Good Omens (29 page)

“Why?” Greaser had never thought of Pigbog as being a Bible trivia freak.

“'Cos, well, you remember that bit of bother in Brighton?”

“Oh, yeah. You was on
Crimewatch,”
said Greaser, with a trace of envy.

“Well, I had to hang out in that hotel where me mam worked, dinni? Free months. And nothin' to read, only this bugger Gideon had left his Bible behind. It kind of sticks in your mind.”

Another motorbike, jet black and gleaming, drew up in the car-park outside.

The door to the café opened. A blast of cold wind blew through the room; a man dressed all in black leather, with a short black beard, walked over to the table, sat next to the woman in red, and the bikers around the video scrabble machine suddenly noticed how hungry they all were, and deputed Skuzz to go and get them something to eat. All of them except the player, who said nothing, just pressed the buttons for the right answers and let his winnings accumulate in the tray at the bottom of the machine.

“I haven't seen you since Mafeking,” said Red. “How's it been going?”

“I've been keeping pretty busy,” said Black. “Spent a lot of time in America. Brief world tours. Just killing time, really.”

(“What do you mean, you've got no steak and kidney pies?” asked Skuzz, affronted.

“I thought we had some, but we don't,” said the woman.)

“Feels funny, all of us finally getting together like this,” said Red.

“Funny?”

“Well, you know. When you've spent all these thousands of years waiting for the big day, and it finally comes. Like waiting for Christmas. Or birthdays.”

“We don't have birthdays.”

“I didn't say we do. I just said that was what it was like.”

(“Actually,” admitted the woman,“it doesn't look like we've got anything left at all. Except that slice of pizza.”

“Has it got anchovies on it?” asked Skuzz gloomily. None of the chapter liked anchovies. Or olives.

“Yes, dear. It's anchovy and olives. Would you like it?”

Skuzz shook his head sadly. Stomach rumbling, he made his way back to the game. Big Ted got irritable when he got hungry, and when Big Ted got irritable everyone got a slice.)

A new category had come up on the video screen. You could now answer questions about Pop Music, Current Events, Famine, or War. The bikers seemed marginally less informed about the Irish Potato Famine of 1846, the English everything famine of 1315, and the 1969 dope famine in San Francisco than they had been about War, but the player was still racking up a perfect score, punctuated occasionally by a whir, ratchet, and chink as the machine disgorged pound coins into its tray.

“Weather looks a bit tricky down south,” said Red.

Black squinted at the darkening clouds. “No. Looks fine to me. We'll have a thunderstorm along any minute.”

Red looked at her nails. “That's good. It wouldn't be the same if we didn't have a good thunderstorm. Any idea how far we've got to ride?”

Black shrugged. “A few hundred miles.”

“I thought it'd be longer, somehow. All that waiting, just for a few hundred miles.”

“It's not the traveling,” said Black. “It's the arriving that matters.”

There was a roar outside. It was the roar of a motorbike with a defective exhaust, untuned engine, leaky carburetor. You didn't have to see the bike to imagine the clouds of black smoke it traveled in, the oil slicks it left in its wake, the trail of small motorbike parts and fittings that littered the roads behind it.

Black went up to the counter.

“Four teas, please,” he said. “One black.”

The café door opened. A young man in dusty white leathers entered, and the wind blew empty crisp packets and newspapers and ice cream wrappers in with him. They danced around his feet like excited children, then fell exhausted to the floor.

“Four of you, are there, dear?” asked the woman. She was trying to find some clean cups and tea spoons—the entire rack seemed suddenly to have been coated in a light film of motor oil and dried egg.

“There will be,” said the man in black, and he took the teas and went back to the table, where his two comrades waited.

“Any sign of him?” said the boy in white.

They shook their heads.

An argument had broken out around the video screen (current categories showing on the screen were War, Famine, Pollution, and Pop Trivia 1962–1979).

“Elvis Presley? 'Sgotta be ‘C'—it was 1977 he snuffed it, wasn't it?”

“Nah. ‘D.' 1976. I'm positive.”

“Yeah. Same year as Bing Crosby.”

“And Marc Bolan. He was dead good. Press ‘D,' then. Go on.”

The tall figure made no motion to press any of the buttons.

“Woss the matter with you?” asked Big Ted, irritably. “Go on. Press ‘D.' Elvis Presley died in 1976.”

I DON'T CARE WHAT IT SAYS, said the tall biker in the helmet, I NEVER LAID A FINGER ON HIM.

The three people at the table turned as one. Red spoke. “When did you get here?” she asked.

The tall man walked over to the table, leaving the astonished bikers, and his winnings, behind him. I NEVER WENT AWAY, he said, and his voice was a dark echo from the night places, a cold slab of sound, gray, and dead. If that voice was a stone it would have had words chiseled on it a long time ago: a name, and two dates.

“Your tea's getting cold, lord,” said Famine.

“It's been a long time,” said War.

There was a flash of lightning, almost immediately followed by a low rumble of thunder.

“Lovely weather for it,” said Pollution.

YES.

The bikers around the game were getting progressively baffled by this exchange. Led by Big Ted, they shambled over to the table and stared at the four strangers.

It did not escape their notice that
all
four strangers had HELL'S ANGELS on their jackets. And they looked dead dodgy as far as the Angels were concerned: too clean for a start; and none of the four looked like they'd ever broken anyone's arm just because it was Sunday afternoon and there wasn't anything good on the telly. And one was a woman, too, only not ridin' around on the back of someone's bike but actually allowed one of her own, like she had any right to it.

“You're Hell's Angels, then?” asked Big Ted, sarcastically. If there's one thing real Hell's Angels can't abide, it's weekend bikers.
⁴⁰

The four strangers nodded.

“What chapter are you from, then?”

The Tall Stranger looked at Big Ted. Then he stood up. It was a complicated motion; if the shores of the seas of night had deck chairs, they'd open up something like that.

He seemed to be unfolding himself forever.

He wore a dark helmet, completely hiding his features. And it was made of that weird plastic, Big Ted noted. Like, you looked in it, and all you could see was your own face.

REVELATIONS, he said. CHAPTER SIX.

“Verses two to eight,” added the boy in white, helpfully.

Big Ted glared at the four of them. His lower jaw began to protrude, and a little blue vein in his temple started to throb. “Wossat mean then?” he demanded.

There was a tug at his sleeve. It was Pigbog. He had gone a peculiar shade of gray, under the dirt.

“It means we're in trouble,” said Pigbog.

And then the tall stranger reached up a pale motorbike gauntlet, and raised the visor of his helmet, and Big Ted found himself wishing, for the first time in his existence, that he'd lived a better life.

“Jesus Christ!” he moaned.

“I think He may be along in a minute,” said Pigbog urgently. “He's probably looking for somewhere to park his bike. Let's go and, and join a youf club or somethin' … ”

But Big Ted's invincible ignorance was his shield and armor. He didn't move.

“Cor,” he said. “Hell's Angels.”

War flipped him a lazy salute.

“That's us, Big Ted,” she said. “The real McCoy.”

Famine nodded. “The Old Firm,” he said.

Pollution removed his helmet and shook out his long white hair. He had taken over when Pestilence, muttering about penicillin, had retired in 1936. If only the old boy had known what opportunities the future had held …

“Others promise,” he said, “we deliver.”

Big Ted looked at the fourth Horseman. “'Ere, I seen you before,” he said. “You was on the cover of that Blue Oyster Cult album. An' I got a ring wif your … your … your head on it.”

I GET EVERYWHERE.

“Cor.” Big Ted's big face screwed up with the effort of thought.

“Wot kind of bike you ridin'?” he said.

THE STORM RAGED around the quarry. The rope with the old car tire on it danced in the gale. Sometimes a sheet of iron, relic of an attempt at a tree house, would shake loose from its insubstantial moorings and sail away.

The Them huddled together, staring at Adam. He seemed bigger, somehow. Dog sat and growled. He was thinking of all the smells he would lose. There were no smells in Hell, apart from the sulphur. While some of them here, were, were … well, the fact was, there were no bitches in Hell either.

Adam was marching about excitedly, waving his hands in the air.

“There'll be no end to the fun we can have,” he said. “There'll be exploring and everything. I 'spect I can soon get the ole jungles to grow again.”

“But—but who—who'll do the, you know, all the cooking and washing and suchlike?” quavered Brian.

“No one'll have to do any of that stuff,” said Adam. “You can have all the food you like, loads of chips, fried onion rings, anything you like. An' never have to wear any new clothes or have a bath if you don't want to or anything. Or go to school or anything. Or do anything you don't want to do, ever again. It'll be
wicked!”

THE MOON CAME UP over the Kookamundi Hills. It was very bright tonight.

Johnny Two Bones sat in the red basin of the desert. It was a sacred place, where two ancestral rocks, formed in the Dreamtime, lay as they had since the beginning. Johnny Two Bones' walkabout was coming to an end. His cheeks and chest were smeared with red ochre, and he was singing an old song, a sort of singing map of the hills, and he was drawing patterns in the dust with his spear.

He had not eaten for two days; he had not slept. He was approaching a trance state, making him one with the Bush, putting him into communion with his ancestors.

He was nearly there.

Nearly …

He blinked. Looked around wonderingly.

“Excuse me, dear boy,” he said to himself, out loud, in precise, enunciated tones. “But have you any idea where I am?”

“Who said that?” said Johnny Two Bones.

His mouth opened. “I did.”

Johnny scratched, thoughtfully. “I take it you're one of me ancestors, then, mate?”

“Oh. Indubitably, dear boy. Quite indubitably. In a manner of speaking. Now, to get back to my original question. Where am I?”

“Only if you're one of my ancestors,” continued Johnny Two Bones, “why are you talking like a poofter?”

“Ah. Australia,” said Johnny Two Bones' mouth, pronouncing the word as though it would have to be properly disinfected before he said it again. “Oh dear. Well, thank you anyway.”

“Hello? Hello?” said Johnny Two Bones.

He sat in the sand, and he waited, and he waited, but he didn't reply.

Aziraphale had moved on.

CITRON DEUX-CHEVAUX was tonton macoute, a traveling houngan:
⁴¹
he had a satchel over his shoulder, containing magical plants, medicinal plants, bits of wild cat, black candles, a powder derived chiefly from the skin of a certain dried fish, a dead centipede, a half-bottle of Chivas Regal, ten Rothmans, and a copy of What's On In Haiti.

He hefted the knife, and, with an experienced slicing motion, cut the head from a black cockerel. Blood washed over his right hand.

“Loa ride me,” he intoned. “Gros Bon Ange come to me.”

“Where am I?” he said.

“Is that my Gros Bon Ange?” he asked himself.

“I think that's a rather personal question,” he replied. “I mean, as these things go. But one tries, as it were. One does one's best.”

Citron found one of his hands reaching for the cockerel.

“Rather unsanitary place to do your cooking, don't you think? Out here in the jungle. Having a barbecue, are we? What kind of place is this?”

“Haitian,” he answered.

“Damn! Nowhere near. Still, could be worse. Ah, I must be on my way. Be good.”

And Citron Deux-Chevaux was alone in his head.

“Loas be buggered,” he muttered to himself. He stared into nothing for a while, and then reached for the satchel and its bottle of Chivas Regal. There are at least two ways to turn someone into a zombie. He was going to take the easiest.

The surf was loud on the beaches. The palms shook.

A storm was coming.

THE LIGHTS WENT UP. The Power Cable (Nebraska) Evangelical Choir launched into “Jesus Is the Telephone Repairman on the Switchboard of My Life,” and almost drowned out the sound of the rising wind.

Marvin O. Bagman adjusted his tie, checked his grin in the mirror, patted the bottom of his personal assistant (Miss Cindi Kellerhals, Penthouse Pet of the Month three years ago last July; but she had put that all behind her when she got Career), and he walked out onto the studio floor.

Jesus won't cut you off before you're through

With him you won't never get a crossed line,

And when your bill comes it'll all be properly itemized

He's the telephone repairman on the switchboard of my life,

the choir sang. Marvin was fond of that song. He had written it himself.

Other songs he had written included: “Happy Mister Jesus,” “Jesus, Can I Come and Stay at Your Place?” “That Ol' Fiery Cross,” “Jesus Is the Sticker on the Bumper of My Soul,” and “When I'm Swept Up by the Rapture Grab the Wheel of My Pick-Up.” They were available on Jesus Is My Buddy (LP, cassette, and CD), and were advertised every four minutes on Bagman's evangelical network.
⁴²