(The first day of the rest of their lives) 10 страница

" Can I be Rubbish? " asked Skuzz. " Or Embarrassing Personal Problems? "

" Can't be Rubbish, " said Grievous Bodily Harm. " He's got that one sewn up, Pollution. You can be the other, though. "

They rode on in the silence and the dark, the rear red lights of the Four a few hundred yards in front of them.

Grievous Bodily Harm, Embarrassing Personal Problems, Pigbog and Greaser.

" I wonter be Cruelty to Animals, " said Greaser. Pigbog wondered if he was for or against it. Not that it really mattered.

And then it was Pigbog's turn.

" I, uh. . . I think I'll be them answer phones. They're pretty bad, " he said.

" You can't be ansaphones. What kind of a Biker of the Repocalypse is ansaphones? That's stupid, that is. "

" S'not! " said Pigbog, nettled. " It's like War, and Famine, and that. It's a problem of life, isn't it? Answer phones. I hate bloody answer phones. "

" I hate ansaphones, too, " said Cruelty to Animals.

" You can shut up, " said G. B. H.

" Can I change mine? " asked Embarrassing Personal Problems, who had been thinking intently since he last spoke. " I want to be Things Not Working Properly Even After You've Thumped Them. "

" All right, you can change. But you can't be ansaphones, Pigbog. Pick something else. "

Pigbog pondered. He wished he'd never broached the subject. It was like the careers interviews he had had as a schoolboy. He deliberated.

" Really cool people, " he said at last. " I hate them. "

" Really cool people? " said Things Not Working Properly Even After You've Given Them A Good Thumping.

" Yeah. You know. The kind you see on telly, with stupid haircuts, only on them it dun't look stupid 'cos it's them. They wear baggy suits, an' you're not allowed to say they're a bunch of wankers. I mean, speaking for me, what I always want to do when I see one of them is push their faces very slowly through a barbed& #8209; wire fence. An' what I think is this. " He took a deep breath. He was sure this was the longest speech he had ever made in his life. " What I think is this. If they get up my nose like that, they pro'lly get up everyone else's. "

" Yeah, " said Cruelty to Animals. " An' they all wear sunglasses even when they dunt need 'em. "

" Eatin' runny cheese, and that stupid bloody No Alcohol Lager, " said Things Not Working Properly Even After You've Given Them A Good Thumping. " I hate that stuff. What's the point of drinking the stuff if it dun't leave you puking? Here, I just thought. Can I change again, so I'm No Alcohol Lager? "

" No you bloody can't, " said Grievous Bodily Harm. " You've changed once already. "

" Anyway, " said Pigbog. " That's why I wonter be Really Cool People. "

" All right, " said his leader.

" Don't see why I can't be No bloody Alcohol Lager if I want. "

" Shut your face. "

Death and Famine and War and Pollution continued biking toward Tadfield.

And Grievous Bodily Harm, Cruelty to Animals, Things Not Working Properly Even After You've Given Them A Good Thumping But Secretly No Alcohol Lager, and Really Cool People traveled with them.

– – -

It was a wet and blustery Saturday afternoon, and Madame Tracy was feeling very occult.

She had her flowing dress on, and a saucepan full of sprouts on the stove. The room was lit by candlelight, each candle carefully placed in a wax& #8209; encrusted wine bottle at the four corners of her sitting room.

There were three other people at her sitting. Mrs. Ormerod from Belsize Park, in a dark green hat that might have been a flowerpot in a previous life; Mr. Scroggie, thin and pallid, with bulging colorless eyes; and Julia Petley from Hair Today, the hairdressers' on the High Street, fresh out of school and convinced that she herself had unplumbed occult depths. In order to enhance the occult aspects of herself, Julia had begun to wear far too much handbeaten silver jewelry and green eyeshadow. She felt she looked haunted and gaunt and romantic, and she would have, if she had lost another thirty pounds. She was convinced that she was anorexic, because every time she looked in the mirror she did indeed see a fat person.

" Can you link hands? " asked Madame Tracy. " And we must have complete silence. The spirit world is very sensitive to vibration. "

" Ask if my Ron is there, " said Mrs. Ormerod. She had a jaw like a brick.

" I will, love, but you've got to be quiet while I make contact. "

There was silence, broken only by Mr. Scroggie's stomach rumbling. " Pardon, ladies, " he mumbled.

Madame Tracy had found, through years of Drawing Aside the Veil and Exploring the Mysteries, that two minutes was the right length of time to sit in silence, waiting for the Spirit World to make contact. More than that and they got restive, less than that and they felt they weren't getting their money's worth.

She did her shopping list in her head.

Eggs. Lettuce. Ounce of cooking cheese. Four tomatoes. Butter. Roll of toilet paper. Mustn't forget that, we're nearly out. And a really nice piece of liver for Mr. Shadwell, poor old soul, it's a shame. . .

Time.

Madame Tracy threw back her head, let it loll on one shoulder, then slowly lifted it again. Her eyes were almost shut.

" She's going under now, dear, " she heard Mrs. Ormerod whisper to Julia Petley. " Nothing to be alarmed about. She's just making herself a Bridge to the Other Side. Her spirit guide will be along soon. "

Madame Tracy found herself rather irritated at being upstaged, and she let out a low moan. " Oooooooooh. "

Then, in a high& #8209; pitched, quavery voice, " Are you there, my Spirit Guide? "

She waited a little, to build up the suspense. Washing& #8209; up liquid. Two cans of baked beans. Oh, and potatoes.

" How? " she said, in a dark brown voice.

" Is that you, Geronimo? " she asked herself.

" Is um me, how, " she replied.

" We have a new member of the circle with us this afternoon, " she said.

" How, Miss Petley? " she said, as Geronimo. She had always understood that Red Indian spirit guides were an essential prop, and she rather liked the name. She had explained this to Newt. She didn't know anything about Geronimo, he realized, and he didn't have the heart to tell her.

" Oh, " squeaked Julia. " Charmed to make your acquaintance. "

" Is my Ron there, Geronimo? " asked Mrs. Ormerod.

" How, squaw Beryl, " said Madame Tracy. " Oh there are so many um of the poor lost souls um lined up against um door to my teepee. Perhaps your Ron is amongst them. How. "

Madame Tracy had learned her lesson years earlier, and now never brought Ron through until near the end. If she didn't, Beryl Ormerod would occupy the rest of the seance telling the late Ron Ormerod everything that had happened to her since their last little chat. (". . . now Ron, you remember, our Eric's littlest, Sybilla, well you wouldn't recognize her now, she's taken up macrame, and our Letitia, you know, our Karen's oldest, she's become a lesbian but that's all right these days and is doing a dissertation on the films of Sergio Leone as seen from a feminist perspective, and our Stan, you know, our Sandra's twin, I told you about him last time, well, he won the darts tournament, which is nice because we all thought he was a bit of a mother's boy, while the guttering over the shed's come loose, but I spoke to our Cindi's latest, who's a jobbing builder, and he'll be over to see to it on Sunday, and ohh, that reminds me. . . " )

No, Beryl Ormerod could wait. There was a flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a rumble of distant thunder. Madame Tracy felt rather proud, as if she had done it herself. It was even better than the candles at creating ambulance. Ambulance was what mediuming was all about.

" Now, " said Madame Tracy in her own voice. " Mr. Geronimo would like to know, is there anyone named Mr. Scroggie here? "

Scroggie's watery eyes gleamed. " Erm, actually that's my name, " he said, hopefully.

" Right, well there's somebody here for you. " Mr. Scroggie had been coming for a month now, and she hadn't been able to think of a message for him. His time had come. " Do you know anyone named, um, John? "

" No, " said Mr. Scroggie.

" Well, there's some celestial interference here. The name could be Tom. Or Jim. Or, um, Dave. "

" I knew a Dave when I was in Hemel Hempstead, " said Mr. Scroggie, a trifle doubtfully.

" Yes, he's saying, Hemel Hempstead, that's what he's saying, " said Madame Tracy.

" But I ran into him last week, walking his dog, and he looked perfectly healthy, " said Mr. Scroggie, slightly puzzled.

" He says not to worry, and he's happier beyond the veil, " soldiered on Madame Tracy, who felt it was always better to give her clients good news.

" Tell my Ron I've got to tell him about our Krystal's wedding, " said Mrs. Ormerod.

" I will, love. Now, hold on a mo', there's something coming through. . . "

And then something came through. It sat in Madame Tracy's head and peered out.

" Sprechen sie Deutsch? " it said, using Madame Tracy's mouth. " Parlez& #8209; vous Franrais7 Wo bu hui jiang zhongwen? "

" Is that you, Ron? " asked Mrs. Ormerod. The reply, when it came, was rather testy.

" No. Definitely not. However, a question so manifestly dim can only have been put in one country on this benighted planet& #8209; most of which, incidentally, I have seen during the last few hours. Dear lady, this is not Ron. "

" Well, I want to speak to Ron Ormerod, " said Mrs. Ormerod, a little testily. " He's rather short, balding on top. Can you put him on, please? "

There was a pause. " Actually there does appear to be a spirit of that description hovering over here. Very well. I'll hand you over, but you must make it quick. I am attempting to avert the apocalypse. "

Mrs. Ormerod and Mr. Scroggie gave each other looks. Nothing like this had happened at Madame Tracy's previous sittings. Julia Petley was rapt. This was more like it. She hoped Madame Tracy was going to start manifesting ectoplasm next.

" H& #8209; hello? " said Madame Tracy in another voice. Mrs. Ormerod started. It sounded exactly like Ron. On previous occasions Ron had sounded like Madame Tracy.

" Ron, is that you? "

" Yes, Buh& #8209; Beryl. "

" Right. Now I've quite a bit to tell you. For a start I went to our Krystal's wedding, last Saturday, our Marilyn's eldest. . . "

" Buh& #8209; Beryl. You& #8209; you nuh& #8209; never let me guh& #8209; get a wuh& #8209; word in edgewise wuh& #8209; while I was alive. Nuh& #8209; now I'm duh& #8209; dead, there's juh just one thing to suh& #8209; say. . . "

Beryl Ormerod was a little disgruntled by all this. Previously when Ron had manifested, he had told her that he was happier beyond the veil, and living somewhere that sounded more than a little like a celestial bungalow. Now he sounded like Ron, and she wasn't sure that was what she wanted. And she said what she had always said to her husband when he began to speak to her in that tone of voice.

" Ron, remember your heart condition. "

" I duh& #8209; don't have a huh& #8209; heart any longer. Remuhmember? Anyway, Buh& #8209; Beryl. . . ? "

" Yes, Ron. "

" Shut up, " and the spirit was gone. " Wasn't that touching? Right, now, thank you very much, ladies and gentleman, I'm afraid 1 shall have to be getting on. "

Madame Tracy stood up, went over to the door, and turned on the lights.

" Out! " she said.

Her sitters stood up, more than a little puzzled, and, in Mrs. Ormerod's case, outraged, and they walked out into the hall.

" You haven't heard the last of this, Marjorie Potts, " hissed Mrs. Ormerod, clutching her handbag to her breast, and she slammed the door.

Then her muffled voice echoed from the hallway, " And you can tell our Ron that he hasn't heard the last of this either! "

Madame Tracy (and the name on her scooters& #8209; only driving license was indeed Marjorie Potts) went into the kitchen and turned off the sprouts.

She put on the kettle. She made herself a pot of tea. She sat down at the kitchen table, got out two cups, filled both of them. She added two sugars to one of them. Then she paused.

" No sugar for me, please, " said Madame Tracy.

She lined up the cups on the table in front of her, and took a long sip from the tea& #8209; with& #8209; sugar.

" Now, " she said, in a voice that anyone who knew her would have recognized as her own, although they might not have recognized her tone of voice, which was cold with rage. " Suppose you tell me what this is about. And it had better be good. "

– – -

A lorry had shed its load all over the M6. According to its manifest the lorry had been filled with sheets of corrugated iron, although the two police patrolmen were having difficulty in accepting this.

" So what I want to know is, where did all the fish come from? " asked the sergeant.

" I told you. They fell from the sky. One minute I'm driving along at sixty, next second, whap! a twelve& #8209; pound salmon smashes through the windscreen. So I pulls the wheel over, and I skidded on that, " he pointed to the remains of a hammerhead shark under the lorry, " and ran into that. " That was a thirty& #8209; foot& #8209; high heap of fish, of different shapes and sizes.

" Have you been drinking, sir? " asked the sergeant, less than hopefully.

" Course I haven't been drinking, you great wazzock. You can see the fish, can't you? "

On the top of the pile a rather large octopus waved a languid tentacle at them. The sergeant resisted the temptation to wave back.

The police constable was leaning into the police car, talking on the radio. ". . . corrugated iron and fish, blocking off the southbound M6 about half a mile north of junction ten. We're going to have to close off the whole southbound carriageway. Yeah. "

The rain redoubled. A small trout, which had miraculously survived the fall, gamely began to swim toward Birmingham.

– – -

" That was wonderful, " said Newt.

" Good, " said Anathema. " The earth moved for everybody. " She got up off the floor, leaving her clothes scattered across the carpet, and went into the bathroom.

Newt raised his voice. " I mean, it was really wonderful. Really really wonderful. I always hoped it was going to be, and it was. "

There was the sound of running water.

" What are you doing? " he asked.

" Taking a shower. "

" Ah. " He wondered vaguely if everyone had to shower afterwards, or if it was just women. And he had a suspicion that bidets came into it somewhere.

" Tell you what, " said Newt, as Anathema came out of the bathroom swathed in a fluffy pink towel. " We could do it again. "

" Nope, " she said, " not now. " She finished drying herself, and started picking up clothes from the floor, and, unselfconsciously, pulling them on. Newt, a man who was prepared to wait half an hour for a free changing cubicle at the swimming baths, rather than face the possibility of having to disrobe in front of another human being, found himself vaguely shocked, and deeply thrilled.

Bits of her kept appearing and disappearing, like a conjurer's hands; Newt kept trying to count her nipples and failing, although he didn't mind.

" Why not? " said Newt. He was about to point out that it might not take long, but an inner voice counseled him against it. He was growing up quite quickly in a short time.

Anathema shrugged, not an easy move when you're pulling on a sensible black skirt. " She said we only did it this once. "

Newt opened his mouth two or three times, then said, " She didn't. She bloody didn't. She couldn't predict that. I don't believe it. "

Anathema, fully dressed, walked over to her card index, pulled one out, and passed it to him.

Newt read it and blushed and gave it back, tight& #8209; Tipped.

It wasn't simply the fact that Agnes had known, and had expressed herself in the most transparent of codes. It was that, down the ages, various Devices had scrawled encouraging little comments in the margin.

She passed him the damp towel. " Here, " she said. " Hurry up. I've got to make the sandwiches, and we've got to get ready. "

He looked at the towel. " What's this for? "

" Your shower. "

Ah. So it was something men and women both did. He was pleased he'd got that sorted out.

" But you'll have to make it quick, " she said.

" Why? Have we got to get out of here in the next ten minutes before the building explodes? "

" Oh no. We've got a couple of hours. It's just that I've used up most of the hot water. You've got a lot of plaster in your hair. "

The storm blew a dying gust around Jasmine Cottage, and holding the damp pink towel, no longer fluffy, in front of him, strategically, Newt edged off to take a cold shower.

– – -

In Shadwell's dream, he is floating high above a village green. In the center of the green is a huge pile of kindling wood and dry branches. In the center of the pile is a wooden stake. Men and women and children stand around on the grass, eyes bright, cheeks pink, expectant, excited.

A sudden commotion: ten men walk across the green, leading a handsome, middle& #8209; aged woman; she must have been quite striking in her youth, and the word " vivacious" creeps into Shadwell's dreaming mind. In front of her walks Witchfinder Private Newton Pulsifer. No, it isn't Newt: The man is older, and dressed in black leather. Shadwell recognizes approvingly the ancient uniform of a Witchfinder Major.

The woman climbs onto the pyre, thrusts her hands behind her, and is tied to the stake. The pyre is lit. She speaks to the crowd, says something, but Shadwell is too high to hear what it is. The crowd gathers around her.

A witch, thinks Shadwell. They're burning a witch. It gives him a warm feeling. That was the right and proper way of things. That's how things were meant to be.

Only. . .

She looks directly up at him now, and says " That goes for yowe as welle, yowe daft old foole. "

Only she is going to die. She is going to burn to death. And, Shadwell realizes in his dream, it is a horrible way to die.

The flames lick higher.

And the woman looks up. She is staring straight at him, invisible though he is. And she is smiling.

And then it all goes boom.

A crash of thunder.

That was thunder, thought Shadwell, as he woke up, with the unshakable feeling that someone was still staring at him.

He opened his eyes, and thirteen glass eyes watched from the various shelves of Madame Tracy's boudoir, staring out from a variety of fuzzy faces.

He looked away, and into the eyes of someone staring intently at him. It was him.

Och, he thought in terror, I'm havin' one o' them out& #8209; o'& #8209; yer& #8209; body experiences, I can see mah ane self, I'm a goner this time right enough. . .

He made frantic swimming motions in an effort to reach his own body and then, as these things do, the perspectives clicked into place.

Shadwell relaxed, and wondered why anyone would want to put a mirror on his bedroom ceiling. He shook his head, baffled.

He climbed out of the bed, pulled on his boots, and stood up, warily. Something was missing. A cigarette. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, pulled out a tin, and began to roll a cigarette.

He'd been dreaming, he knew. Shadwell didn't remember the dream, but it made him feel uncomfortable, whatever it was.

He lit the cigarette. And he saw his right hand: the ultimate weapon. The doomsday device. He pointed one finger at the one& #8209; eyed teddy bear on the mantelpiece.

" Bang, " he said, and chuckled, dustily. He wasn't used to chuckling, and he began to cough, which meant he was back on familiar territory. He wanted something to drink. A sweet can of condensed milk.

Madame Tracy would have some.

He stomped out of her boudoir, heading toward the kitchen.

Outside the little kitchen he paused. She was talking to someone. A man.

" So what exactly do you want me to do about this? " she was ask ing.

" Ach, ye beldame, " muttered Shadwell. She had one of her gentlemen callers in there, obviously.

" To be frank, dear lady, my plans at this point are perforce somewhat fluid. "

Shadwell's blood ran cold. He marched through the bead curtain, shouting, " The sins of Sodom an' Gomorrah! Takin' advantage of a defenseless hour! Over my dead body! "

Madame Tracy looked up, and smiled at him. There wasn't anyone else in the room.

" Whurrizee? " asked Shadwell.

" Whom? " asked Madame Tracy.

" Some Southern pansy, " he said, " I heard him. He was in here, suggestin' things to yer. I heard him. "

Madame Tracy's mouth opened, and a voice said, " Not just A Southern Pansy, Sergeant Shadwell. THE Southern Pansy. "

Shadwell dropped his cigarette. He stretched out his arm, shaking slightly, and pointed his hand at Madame Tracy.

" Demon, " he croaked.

" No, " said Madame Tracy, in the voice of the demon. " Now, I know what you're thinking, Sergeant Shadwell. You're thinking that any second now this head is going to go round and round, and I'm going to start vomiting pea soup. Well, I'm not. I'm not a demon. And I'd like you to listen to what I have to say. "

" Daemonspawn, be silent, " ordered Shadwell. " I'll no listen to yer wicked lies. Do yer know what this is? It's a hand. Four fingers. One thumb. It's already exorcised one of yer number this morning. Now get ye out of this gud wimmin's head, or I'll blast ye to kingdom come. "

" That's the problem, Mr. Shadwell, " said Madame Tracy in her own voice. " Kingdom come. It's going to. That's the problem. Mr. Aziraphale has been telling me all about it. Now stop being an old silly, Mr. Shadwell, sit down, and have some tea, and he'll explain it to you as well. "

" I'll ne'r listen tae his hellish blandishments, woman, " said Shadwell.

Madame Tracy smiled at him. " You old silly, " she said.

He could have handled anything else.

He sat down.

But he didn't lower his hand.

– – -

The swinging overhead signs proclaimed that the southbound carriageway was closed, and a small forest of orange cones had sprung up, redirecting motorists onto a co& #8209; opted lane of the northbound carriageway. Other signs directed motorists to slow down to thirty miles per hour. Police cars herded the drivers around like red& #8209; striped sheepdogs.

The four bikers ignored all the signs, and cones, and police cars, and continued down the empty southbound carriageway of the M6. The other four bikers, just behind them, slowed a little.

" Shouldn't we, uh, stop or something? " asked Really Cool People.

" Yeah. Could be a pile& #8209; up, " said Treading in Dogshit (formerly All Foreigners Especially The French, formerly Things Not Working Properly Even When You've Given Them a Good Thumping, never actually No Alcohol Lager, briefly Embarrassing Personal Problems, formerly known as Skuzz).

" We're the other Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, " said G. B. H. " We do what they do. We follow them. "

They rode south.

– – -

" It'll be a world just for us, " said Adam. " Everything's always been messed up by other people but we can get rid of it all an' start again. Won't that be great? "

– – -

" You are, I trust, familiar with the Book of Revelation? " said Madame Tracy with Aziraphale's voice.

" Aye, " said Shadwell, who wasn't. His biblical expertise began and ended with Exodus, chapter twenty& #8209; two, verse eighteen, which concerned Witches, the suffering to live of, and why you shouldn't. He had once glanced at verse nineteen, which was about putting to death people who lay down with beasts, but he had felt that this was rather outside his jurisdiction.

" Then you have heard of the Antichrist? "

" Aye, " said Shadwell, who had seen a film once which explained it all. Something about sheets of glass falling off lorries and slicing people's heads off, as he recalled. No proper witches to speak of. He'd gone to sleep halfway through.

" The Antichrist is alive on earth at this moment, Sergeant. He is bringing about Armageddon, the Day of Judgement, even if he himself does not know it. Heaven and Hell are both preparing for war, and it's all going to be very messy. "

Shadwell merely grunted.

" I am not actually permitted to act directly in this matter, Sergeant. But I am sure that you can see that the imminent destruction of the world is not something any reasonable man would permit. Am I correct? "

" Aye. S'pose, " said Shadwell, sipping condensed milk from a rusting can Madame Tracy had discovered under the sink.

" Then there is only one thing to be done. And you are the only man I can rely on. The Antichrist must be killed, Sergeant Shadwell. And you must do it. "

Shadwell frowned. " I wouldna know about that, " he said. " The witchfinder army only kills witches. 'Tis one of the rules. And demons and imps, o'course. "

" But, but the Antichrist is more than just a witch. He& #8209; he's THE witch. He's just about as witchy as you can get. "

" Wud he be harder to get rid of than, say, a demon? " asked Shadwell, who had begun to brighten.

" Not much more, " said Aziraphale, who had never done other to get rid of demons than to hint to them very strongly that he, Aziraphale, had some work to be getting on with, and wasn't it getting late? And Crowley had always got the hint.

Shadwell looked down at his right hand, and smiled. Then he hesitated.

" This Antichrist& #8209; how many nipples has he? "

The end justifies the means, thought Aziraphale. And the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. And he lied cheerfully and convincingly: " Oodles. Pots of them. His chest is covered with them& #8209; he makes Diana of the Ephesians look positively nippleless. "

" I wouldna know about this Diana of yours, " said Shadwell, " but if he's a witch, and it sounds tae me like he is, then, speaking as a sergeant in the WA, I'm yer man. "

" Good, " said Aziraphale through Madame Tracy.

" I'm not sure about this killing business, " said Madame Tracy herself. " But if it's this man, this Antichrist, or everybody else, then I suppose we don't really have any choice. "

" Exactly, dear lady, " she replied. " Now, Sergeant Shadwell. Have you a weapon? "

Shadwell rubbed his right hand with his left, clenching and unclenching the fist. " Aye, " he said. " I have that. " And he raised two fingers to his lips and blew on them gently.

There was a pause. " Your hand? " asked Aziraphale.

" Aye. 'Tis a turrible weapon. It did for ye, daemonspawn, did it not? "

" Have you anything more, uh, substantial? How about the Golden Dagger of Meggido? Or the Shiv of Kali? "

Shadwell shook his head. " I've got some pins, " he suggested. " And the Thundergun of Witchfinder& #8209; Colonel Ye& #8209; Shall& #8209; Not& #8209; Eat& #8209; Any& #8209; LivingThing& #8209; With& #8209; The& #8209; Blood& #8209; Neither& #8209; Shall& #8209; Ye& #8209; Use& #8209; Enchantment& #8209; Nor& #8209; ObserveTimes Dalrymple. . . I could load it with silver bullets. "