Disclaimer: Bernard, Manny and Fran are the creations of the fantastic
Dylan Moran. Aziraphale is, of course, the creation of Neil Gaiman and
Terry Pratchett. I'm just borrowing.
***
The Pricke of Conscience
***
"No. No, no, no, NO, NO!" The morning newspaper filled the air as Bernard flailed his arms in horror before remembering that he was holding it. He gave the paper storm a disdainful glare.
"Oh please," begged Manny.
"No. We are not having the author of "Three steps to a happy life" in for a signing. It's the stupidest idea I ever heard."
"But it's a really inspiring book," said Manny, hopping from foot to foot in excitement. "Look how happy I am after reading it."
"I'm happy," said Bernard, scowling. "Look. Three steps to a happy life...
"One." He pulled out the cork from the bottle on the desk and poured himself a glass of wine.
"Two." He lit a fresh cigarette.
"Three." He picked up a book, flipped it open and leaned back in the chair. "Get lost, Manny."
There was a certain satisfaction in the disappointed sound of Manny's feet shuffling away. Bernard sighed what was supposed to be the sigh of a contented man as he sipped at the wine. Yes, a drink, a smoke and a bit of peaceful reading were all he required, and he had them right here. He'd start feeling happy any minute now, he was sure of it.
He had barely found his place on the page when he was interrupted by the sound of the shop door crashing open, followed by a chipper, "Good morning!"
He looked up to see Fran twirling around as if to show something off. He blinked. A second look revealed that she was dressed in a skirt with a disturbing amount of ruffled lacy layers which flounced as she span around.
"Why're you dressed like that?" he asked. "You look stupid."
"It's fashionable. Don't you think I look like Carrie off Sex in the City?"
"Who? You look like an accident in a net curtain factory."
Fran gave him a disparaging look, but at least she stopped twirling – and Bernard noted the disappearance of her irritating excessive morning cheerfulness with spiteful glee.
Fran staggered dizzily across the shop. "Are you ready to go, Manny?"
"What? Where are you going? You can't just go out. There's work to be done," snapped Bernard as Manny grabbed a bag and prepared to follow Fran.
"We're going to the shops. There aren't even any teabags left. Do you want anything?"
"No. Wait." He counted the wine bottles stored under the desk. "Bring me some wine."
"Say please..."
"Sod off."
***
Aziraphale glanced around the small bookshop appreciating the pleasant shabbiness, the smell of old books and the anticipation of ownership. It was nice to see another place that hadn't bowed to the fashion for slick shelving layout and coffee machines.
At the far end of the shop was a desk at which was seated a man reading a worn green hardback, his fingers toying with a glass of red wine, apparently oblivious to the customers milling around the stacks.
"Excuse me," began Aziraphale. There was no indication that the man had heard. "It's Mr Fell. I called earlier about the Rolle."
"Over there." The man waved a hand in the vague direction of – well – less keen eyes might have thought it was indicating the whole of the rest of the shop. However, following the dismissive gesture precisely, Aziraphale found, did indeed lead to the 'Religion' shelf. And there, shelved between copies of Enochian Sex Magick and Feng Shui for your Garden, was the book he was looking for.
He ran a finger down the golden letters on the book's brown cloth spine before giving it a gentle tug to free it from the packed shelf. An 1863 Philological Society edition of The Pricke of Conscience by Richard Rolle de Hampole. It was hardly the match of his 1506 copy of the same author's Remedy Against Temptacyons, which was stored in a humidity-controlled safe in his back room, but an interesting edition nonetheless.
He drew a deep breath before opening the book, as though preparing to dive into deep water, then prised open the pages. The paper was yellowed but thick and crisp, the pages cut slightly roughly along the top edge. He leafed through a few pages and winced as he came across scruffy marginalia in ink. An odd line of text here and there had been underlined.
Still, the book was under priced even for a damaged copy and Aziraphale was loathe to leave empty-handed. He ran a practiced eye along the self but nothing else caught his interest.
He turned to purchase the book, his mind already turning to the pleasant chocolaterie he would pass on the stroll back from Bloomsbury to Soho. But he found another customer was busy trying to attract the attention of the bookseller.
"Do you have any modern American poetry?" asked a tall balding man wearing a baggy cardigan.
"Yes," answered the man at the desk, still not looking up from his book.
"Where can I find it then?"
"Poetry section," came the answer in an automatic monotone.
"Look – I don't have all day," the customer sounded exasperated. "Can't you just show me?"
The man closed his book with a snap and slammed it on the desk.
"Oh. Oh I see. You don't have all day. Do I look like I have time to help illiterate idiots with their shopping?"
"I'm sorry," mumbled the customer, backing away. "I'll go and look then."
"No. You won't." Aziraphale watched open-mouthed as the man grabbed the customer by the shoulders and pushed him towards the door. "Get out."
The door slammed behind the terrified customer and the tousle-haired man looked around and started, apparently noticing for the first time that his shop was thronging with customers.
"You. What are you looking for?"
"Book on photography," said an overweight teenage girl, keeping her eyes on the floor and shrugging as she muttered the words.
"We don't have any. Out!"
The girl scampered through the door and the bookseller pounced on a group of chattering tourists.
"You lot. You're too loud. Go home. Now!"
"Well really!" they complained as they were ushered out of the shop.
"You, what do you want?"
Aziraphale jumped. He had been so awed by the whole spectacle that he had forgotten he was waiting to be served.
"How much is this, please?" he asked, handing over the Rolle and swallowing hard as the fuming bookseller flipped it open and then flicked through it with no reverence for the 140-year-old pages.
"It's not for sale. Nothing's for sale. Go away."
"That's very disappointing," said Aziraphale, fixing his eyes on the reluctant bookseller's own.
"Yeah, well, life's full of disappointment."
The bitter words matched what Aziraphale could see in the young man's eyes only too well and the angel sighed. The poor boy.
Plenty of souls raged and ranted on the inside, twisted up in bitterness by failures and regrets, but there was nothing suppressed about Bernard's fury – it was all there on the outside, explosive and raw.
Bernard's soul was a different matter. Aziraphale could almost see it, curled up in a corner, trying to hide from the world underneath a grey blanket of moroseness which was tightly gripped in clenched fists.
"It doesn't have to be, Bernard," said Aziraphale, his voice gentle; hypnotic. "It could be full of glory and wonder and joy if you weren't such a grumpy bastard to everybody."
Aziraphale pulled a chair up to the desk and motioned for Bernard to sit down. The angel glanced around for a clean glass, miraculously (literally) found one and poured himself some wine.
"That's such complete crap," said Bernard, obediently sitting down with a look of complete confusion. "How'd you know my name?"
Aziraphale frowned. Clearly Bernard's soul was not to be tricked out from its corner with cheerfulness and optimism nor would it be easily coaxed out with kindness. It might be a scared, sad, tired soul, but it was also a cynical one. Perhaps the direct approach was best.
"The same way that I know how you trampled your friends' happiness this morning. Did you enjoy that? Did it make you feel good to crush their feelings?"
"But... What? How? Eh..." floundered Bernard. "Yes. They were being stupid."
Aziraphale just looked at him while taking a sip of wine. "Ugh!" said the angel, gagging as he tried to swallow the foul liquid.
"Fine – no. It didn't. I still felt miserable. Why the hell am I telling you this? You're doing some crazy mumbo-jumbo on my head. Stop it."
Aziraphale reached out a hand and rested it on Bernard's shoulder.
"Bernard," he said.
***
"Manny! Manny! Fran! Fran! There was an angel in the shop!"
The duo, were still struggling through the shop door, laden with shopping bags, but Bernard had been bursting to tell someone about what had happened for over an hour – and it wasn't as if there was anyone else to tell.
"What did she do then this angel? Eh?" demanded Fran, putting her bags down on the book table. "Entrust you with a mission to lead the French army? Bring you glad tidings of the second coming?"
"Suggest giving your staff a raise?" asked Manny, adding his bags to the pile.
"He bought a book. Actually," said Bernard.
"Er, Bernard," said Fran. "That's what we call a customer. Cus-tom-er. Not an angel."
Oh, but it had been an angel. He was certain of that. It had touched him on the shoulder and said 'Bernard' and he had felt surrounded by love and mercy and joy. It had been like being hugged by the universe.
And for a moment back there he'd wondered if it was possible to live like that. Not always happy exactly, but always seeing life as a wondrous gift rather than a burden and a trial.
But then, of course, you had to deal with people -- people who unpacked the shopping noisily and asked you stupid questions like, "Are you sure you're feeling all right?", "Would you like a cup of tea?" and "Where shall I put all this wine?"
Hold on.
"...and we got your favourite biscuits," finished Manny.
"But..." said Bernard, looking up at his friends who were holding up tea bags and iced biscuits and half a case of red. "Why are you being so nice to me?"
"You seemed extra grumpy this morning," said Fran, her skirt still flouncing insanely. "We thought you needed cheering up."
"Oh. Right," said Bernard. He frowned. There was an unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. What had the damned angel said as he left with his book?
I won't force you to change, Bernard. But I can prick your conscience.
Damn.
"Er, Fran? Manny?" he started. "Thank you for doing the shopping."
They stared at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
"Fran, you look lovely. Manny, you can have your happy author so long as you organise it all."
Oh great. Now they were looking at him like he was out of his tree. But he did feel better.
"Um, right, yes," he said. "C'mon, let's go to the pub."
No one disagreed.
***
Back in Soho, one very satisfied angel unwrapped a chocolate, locked the door of his shop and started to read.
The End
***
The Pricke of Conscience
***
"No. No, no, no, NO, NO!" The morning newspaper filled the air as Bernard flailed his arms in horror before remembering that he was holding it. He gave the paper storm a disdainful glare.
"Oh please," begged Manny.
"No. We are not having the author of "Three steps to a happy life" in for a signing. It's the stupidest idea I ever heard."
"But it's a really inspiring book," said Manny, hopping from foot to foot in excitement. "Look how happy I am after reading it."
"I'm happy," said Bernard, scowling. "Look. Three steps to a happy life...
"One." He pulled out the cork from the bottle on the desk and poured himself a glass of wine.
"Two." He lit a fresh cigarette.
"Three." He picked up a book, flipped it open and leaned back in the chair. "Get lost, Manny."
There was a certain satisfaction in the disappointed sound of Manny's feet shuffling away. Bernard sighed what was supposed to be the sigh of a contented man as he sipped at the wine. Yes, a drink, a smoke and a bit of peaceful reading were all he required, and he had them right here. He'd start feeling happy any minute now, he was sure of it.
He had barely found his place on the page when he was interrupted by the sound of the shop door crashing open, followed by a chipper, "Good morning!"
He looked up to see Fran twirling around as if to show something off. He blinked. A second look revealed that she was dressed in a skirt with a disturbing amount of ruffled lacy layers which flounced as she span around.
"Why're you dressed like that?" he asked. "You look stupid."
"It's fashionable. Don't you think I look like Carrie off Sex in the City?"
"Who? You look like an accident in a net curtain factory."
Fran gave him a disparaging look, but at least she stopped twirling – and Bernard noted the disappearance of her irritating excessive morning cheerfulness with spiteful glee.
Fran staggered dizzily across the shop. "Are you ready to go, Manny?"
"What? Where are you going? You can't just go out. There's work to be done," snapped Bernard as Manny grabbed a bag and prepared to follow Fran.
"We're going to the shops. There aren't even any teabags left. Do you want anything?"
"No. Wait." He counted the wine bottles stored under the desk. "Bring me some wine."
"Say please..."
"Sod off."
***
Aziraphale glanced around the small bookshop appreciating the pleasant shabbiness, the smell of old books and the anticipation of ownership. It was nice to see another place that hadn't bowed to the fashion for slick shelving layout and coffee machines.
At the far end of the shop was a desk at which was seated a man reading a worn green hardback, his fingers toying with a glass of red wine, apparently oblivious to the customers milling around the stacks.
"Excuse me," began Aziraphale. There was no indication that the man had heard. "It's Mr Fell. I called earlier about the Rolle."
"Over there." The man waved a hand in the vague direction of – well – less keen eyes might have thought it was indicating the whole of the rest of the shop. However, following the dismissive gesture precisely, Aziraphale found, did indeed lead to the 'Religion' shelf. And there, shelved between copies of Enochian Sex Magick and Feng Shui for your Garden, was the book he was looking for.
He ran a finger down the golden letters on the book's brown cloth spine before giving it a gentle tug to free it from the packed shelf. An 1863 Philological Society edition of The Pricke of Conscience by Richard Rolle de Hampole. It was hardly the match of his 1506 copy of the same author's Remedy Against Temptacyons, which was stored in a humidity-controlled safe in his back room, but an interesting edition nonetheless.
He drew a deep breath before opening the book, as though preparing to dive into deep water, then prised open the pages. The paper was yellowed but thick and crisp, the pages cut slightly roughly along the top edge. He leafed through a few pages and winced as he came across scruffy marginalia in ink. An odd line of text here and there had been underlined.
Still, the book was under priced even for a damaged copy and Aziraphale was loathe to leave empty-handed. He ran a practiced eye along the self but nothing else caught his interest.
He turned to purchase the book, his mind already turning to the pleasant chocolaterie he would pass on the stroll back from Bloomsbury to Soho. But he found another customer was busy trying to attract the attention of the bookseller.
"Do you have any modern American poetry?" asked a tall balding man wearing a baggy cardigan.
"Yes," answered the man at the desk, still not looking up from his book.
"Where can I find it then?"
"Poetry section," came the answer in an automatic monotone.
"Look – I don't have all day," the customer sounded exasperated. "Can't you just show me?"
The man closed his book with a snap and slammed it on the desk.
"Oh. Oh I see. You don't have all day. Do I look like I have time to help illiterate idiots with their shopping?"
"I'm sorry," mumbled the customer, backing away. "I'll go and look then."
"No. You won't." Aziraphale watched open-mouthed as the man grabbed the customer by the shoulders and pushed him towards the door. "Get out."
The door slammed behind the terrified customer and the tousle-haired man looked around and started, apparently noticing for the first time that his shop was thronging with customers.
"You. What are you looking for?"
"Book on photography," said an overweight teenage girl, keeping her eyes on the floor and shrugging as she muttered the words.
"We don't have any. Out!"
The girl scampered through the door and the bookseller pounced on a group of chattering tourists.
"You lot. You're too loud. Go home. Now!"
"Well really!" they complained as they were ushered out of the shop.
"You, what do you want?"
Aziraphale jumped. He had been so awed by the whole spectacle that he had forgotten he was waiting to be served.
"How much is this, please?" he asked, handing over the Rolle and swallowing hard as the fuming bookseller flipped it open and then flicked through it with no reverence for the 140-year-old pages.
"It's not for sale. Nothing's for sale. Go away."
"That's very disappointing," said Aziraphale, fixing his eyes on the reluctant bookseller's own.
"Yeah, well, life's full of disappointment."
The bitter words matched what Aziraphale could see in the young man's eyes only too well and the angel sighed. The poor boy.
Plenty of souls raged and ranted on the inside, twisted up in bitterness by failures and regrets, but there was nothing suppressed about Bernard's fury – it was all there on the outside, explosive and raw.
Bernard's soul was a different matter. Aziraphale could almost see it, curled up in a corner, trying to hide from the world underneath a grey blanket of moroseness which was tightly gripped in clenched fists.
"It doesn't have to be, Bernard," said Aziraphale, his voice gentle; hypnotic. "It could be full of glory and wonder and joy if you weren't such a grumpy bastard to everybody."
Aziraphale pulled a chair up to the desk and motioned for Bernard to sit down. The angel glanced around for a clean glass, miraculously (literally) found one and poured himself some wine.
"That's such complete crap," said Bernard, obediently sitting down with a look of complete confusion. "How'd you know my name?"
Aziraphale frowned. Clearly Bernard's soul was not to be tricked out from its corner with cheerfulness and optimism nor would it be easily coaxed out with kindness. It might be a scared, sad, tired soul, but it was also a cynical one. Perhaps the direct approach was best.
"The same way that I know how you trampled your friends' happiness this morning. Did you enjoy that? Did it make you feel good to crush their feelings?"
"But... What? How? Eh..." floundered Bernard. "Yes. They were being stupid."
Aziraphale just looked at him while taking a sip of wine. "Ugh!" said the angel, gagging as he tried to swallow the foul liquid.
"Fine – no. It didn't. I still felt miserable. Why the hell am I telling you this? You're doing some crazy mumbo-jumbo on my head. Stop it."
Aziraphale reached out a hand and rested it on Bernard's shoulder.
"Bernard," he said.
***
"Manny! Manny! Fran! Fran! There was an angel in the shop!"
The duo, were still struggling through the shop door, laden with shopping bags, but Bernard had been bursting to tell someone about what had happened for over an hour – and it wasn't as if there was anyone else to tell.
"What did she do then this angel? Eh?" demanded Fran, putting her bags down on the book table. "Entrust you with a mission to lead the French army? Bring you glad tidings of the second coming?"
"Suggest giving your staff a raise?" asked Manny, adding his bags to the pile.
"He bought a book. Actually," said Bernard.
"Er, Bernard," said Fran. "That's what we call a customer. Cus-tom-er. Not an angel."
Oh, but it had been an angel. He was certain of that. It had touched him on the shoulder and said 'Bernard' and he had felt surrounded by love and mercy and joy. It had been like being hugged by the universe.
And for a moment back there he'd wondered if it was possible to live like that. Not always happy exactly, but always seeing life as a wondrous gift rather than a burden and a trial.
But then, of course, you had to deal with people -- people who unpacked the shopping noisily and asked you stupid questions like, "Are you sure you're feeling all right?", "Would you like a cup of tea?" and "Where shall I put all this wine?"
Hold on.
"...and we got your favourite biscuits," finished Manny.
"But..." said Bernard, looking up at his friends who were holding up tea bags and iced biscuits and half a case of red. "Why are you being so nice to me?"
"You seemed extra grumpy this morning," said Fran, her skirt still flouncing insanely. "We thought you needed cheering up."
"Oh. Right," said Bernard. He frowned. There was an unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. What had the damned angel said as he left with his book?
I won't force you to change, Bernard. But I can prick your conscience.
Damn.
"Er, Fran? Manny?" he started. "Thank you for doing the shopping."
They stared at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
"Fran, you look lovely. Manny, you can have your happy author so long as you organise it all."
Oh great. Now they were looking at him like he was out of his tree. But he did feel better.
"Um, right, yes," he said. "C'mon, let's go to the pub."
No one disagreed.
***
Back in Soho, one very satisfied angel unwrapped a chocolate, locked the door of his shop and started to read.
The End