you feel it?"
"What?"
"Slow down a moment."
The Bentley slowed again.
"Odd," muttered the angel, "I keep getting these flashes of, of . . ."
He raised his hands to his temples.
"What? What?" said Crowley.
Aziraphale stared at him.
"Love," he said. "Someone really loves this place."
"Pardon?"
"There seems to be this great sense of love. I can't put it any better than that. Especially not to you. "
"Do you mean like‑" Crowley began.
There was a whirr, a scream, and a chink. The car stopped.
Aziraphale blinked, lowered his hands, and gingerly opened the door.
"You've hit someone," he said.
"No I haven't," said Crowley. "Someone's hit me."
They got out. Behind the Bentley a bicycle lay in the road, its front wheel bent into a creditable Mobius shape, its back wheel clicking ominously to a standstill.
"Let there be light," said Aziraphale. A pale blue glow filled the lane.
From the ditch beside them someone said, "How the hell did you do that?"
The light vanished.
"Do what?" said Aziraphale guiltily.
"Uh." Now the voice sounded muzzy. "I think I hit my head on something . . ."
Crowley glared at a long metallic streak on the Bentley's glossy paintwork and a dimple in the bumper. The dimple popped back into shape. The paint healed.
"Up you get, young lady," said the angel, hauling Anathema out of the bracken. "No bones broken." It was a statement, not a hope; there had been a minor fracture, but Aziraphale couldn't resist an opportunity to do good.
"You didn't have any lights," she began.
"Nor did you," said Crowley guiltily. "Fair's fair."
"Doing a spot of astronomy, were we?" said Aziraphale, setting the bike upright. Various things clattered out of its front basket. He pointed to the battered theodolite.
"No," said Anathema, "I mean, yes. And look what you've done to poor old Phaeton."
"I'm sorry?" said Aziraphale.
"My bicycle. It's bent all to‑"
"Amazingly resilient, these old machines," said the angel brightly, handing it to her. The front wheel gleamed in the moonlight, as perfectly round as one of the Circles of Hell.
She stared at it.
"Well, since that's all sorted out," said Crowley, "perhaps it'd be best if we just all got on our, er. Er. You wouldn't happen to know the way to Lower Tadfield, would you?"
Anathema was still staring at her bicycle. She was almost certain that it hadn't had a little saddlebag with a puncture repair kit when she set out.
"1t's just down the hill," she said. "This is my bike, isn't it?"
"Oh, certainly," said Aziraphale, wondering if he'd overdone things.
"Only I'm sure Phaeton never had a pump."
The angel looked guilty again.
"But there's a place for one," he said, helplessly. "Two little hooks."
"Just down the hill, you said?" said Crowley, nudging the angel.
"I think perhaps I must have knocked my head," said the girl.
"We'd offer to give you a lift, of course," said Crowley quickly, "but there's nowhere for the bike."
"Except the luggage rack," said Aziraphale.
"The Bentley hasn't‑Oh. Huh."
The angel scrambled the spilled contents of the bike's basket into the back seat and helped the stunned girl in after them.
"One does not," he said to Crowley, "pass by on the other side."
"Your one might not. This one does. We have got other things to do, you know." Crowley glared at the new luggage rack. It had tartan straps.
The bicycle lifted itself up and tied itself firmly in place. Then Crowley got in.
"Where do you live, my dear?" Aziraphale oozed.
"My bike didn't have lights, either. Well, it did, but they're the sort you put those double batteries in and they went moldy and I took them off," said Anathema. She glared at Crowley. "I have a bread knife, you know," she said. "Somewhere."
Aziraphale looked shocked at the implication.
"Madam, I assure you‑"
Crowley switched on the lights. He didn't need them to see by, but they made the other humans on the road less nervous. Then he put the car into gear and drove sedately down the hill. The road came out from under the trees and, after a few hundred yards, reached the outskirts of a middlesized village.
It had a familiar feel to it. It had been eleven years, but this place definitely rang a distant bell.
"Is there a hospital around here?" he said. "Run by nuns?"
Anathema shrugged. "Don't think so," she said. "The only large place is Tadfield Manor. I don't know what goes on there."
"Divine planning," muttered Crowley under his breath.
"And gears," said Anathema. "My bike didn't have gears. I'm sure my bike didn't have gears."
Crowley leaned across to the angel.
"Oh lord, heal this bike," he whispered sarcastically.
"I'm sorry, I just got carried away," hissed Aziraphale.
"Tartan straps?"
"Tartan is stylish."
Crowley growled. On those occasions when the angel managed to get his mind into the twentieth century, it always gravitated to 1950.
"You can drop me off here," said Anathema, from the back seat.
"Our pleasure," beamed the angel. As soon as the car had stopped he had the back door open and was bowing like an aged retainer welcoming the young massa back to the old plantation.
Anathema gathered her things together and stepped out as haughtily as possible.
She was quite sure neither of the two men had gone around to the back of the car, but the bike was unstrapped and leaning against the gate.
There was definitely something very weird about them, she decided.
Aziraphale bowed again. "So glad to have been of assistance," he said.
"Thank you," said Anathema, icily.
"Can we get on?" said Crowley. "Goodnight, miss. Get in, angel."
Ah. Well, that explained it. She had been perfectly safe after all.
She watched the car disappear toward the center of the village, and wheeled the bike up the path to the cottage. She hadn't bothered to lock it. She was sure that Agnes would have mentioned it if she was going to be burgled, she was always very good at personal things like that.
She'd rented the cottage furnished, which meant that the actual furniture was the special sort you find in these circumstances and had probably been left out for the dustmen by the local War on Want shop. It didn't matter. She didn't expect to be here long.
If Agnes was right, she wouldn't be anywhere long. Nor would anyone else.
She spread her maps and things out on the ancient table under the kitchen's solitary light bulb.
What had she learned? Nothing much, she decided. Probably IT was at the north end of the village, but she'd suspected that anyway. If you got too close the signal swamped you; if you were too far away you couldn't get an accurate fix.
It was infuriating. The answer must be in the Book somewhere. The trouble was that in order to understand the Predictions you had to be able to think like a half‑crazed, h
ighly intelligent seventeenth‑century witch with a mind like a crossword‑puzzle dictionary. Other members of the family had said that Agnes made things obscure to conceal them from the understanding of outsiders; Anathema, who suspected she could occasionally think like Agnes, had privately decided that it was because Agnes was a bloody‑minded old bitch with a mean sense of humor.
She'd not even‑
She didn't have the book.
Anathema stared in horror at the things on the table. The maps. The homemade divinatory theodolite. The thermos that had contained hot Bovril. The torch.
The rectangle of empty air where the Prophecies should have been.
She'd lost it.
But that was ridiculous! One of the things Agnes was always very specific about was what happened to the book.
She snatched up the torch and ran from the house.
– – -
"A feeling like, oh, like the opposite of the feeling you're having when you say things like 'this feels spooky,' " said Aziraphale. "That's what I mean."
"I never say things like 'this feels spooky,"' said Crowley. "I'm all for spooky."
"A cherished feel,"said Aziraphale desperately.
"Nope. Can't sense a thing," said Crowley with forced jolliness. "You're just over‑sensitive."
"It's my job, " said Aziraphale. "Angels can't be over‑sensitive."
"I expect people round here like living here and you're just picking it up."
"Never picked up anything like this in London," said Aziraphale.
"There you are, then. Proves my point," said Crowley. "And this is the place. I remember the stone lions on the gateposts."
The Bentley's headlights lit up the groves of overgrown rhododendrons that lined the drive. The tires crunched over gravel.
"It's a bit early in the morning to be calling on nuns," said Aziraphale doubtfully.
"Nonsense. Nuns are up and about at all hours," said Crowley. "It's probably Compline, unless that's a slimming aid."
"Oh, cheap, very cheap," said the angel. "There's really no need for that sort of thing."
"Don't get defensive. I told you, these were some of ours. Black nuns. We needed a hospital close to the air base, you see."
"You've lost me there."
"You don't think American diplomats' wives usually give birth in little religious hospitals in the middle of nowhere, do you? It all had to seem to happen naturally. There's an air base at Lower Tadfield, she went there for the opening, things started to happen, base hospital not ready, our man there said, 'There's a place just down the road,' and there we were. Rather good organization."
"Except for one or two minor details," said Aziraphale smugly.
"But it nearly worked," snapped Crowley, feeling he should stick up for the old firm.
"You see, evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction," said the angel. "It is ultimately negative, and therefore encompasses its downfall even at its moments of apparent triumph. No matter how grandiose, how well‑planned, how apparently foolproof an evil plan, the inherent sinfulness will by definition rebound upon its instigators. No matter how apparently successful it may seem upon the way, at the end it will wreck itself. It will founder upon the rocks of iniquity and sink headfirst to vanish without trace into the seas of oblivion."
Crowley considered this. "Nah," he said, at last. "For my money, it was just average incompetence. Hey‑"
He whistled under his breath.
The graveled forecourt in front of the manor was crowded with cars, and they weren't nun cars. The Bentley was if anything outclassed. A lot of the cars had GT or Turbo in their names and phone aerials on their roofs. They were nearly all less than a year old.
Crowley's hands itched. Aziraphale healed bicycles and broken bones; he longed to steal a few radios, let down some tires, that sort of thing. He resisted it.
"Well, well," he said. "In my day nuns were packed four to a Morris Traveller."
"This can't be right," said Aziraphale.
"Perhaps they've gone private?" said Crowley.
"Or you've got the wrong place."
"It's the right place, I tell you. Come on."
They got out of the car. Thirty seconds later someone shot both of them. With incredible accuracy.
– – -
If there was one thing that Mary Hodges, formerly Loquacious, was good at, it was attempting to obey orders. She liked orders. They made the world a simpler place.
What she wasn't good at was change. She'd really liked the Chattering Order. She'd made friends for the first time. She'd had a room of her own for the first time. Of course, she knew that it was engaged in things which might, from certain viewpoints, be considered bad, but Mary Hodges had seen quite a lot of life in thirty years and had no illusions about what most of the human race had to do in order to make it from one week to the next. Besides, the food was good and you got to meet interesting people.
The Order, such as was left of it, had moved after the fire. After all, their sole purpose in existing had been fulfilled. They went their separate ways.
She hadn't gone. She'd rather liked the Manor and, she said, someone ought to stay and see it was properly repaired, because you couldn't trust workmen these days unless you were on top of them the whole time, in a manner of speaking. This meant breaking her vows, but Mother Superior said this was all right, nothing to worry about, breaking vows was perfectly okay in a black sisterhood, and it would all be the same in a hundred years' time or, rather, eleven years' time, so if it gave her any pleasure here were the deeds and an address to forward any mail unless it came in long brown envelopes with windows in the front.
Then something very strange had happened to her. Left alone in the rambling building, working from one of the few undamaged rooms, arguing with men with cigarette stubs behind their ears and plaster dust on their trousers and the kind of pocket calculator that comes up with a different answer if the sums involved are in used notes, she discovered something she never knew existed.
She'd discovered, under layers of silliness and eagerness to please, Mary Hodges.
She found it quite easy to interpret builders' estimates and do VAT calculations. She'd got some books from the library, and found finance to be both interesting and uncomplicated. She'd stopped reading the kind of women's magazine that talks about romance and knitting and started reading the kind of women's magazine that talks about orgasms, but apart from making a mental note to have one if ever the occasion presented itself she dismissed them as only romance and knitting in a new form. So she'd started reading the kind of magazine that talked about mergers.
After much thought, she'd bought a small home computer from an amused and condescending young dealer in Norton. After a crowded weekend, she took it back. Not, as he thought when she walked back into the shop, to have a plug put on it, but because it didn't have a 387 coprocessor. That bit he understood‑he was a dealer, after all, and could understand quite long words‑but after that the conversation rapidly went downhill from his point of view. Mary Hodges produced yet more magazines. Most of them had the term "PC" somewhere in their title, and many of them had articles and reviews that she had circled carefully in red ink.
She read about New Women. She hadn't ever realized that she'd been an Old Woman, but after some thought she decided that titles like that were all one with the romance and the knitting and the orgasms, and the really important thing to be was yourself, just as hard as you could. She'd always been inclined to dress in black and white. All she needed to do was raise the hemlines, raise the heels, and leave off the wimple.
It was while leafing through a magazine one day that she learned that, around the country, there was an apparently insatiable demand for commodious buildings in spacious grounds run by people who understood the needs of the business community. The following day she went out and ordered some stationery in the name of the Tadfield Manor Conference and Management Training Center, reasoning that by the time
it had been printed she'd know all that was necessary to know about running such places.
The ads went out the following week.
It had turned out to be an overwhelming success, because Mary Hodges realized early in her new career as Herself that management training didn't have to mean sitting people down in front of unreliable slide projectors. Firms expected far more than that these days.
She provided it.
– – -
Crowley sank down with his back against a statue. Aziraphale had already toppled backward into a rhododendron bush, a dark stain spreading across his coat.
Crowley felt dampness suffusing his own shirt.
This was ridiculous. The last thing he needed now was to be killed. It would require all sorts of explanations. They didn't hand out new bodies just like that; they always wanted to know what you'd done with the old one. It was like trying to get a new pen from a particularly bloody‑minded stationery department.
He looked at his hand in disbelief.
Demons have to be able to see in the dark. And he could see that his hand was yellow. He was bleeding yellow.
Gingerly, he tasted a finger.
Then he crawled over to Aziraphale and checked the angel's shirt. If the stain on it was blood, something had gone very wrong with biology.
"Oo, that stung," moaned the fallen angel. "Got me right under the ribs."
"Yes, but do you normally bleed blue?" said Crowley.
Aziraphale's eyes opened. His right hand patted his chest. He sat up. He went through the same crude forensic self‑examination as Crowley.
"Paint?" he said.
Crowley nodded.
"What're they playing at?" said Aziraphale.
"I don't know," said Crowley, "but I think it's called silly buggers." His tone suggested that he could play, too. And do it better.
It was a game. It was tremendous fun. Nigel Tompkins, Assistant Head (Purchasing), squirmed through the undergrowth, his mind aflame with some of the more memorable scenes of some of the better Clint Eastwood movies. And to think he'd believed that management training was going to be boring, too . . .
There had been a lecture, but it had been about the paint guns and all the things you should never do with them, and Tompkins had looked at the fresh young faces of his rival trainees as, to a man, they resolved to do them all if there was half a chance of getting away with it. If people told you business was a jungle and then put a gun in your hand, then it was pretty obvious to Tompkins that they weren't expecting you to simply aim for the shirt; what it was all about was the corporate head hanging over your fireplace.
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