The man began to walk back to his van. Then he stopped, and turned.
"If I was to tell my wife what happened to me today," he told them, a little sadly, "she'd never believe me. And I wouldn't blame her, because I don't either." And he climbed into his van, and he drove away.
Crowley stood up, a little unsteadily. He reached a hand down to Aziraphale.
"Come on," he said. "I'll drive us back to London."
He took a Jeep. No one stopped them.
It had a cassette player. This isn't general issue, even for American military vehicles, but Crowley automatically assumed that all vehicles he drove would have cassette players and therefore this one did, within seconds of his getting in.
The cassette that he put on as he drove was marked Handel's Water Music, and it stayed Handel's Water Music all the way home.
Sunday
(The first day of the rest of their lives)
At around half past ten the paper boy brought the Sunday papers to the front door of Jasmine Cottage. He had to make three trips.
The series of thumps as they hit the mat woke up Newton Pulsifer.
He left Anathema asleep. She was pretty shattered, poor thing. She'd been almost incoherent when he'd put her to bed. She'd run her life according to the Prophecies and now there were no more Prophecies. She must be feeling like a train which had reached the end of the line but still had to keep going, somehow.
From now on she'd be able to go through life with everything coming as a surprise, just like everyone else. What luck.
The telephone rang.
Newt dashed for the kitchen and picked up the receiver on the second ring.
"Hello?" he said.
A voice of forced friendliness tinted with desperation gabbled at him.
"No," he said, "I'm not. And it's not Devissey, it's Device. As in Nice. And she's asleep."
"Well," he said, "I'm pretty sure she doesn't want any cavities insulated. Or double glazing. I mean, she doesn't own the cottage, you know. She's only renting it."
"No, I'm not going to wake her up and ask her," he said. "And tell me, Miss, uh . . . right, Miss Morrow, why don't you lot take Sundays off, like everybody else does?"
"Sunday," he said. "Of course it's not Saturday. Why would it be Saturday? Saturday was yesterday. It's honestly Sunday today, really. What do you mean, you've lost a day? 1 haven't got it. Seems to me you've got a bit carried away with selling . . . Hello?"
He growled, and replaced the receiver.
Telephone salespeople! Something dreadful ought to happen to them.
He was assailed by a moment of sudden doubt. Today was Sunday, wasn't it? A glance at the Sunday papers reassured him. If the Sunday Times said it was Sunday, you could be sure that they'd investigated the matter. And yesterday was Saturday. Of course. Yesterday was Saturday, and he'd never forget Saturday for as long as he lived, if only he could remember what it was he wasn't meant to forget.
Seeing that he was in the kitchen, Newt decided to make breakfast.
He moved around the kitchen as quietly as possible, to avoid waking the rest of the household, and found every sound magnified. The antique fridge had a door that shut like the crack of doom. The kitchen tap dribbled like a diuretic gerbil but made a noise like Old Faithful. And he couldn't find where anything was. In the end, as every human being who has ever breakfasted on their own in someone else's kitchen has done since nearly the dawn of time, he made do with unsweetened instant black coffee[54].
On the kitchen table was a roughly rectangular, leather‑bound cinder. He could just make out the words 'Ni a and Ace' on the charred cover. What a difference a day made, he thought. It turns you from the ultimate reference book to a mere barbecue briquette.
Now, then. How, exactly, had they got it? He recalled a man who smelled of smoke and wore sunglasses even in darkness. And there was other stuff, all running together . . . boys on bikes . . . an unpleasant buzzing . . . a small, grubby, staring face . . . It all hung around in his mind, not exactly forgotten but forever hanging on the cusp of recollection, a memory of things that hadn't happened. How could you have that[55]?
He sat staring at the wall until a knock at the door brought him back to earth.
There was a small dapper man in a black raincoat standing on the doorstep. He was holding a cardboard box and he gave Newt a bright smile.
"Mr."‑he consulted a piece of paper in one hand‑"Pulzifer?"
"Pulsifer," said Newt. "It's a hard ess"
"I'm ever so sorry," said the man. "I've only ever seen it written down. Er. Well, then. It would appear that this is for you and Mrs. Pulsifer."
Newt gave him a blank look.
"There is no Mrs. Pulsifer," he said coldly.
The man removed his bowler hat.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said.
"I mean that . . . well, there's my mother," said Newt. "But she's not dead, she's just in Dorking. I'm not married."
"How odd. The letter is quite, er, specific."
"Who are you?" said Newt. He was wearing only his trousers, and it was chilly on the doorstep.
The man balanced the box awkwardly and fished out a card from an inner pocket. He handed it to Newt.
It read:
Giles Baddicombe
Robey, Robey, Redfearn and Bychance
Solicitors
13 Demdyke Chambers,
PRESTON
"Yes?" he said politely. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Baddicombe?"
"You could let me in," said Mr. Baddicombe.
"You're not serving a writ or anything, are you?" said Newt. The events of last night hung in his memory like a cloud, constantly changing whenever he thought he could make out a picture, but he was vaguely aware of damaging things and had been expecting retribution in some form.
"No," said Mr. Baddicombe, looking slightly hurt. "We have people for that sort of thing."
He wandered past Newt and put the box down on the table.
"To be honest," he said, "we're all very interested in this. Mr. Bychance nearly came down himself, but he doesn't travel well these days."
"Look," said Newt, "I really haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
"This," said Mr. Baddicombe, proffering the box and beaming like Aziraphale about to attempt a conjuring trick, "is yours. Someone wanted you to have it. They were very specific."
"A present?" said Newt. He eyed the taped cardboard cautiously, and then rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a sharp knife.
"I think more a bequest," said Mr. Baddicombe. "You see, we've had it for three hundred years. Sorry. Was it something I said? Hold it under the tap, I should."
"What the hell is this all about?" said Newt, but a certain icy suspicion was creeping over him. He sucked at the cut.
"It's a funny story‑do you mind if I sit down?‑and of course I don't know the full details because I joined the firm only fifteen years ago, but . . ."
. . . It had been a very small legal firm when the box had been cautiously delivered; Redfearn, Bychance and both the Robeys, let alone Mr. Baddicombe, were a long way in the future. The struggling legal clerk who had accepted delivery had been surprised to find, tied to the top of the box with twine, a letter addressed to himself.
It had contained certain instructions and five interesting facts about the history of the next ten years which, if put to good use by a keen young man, would ensure enough finance to pursue a very successful legal career.
All he had to do was see that the box was carefully looked after for rather more than three hundred years, and then delivered to a certain address . . .
". . . although of course the firm had changed hands many times over the centuries," said Mr. Baddicombe. "But the box has always been part of the chattels, as it were."
"I didn't even know they made Heinz Baby Foods in the seventeenth century," said Newt.
"That was just to keep it undamaged in the car," said Mr. Baddicombe.
"Twice, I believe," said Mr. Baddicombe. "In 1757, by Mr. George Cranby, and in 1928 by Mr. Arthur Bychance, father of the present Mr. Bychance." He coughed. "Apparently Mr. Cranby found a letter‑"
"‑addressed to himself," said Newt.
Mr. Baddicombe sat back hurriedly. "My word. How did you guess that?"
"I think I recognize the style," said Newt grimly. "What happened to them?"
"Have you heard this before?" said Mr. Baddicombe suspiciously.
"Not in so many words. They weren't blown up, were they?"
"Well . . . Mr. Cranby had a heart attack, it is believed. And Mr. Bychance went very pale and put his letter back in its envelope, I understand, and gave very strict instructions that the box wasn't to be opened again in his lifetime. He said anyone who opened the box would be sacked without references."
"A dire threat," said Newt, sarcastically.
"It was, in 1928. Anyway, their letters are in the box."
New pulled the cardboard aside.
There was a small ironbound chest inside. It had no lock.
"Go on, lift it out," said Mr. Baddicombe excitedly. "I must say I'd very much like to know what's in there. We've had bets on it, in the office . . ."
"I'll tell you what," said Newt, generously, "I'll make us some coffee, and you can open the box."
"Me? Would that be proper?"
"I don't see why not." Newt eyed the saucepans hanging over the stove. One of them was big enough for what he had in mind.
"Go on," he said. "Be a devil. I don't mind. You‑you could have power of attorney, or something."
Mr. Baddicombe took off his overcoat. "Well," he said, rubbing his hands together, "since you put it like that it'd be something to tell my grandchildren."
Newt picked up the saucepan and laid his hand gently on the door handle. "I hope so," he said.
"Here goes."
Newt heard a faint creak.
"What can you see?" he said.
"There's the two opened letters . . . oh, and a third one . . . addressed to . . ."
Newt heard the snap of a wax seal and the clink of something on the table. Then there was a gasp, the clatter of a chair, the sound of running feet in the hallway, the slam of a door, and the sound of a car engine being jerked into life and then redlined down the lane.
Newt took the saucepan off his head and came out from behind the door.
He picked up the letter and was not one hundred percent surprised to see that it was addressed to Mr. G. Baddicombe. He unfolded it.
It read: "Here is A Florin, lawyer; nowe, runne faste, lest thee Worlde knoe the Truth about yowe and Mistrefs Spiddon the Type Writinge Machine slavey."
Newt looked at the other letters. The crackling paper of the one addressed to George Cranby said: "Remove thy thievinge Hande, Master Cranby. I minde well how yowe swindled the Widdowe Plashkin this Michelmas past, yowe skinnie owlde Snatch‑pastry."
Newt wondered what a snatch‑pastry was. He would be prepared to bet that it didn't involve cookery.
The one that had awaited the inquisitive Mr. Bychance said: "Yowe left them, yowe cowarde. Returne this letter to the hocks, lest the Worlde knoe the true Events of June 7th, Nineteen Hundred and Sixteene."
Under the letters was a manuscript. Newt stared at it.
"What's that?" said Anathema.
He spun around. She was leaning against the doorframe, like an attractive yawn on legs.
Newt backed against the table. "Oh, nothing. Wrong address. Nothing. Just some old box. Junk mail. You know how‑"
"On a Sunday?" she said, pushing him aside.
He shrugged as she put her hands around the yellowed manuscript and lifted it out.
"Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter," she read slowly, "Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef l Oh, my . . ."
She laid it reverentially on the table and prepared to turn the first page.
Newt's hand landed gently on hers.
"Think of it like this," he said quietly. "Do you want to be a descendant for the rest of your life?"
She looked up. Their eyes met.
– – -
It was Sunday, the first day of the rest of the world, around eleven-thirty.
St. James' Park was comparatively quiet. The ducks, who were experts in realpolitik as seen from the bread end, put it down to a decrease in world tension. There really had been a decrease in world tension, in fact, but a lot of people were in offices trying to find out why, trying to find where Atlantis had disappeared to with three international fact‑finding delegations on it, and trying to work out what had happened to all their computers yesterday.
The park was deserted except for a member of MI9 trying to recruit someone who, to their later mutual embarrassment, would turn out to be also a member of MI9, and a tall man feeding the ducks.
And there were also Crowley and Aziraphale.
They strolled side by side across the grass.
"Same here," said Aziraphale. "The shop's all there. Not so much as a soot mark."
"I mean, you can't just make an old Bentley," said Crowley. "You can't get the patina. But there it was, large as life. Right there in the street. You can't tell the difference."
"Well, 1 can tell the difference," said Aziraphale. "I'm sure I didn't stock books with titles like Biggles Goes To Mars and Jack Cade, Frontier Hero and 101 Things A Boy Can Do and Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea."
"Gosh, I'm sorry," said Crowley, who knew how much the angel had treasured his book collection.
"Don't be," said Aziraphale happily. "They're all mint first editions and I looked them up in Skindle's Price Guide. I think the phrase you use is whop‑eee. "
"I thought he was putting the world back just as it was," said Crowley.
"Yes," said Aziraphale. "More or less. As best he can. But he's got a sense of humor, too."
Crowley gave him a sideways look.
"Your people been in touch?" he said.
"No. Yours?"
"No."
"I think they're pretending it didn't happen."
"Mine too, I suppose. That's bureaucracy for you."
"And I think mine are waiting to see what happens next," said Aziraphale.
Crowley nodded. "A breathing space," he said. "A chance to morally re‑arm. Get the defenses up. Ready for the big one."
They stood by the pond, watching the ducks scrabble for the bread.
"Sorry?" said Aziraphale. "I thought that was the big one."
"I'm not sure," said Crowley. "Think about it. For my money, the really big one will be all of Us against all of Them."
"What? You mean Heaven and Hell against humanity?"
Crowley shrugged. "Of course, if he did change everything, then maybe he changed himself, too. Got rid of his powers, perhaps. Decided to stay human."
"Oh, I do hope so," said Aziraphale. "Anyway, I'm sure the alter native wouldn't be allowed. Er. Would it?"
"I don't know. You can never be certain about what's really intended. Plans within plans."
"Sorry" said Aziraphale.
"Well," said Crowley, who'd been thinking about this until his head ached, "haven't you ever wondered about it all? You know‑your people and my people. Heaven and Hell, good and evil, all that sort of thing? I mean, why?"
"As I recall," said the angel, stiffly, "there was the rebellion and‑"
"Ah, yes. And why did it happen, eh? I mean, it didn't have to, did it?" said Crowley, a manic look in his eye. "Anyone who could build a universe in six days isn't going to let a little thing like that happen. Unless they want it to, of course."
"Oh, come on. Be sensible," said Aziraphale, doubtfully.
"That's not good advice," said Crowley. "That's not good advice at all. If you sit down and think about it sensibly, you come up with some very funny ideas. Like: why make people inquisitive, and then put some forbidden fruit where th
ey can see it with a big neon finger flashing on and off saying 'THIS IS IT!'?"
"I don't remember any neon."
"Metaphorically, I mean. I mean, why do that if you really don't want them to eat it, eh? I mean, maybe you just want to see how it all turns out. Maybe it's all part of a great big ineffable plan. All of it. You, me, him, everything. Some great big test to see if what you've built all works properly, eh? You start thinking: it can't be a great cosmic game of chess, it has to be just very complicated Solitaire. And don't bother to answer. If we could understand, we wouldn't be us. Because it's all‑all‑"
INEFFABLE, said the figure feeding the ducks.
"Yeah. Right. Thanks."
They watched the tall stranger carefully dispose of the empty bag in a litter bin, and stalk away across the grass. Then Crowley shook his head.
"What was I saying?" he said.
"Don't know," said Aziraphale. "Nothing very important, I think."
Crowley nodded gloomily. "Let me tempt you to some lunch," he hissed.
They went to the Ritz again, where a table was mysteriously vacant. And perhaps the recent exertions had had some fallout in the nature of reality because, while they were eating, for the first time ever, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
No one heard it over the noise of the traffic, but it was there, right enough.
– – -
It was one o'clock on Sunday.
For the last decade Sunday lunch in Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell's world had followed an invariable routine. He would sit at the rickety, cigarette‑burned table in his room, thumbing through an elderly copy of one of the Witchfinder Army library's[56] books on magic and Demonology‑the Necrotelecomnicon or the Liber Fulvarum Paginarum, or his old favorite, the Malleus Malleficarum.[57]
Then there would be a knock on the door, and Madame Tracy would call out, "Lunch, Mr. Shadwell," and Shadwell would mutter, "Shameless hussy," and wait sixty seconds, to allow the shameless hussy time to get back into her room; then he'd open the door, and pick up the plate of liver, which was usually carefully covered by another plate to keep it warm. And he'd take it in, and he'd eat it, taking moderate care not to spill any gravy on the pages he was reading[58].
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