Good Omens

by Terry Pratchett

Crowley (An Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards)

Dog (Satanical hellhound and cat-worrier)

Many phenomena – wars, plagues, sudden audits – have been advanced as evidence for the hidden hand of Satan in the affairs of Man, but whenever students of demonology get together the M25 London orbital motorway is generally agreed to be among the top contenders for Exhibit A. Where they go wrong, of course, is assuming that the wretched road is evil simply because of the incredible carnage and frustration it engenders every day.

It was one of Crowley’s better achievements. It had taken years to achieve, and had involved three computer hacks, two break-ins, one minor bribery and, on one wet night when all else had failed, two hours in a squelchy field shifting the marker pegs a few but occultly incredibly significant metres. When Crowley had watched the first thirty-mile-long tailback he’d experienced the lovely warm feeling of a bad job well done. It had earned him a commendation.

Crowley was currently doing 110 mph somewhere east of Slough. Nothing about him looked particularly demonic, at least by classical standards. No horns, no wings. Admittedly he was listening to a Best of Queen tape, but no conclusions should be drawn from this because all tapes left in a car for more than about a fortnight metamorphose into Best of Queen albums. No particularly demonic thoughts were going through his head. In fact, he was currently wondering vaguely who Moey and Chandon were.

The reason he was late was that he was enjoying the twentieth century immensely. It was much better than the seventeenth, and a lot better than the fourteenth. One of the nice things about Time, Crowley always said, was that it was steadily taking him further away from the fourteenth century, the most bloody boring hundred years on God’s, excuse his French, Earth.

But demons like Ligur and Hastur wouldn’t understand. They’d never have thought up Welsh-language television, for example. Or VAT. Or Manchester. He’d been particularly pleased with Manchester.

The Bentley plunged on through the darkness, its fuel gauge pointing to zero. It had pointed to zero for more than sixty years now. It wasn’t all bad, being a demon. You didn’t have to buy petrol, for one thing. The only time Crowley had bought petrol was once in 1967, to get the free James Bond bullet-hole-in-the-windscreen transfers, which he rather fancied at the time.

Sister Mary headed through the night-time hospital with the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness safely in her arms. She found a bassinet and laid him down in it. He gurgled. She gave him a tickle.

Offer people a new creed with a costume and their hearts and minds will follow.

Besides, Sister Mary was a nurse and nurses, whatever their creed, are primarily nurses, which had a lot to do with wearing your watch upside down, keeping calm in emergencies, and dying for a cup of tea. She hoped someone would come soon; she’d done the important bit, now she wanted her tea.

It may help to understand human affairs to be clear that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people.

Crowley had always known that he would be around when the world ended, because he was immortal and wouldn’t have any alternative. But he’d hoped it would be a long way off. Because he rather liked people. It was a major failing in a demon.

They were born into a world that was against them in a thousand little ways, and then devoted most of their energies to making it worse.

Crowley had got a commendation for the Spanish Inquisition. He had been in Spain then, mainly hanging around cantinas in the nicer parts, and hadn’t even known about it until the commendation arrived. He’d gone to have a look, and had come back and got drunk for a week.

And just when you’d think they were more malignant than ever Hell could be, they could occasionally show more grace than Heaven ever dreamed of. Often the same individual was involved. It was this free-will thing, of course. It was a bugger. Aziraphale had tried to explain it to him once. The whole point, he’d said – this was somewhere around 1020, when they’d first reached their little Arrangement – the whole point was that when a human was good or bad it was because they wanted to be. Whereas people like Crowley and, of course, himself, were set in their ways right from the start. People couldn’t become truly holy, he said, unless they also had the opportunity to be definitively wicked. Crowley had thought about this for some time and, around about 1023, had said, Hang on, that only works, right, if you start everyone off equal, OK? You can’t start someone off in a muddy shack in the middle of a war zone and expect them to do as well as someone born in a castle. Ah, Aziraphale had said, that’s the good bit. The lower you start, the more opportunities you have. Crowley had said, That’s lunatic. No, said Aziraphale, it’s ineffable.

Aziraphale. The Enemy, of course. But an enemy for six thousand years now, which m...

He stared down at the golden curls of the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. ‘You know,’ he concluded, after a while, ‘I think he actually looks like an Adam.’

On the whole, neither he nor Crowley would have chosen each other’s company, but they were both men, or at least men-shaped creatures, of the world, and the Arrangement had worked to their advantage all this time. Besides, you grew accustomed to the only other face that had been around more or less consistently for six millennia.

It meant that Crowley had been allowed to develop Manchester, while Aziraphale had a free hand in the whole of Shropshire. Crowley took Glasgow, Aziraphale had Edinburgh (neither claimed any responsibility for Milton Keynesfn7, but both reported it as a success).

Aziraphale tossed a crust to a scruffy-looking drake, which caught it and sank immediately. The angel turned to Crowley. ‘Really, my dear,’ he murmured. ‘Sorry,’ said Crowley. ‘I was forgetting myself.’ The duck bobbed angrily to the surface.

‘Listen,’ said Crowley desperately, ‘how many musicians do you think your side have got, eh? First grade, I mean.’ Aziraphale looked taken aback. ‘Well, I should think—’ he began. ‘Two,’ said Crowley. ‘Elgar and Liszt. That’s all. We’ve got the rest. Beethoven, Brahms, all the Bachs, Mozart, the lot. Can you imagine eternity with Elgar?’ Aziraphale shut his eyes. ‘All too easily,’ he groaned. ‘That’s it, then,’ said Crowley, with a gleam of triumph. He knew Aziraphale’s weak spot all right. ‘No more compact discs. No more Albert Hall. No more Proms. No more Glyndbourne. Just celestial harmonies all day long.’ ‘Ineffable,’ Aziraphale murmured. ‘Like eggs without salt, you said. Which reminds me. No salt, no eggs. No gravlax with dill sauce. No fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No Daily Telegraph crossword. No small antique shops. No bookshops, either. No interesting old editions. No—’ Crowley scraped the bottom of Aziraphale’s barrel of interests – ‘Regency silver snuffboxes …’ ‘But after we win life will be better!’ croaked the angel. ‘But it won’t be as interesting. Look, you know I’m right. You’d be as happy with a harp as I’d be with a pitchfork.’ ‘You know we don’t play harps.’ ‘And we don’t use pitchforks. I was being rhetorical.’

As they drove past an astonished traffic warden his notebook spontaneously combusted, to Crowley’s amazement. ‘I’m pretty certain I didn’t mean to do that,’ he said. Aziraphale blushed. ‘That was me,’ he said.

Aziraphale collected books. If he were totally honest with himself he would have to have admitted that his bookshop was simply somewhere to store them. He was not unusual in this. In order to maintain his cover as a typical second-hand bookseller, he used every means short of actual physical violence to prevent customers from making a purchase. Unpleasant damp smells, glowering looks, erratic opening hours – he was incredibly good at it.

And, occasionally, serious men in dark suits would come calling and suggest, very politely, that perhaps he’d like to sell the shop itself so that it could be turned into the kind of retail outlet more suited to the area. Sometimes they’d offer cash, in large rolls of grubby fifty-pound notes. Or, sometimes, while they were talking, other men in dark glasses would wander around the shop shaking their heads and saying how inflammable paper was, and what a fire trap he had here. And Aziraphale would nod and smile and say that he’d think about it. And then they’d go away. And they’d never come back. Just because you’re an angel doesn’t mean you have to be a fool.

‘The point I’m trying to make,’ he said, brightening, ‘is the dolphins. That’s my point.’ ‘Kind of fish,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Nononono,’ said Crowley, shaking a finger. ‘’S mammal. Your actual mammal. Difference is—’ Crowley waded through the swamp of his mind and tried to remember the difference. ‘Difference is, they—’ ‘Mate out of water?’ volunteered Aziraphale.

‘There you are, then,’ said Crowley, sitting back. ‘Whole sea bubbling, poor old dolphins so much seafood gumbo, no one giving a damn. Same with gorillas. Whoops, they say, sky gone all red, stars crashing to ground, what they putting in the bananas these days? And then—’ ‘They make nests, you know, gorillas,’ said the angel, pouring another drink and managing to hit the glass on the third go. ‘Nah.’ ‘God’s truth. Saw a film. Nests.’ ‘That’s birds,’ said Crowley. ‘Nests,’ insisted Aziraphale. Crowley decided not to argue the point.

‘Sharpen its beak on the mountain,’ said Crowley. ‘And then it flies back—’ ‘—in the space ship—’ ‘And after a thousand years it goes and does it all again,’ said Crowley quickly. There was a moment of drunken silence. ‘Seems a lot of effort just to sharpen a beak,’ mused Aziraphale. ‘Listen,’ said Crowley urgently, ‘the point is that when the bird has worn the mountain down to nothing, right, then—’ Aziraphale opened his mouth. Crowley just knew he was going to make some point about the relative hardness of birds’ beaks and granite mountains, and plunged on quickly. ‘—then you still won’t have finished watching The Sound of Music.’ Aziraphale froze. ‘And you’ll enjoy it,’ Crowley said relentlessly. ‘You really will.’ ‘My dear boy—’ ‘You won’t have a choice.’ ‘Listen—’ ‘Heaven has no taste.’ ‘Now—’

‘What will happen to the child if it doesn’t get a Satanic upbringing, though?’ said Aziraphale. ‘Probably nothing. It’ll never know.’ ‘But genetics—’ ‘Don’t tell me from genetics. What’ve they got to do with it?’ said Crowley. ‘Look at Satan. Created as an angel, grows up to be the Great Adversary. Hey, if you’re going to go on about genetics, you might as well say the kid will grow up to be an angel. After all, his father was really big in Heaven in the old days. Saying he’ll grow up to be a demon just because his dad became one is like saying a mouse with its tail cut off will give birth to tailless mice. No. Upbringing is everything. Take it from me.’

Crowley found him on the pavement outside, trying to extricate a rather squishy dove from the arm of his frock coat. ‘It’s late,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I can see that,’ said Crowley. ‘Comes of sticking it up your sleeve.’ He reached out and pulled the limp bird from Aziraphale’s coat, and breathed life back into it. The dove cooed appreciatively and flew off, a trifle warily.

‘Come off it. Your lot get ineffable mercy,’ said Crowley sourly. ‘Yes? Did you ever visit Gomorrah?’ ‘Sure,’ said the demon. ‘There was this great little tavern where you could get these terrific fermented date-palm cocktails with nutmeg and crushed lemongrass—’ ‘I meant afterwards.’ ‘Oh.’

There were people who called themselves Satanists who made Crowley squirm. It wasn’t just the things they did, it was the way they blamed it all on Hell. They’d come up with some stomach-churning idea that no demon could have thought of in a thousand years, some dark and mindless unpleasantness that only a fully functioning human brain could conceive, then shout The Devil Made Me Do It and get the sympathy of the court when the whole point was that the Devil hardly ever made anyone do anything. He didn’t have to. That was what some humans found hard to understand. Hell wasn’t a major reservoir of evil, any more than Heaven, in Crowley’s opinion, was a fountain of goodness; they were just sides in the great cosmic chess game. Where you found the real McCoy, the real grace and the real heart-stopping evil, was right inside the human mind.

‘I was going to ask you the same thing – Watch out for that pedestrian!’ ‘It’s on the street, it knows the risks it’s taking!’ said Crowley, easing the accelerating car between a parked car and a taxi and leaving a space which would have barely accepted even the best credit card. ‘Watch the road! Watch the road! Where is this hospital, anyway?’ ‘Somewhere south of Oxford!’ Aziraphale grabbed the dashboard. ‘You can’t do ninety miles an hour in Central London!’ Crowley peered at the dial. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘You’ll get us killed!’ Aziraphale hesitated. ‘Inconveniently discorporated,’ he corrected, lamely, relaxing a little. ‘Anyway, you might kill other people.’ Crowley shrugged. The angel had never really come to grips with the twentieth century, and didn’t realize that it is perfectly possible to do ninety miles an hour down Oxford Street. You just arranged matters so that no one was in the way. And since everyone knew that it was impossible to do ninety miles an hour down Oxford Street, no one noticed.

At least cars were better than horses. The internal combustion engine had been a godse – a blessi – a windfall for Crowley. The only horses he could have been seen riding on business, in the old days, were big black jobs with eyes like flame and hooves that struck sparks. That was de rigueur for a demon. Usually, Crowley fell off. He wasn’t much good with animals.

Somewhere around Chiswick, Aziraphale scrabbled vaguely among the scree of tapes in the glove compartment. ‘What’s a Velvet Underground?’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t like it,’ said Crowley. ‘Oh,’ said the angel dismissively. ‘Be-bop.’ ‘Do you know, Aziraphale, that probably if a million human beings were asked to describe modern music, they wouldn’t use the term “be-bop”?’ said Crowley. ‘Ah, this is more like it. Tchaikovsky,’ said Aziraphale, opening a case and slotting its cassette into the Blaupunkt. ‘You won’t enjoy it,’ sighed Crowley. ‘It’s been in the car for more than a fortnight.’ A heavy bass beat began to thump through the Bentley as they sped past Heathrow. Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. ‘I don’t recognize this,’ he said. ‘What is it?’ ‘It’s Tchaikovsky’s “Another One Bites the Dust”,’ said Crowley, closing his eyes as they went through Slough. To whi...

‘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.

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.

‘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.

‘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 airbase 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—’

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.

‘This is a very odd gun, you know. Very strange.’ ‘I thought your side disapproved of guns,’ said Crowley. He took the gun from the angel’s plump hand and sighted along the stubby barrel. ‘Current thinking favours them,’ said Aziraphale. ‘They lend weight to moral argument. In the right hands, of course.’ ‘Yeah?’ Crowley snaked a hand over the metal. ‘That’s all right, then. Come on.’

‘We’re all going to lose,’ said Crowley absently. There was a burst of firing from the grounds. Not the snap and zing of pellets, but the full-throated crackle of aerodynamically-shaped bits of lead travelling extremely fast. There was an answering stutter. The redundant warriors stared one to another. A further burst took out a rather ugly Victorian stained glass window beside the door and stitched a row of holes in the plaster by Crowley’s head. Aziraphale grabbed his arm. ‘What the hell is it?’ he said. Crowley smiled like a snake.

The men in the room suddenly realized that they didn’t want to know her better. She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, not up close.

‘I don’t reckon it’s allowed, going round setting fire to people,’ said Adam. ‘Otherwise people’d be doin’ it all the time.’

The things that really change the world, according to Chaos theory, are the tiny things. A butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazonian jungle, and subsequently a storm ravages half of Europe. Somewhere in Adam’s sleeping head, a butterfly had emerged.

The Them nodded sagely. Of this at least they had no doubt. America was, to them, the place that good people went to when they died. They were prepared to believe that just about anything could happen in America.

Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.

Two of these were wrong; Heaven is not in England, whatever certain poets may have thought, and angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort. But he was intelligent. And it was an angelic intelligence which, while not being particularly higher than human intelligence, is much broader and has the advantage of having thousands of years of practice.

Newt had always suspected that people who regularly used the word ‘community’ were using it in a very specific sense that excluded him and everyone he knew.

long-drawn-out battle with their arch-enemies the Scots, managed a few burnings to while away the long winter evenings.