CHAPTER ONE —

Southampton

April 10th, 1912

Aziraphale looked out of his carriage window and couldn't believe it. He faced forward again; stared wide-eyed at the black interior upholstery opposite for a moment. Then he looked out once more and still couldn't believe it.

She was massive. Unbelievable. He'd never seen anything quite like her in all his almost-six thousand years on Earth. She was almost too big for the dock. The tug boats at her base looked like those tiny fish that surround whales to clean them of their parasites. She stretched up to the sky as great as a basking Leviathan, the people flocking at her base, or scrambling across her decks, dwarfed to demented ants in her shadow. She was awe-inspiring, and humbling, and regal. The R.M.S. Titanic was everything the papers had promised her to be.

Aziraphale was so excited. He felt giddy with it. One couldn't help but be excited. History was being made today: the day the world's largest metaphor for mankind's innovation, technological prowess and scientific genius set off on her maiden voyage. And he, Aziraphale, was going with her.

A porter opened his carriage door for him. Aziraphale all but leapt out.

And sucked in a breath of wonder.

Oh, how beautiful she was! How perfectly angled and designed, so elegant and cutting, so fearsome! It couldn't be expressed in words. Nothing could have prepared him for this, he thought, marvelling. He'd been seeing illustrations of her on posters and in newspapers for weeks, or the occasional black-and-white photograph; he had thought he knew what to expect. But this. She was completely different in real life; it just had to be experienced with your own eyes. Aziraphale found himself standing there, staring, unable to take his eyes off the ship. That Thomas Andrews, he thought reverently. What a brilliant man. Perhaps he'd mention something to Heaven about commissioning him to build the next Ark, if need arose.

He wasn't left alone long enough to stare for much more, though: even as a first-class passenger he was soon being jostled and banged into by people of all creeds and classes, and from all sides. The docks were absolutely thronged with people: women holding children in their arms and waving at the passengers already aboard; third class families heaving tired old bags of belongings behind them; preposterously elegantly dressed first class men and women sashaying through the throngs as White Star Line officials cleared the way for them; dirty street urchins pushing their scruffy little bodies through; fathers bouncing their wonder-struck children on their shoulders as they called and pointed. So many people, from so many different backgrounds, all of them chattering excitedly and animatedly over the top of each other. The air was buoyant with hope and optimism. It seemed to sing with it.

"Sir?" this was the well-trained voice of one of the stewards, at his side. "Will you be requiring assistance in carrying your luggage on board?"

Aziraphale turned and beamed at him. So helpful, these fine young men. "Why yes, thank you good sir; that would be most kind."

What a trip this was going to be, Aziraphale thought happily, as his assortment of worn olive-and-black tartan suitcases were unloaded from the luggage rack. He felt so proud of humanity.

One of those fancy new motor cars was coming up behind them, audible even over the din with that whining engine. This one, when it came into view, was an ostentatiously shiny burgundy thing with gold bordering and those large peculiar "head-lamp" things at its front. The chauffeur behind the wheel, he could see, was struggling to get through the crowds, who had flocked on the pavement and cobbled road alike. As the angel watched, one of the several passengers in the back seats leaned forwards to say something to the driver, who then, evidently taking the speaker's advice, began to sound the horn and advance more aggressively forwards whether the people got out of his way in time or not. Everyone did, but the attitude angered Aziraphale all the same.

The car stopped, and now the crowd was being forced back by smartly uniformed White Star Line officials and tough-looking men in expensive suits. Someone important then, thought Aziraphale, sniffing disdainfully. His curiosity was piqued though, and he craned his neck to get a better look.

The first man to emerge from the back seats after the door had been opened for him explained all the fuss. He was a thickly moustachioed fellow, perhaps fifty years of age, impeccably dressed in a pale grey pinstripe suit, and with an air of, Aziraphale thought, smug superiority.

J. Bruce Ismay, Aziraphale realised. The Managing Director of White Star Line, and therefore Titanic's legal owner. From what the angel had read of him in the papers, the man was not one Heaven were expecting when his time was up.

He watched as Ismay turned and extended a hand to help his wife out, elegantly dressed in that ridiculous getup of the affluent first-class woman. They were then followed by one other gentleman, and when Aziraphale caught his face the angel spluttered in astonishment.

The man was pale and young – or at least appeared that way – somewhere in his mid-twenties. He had a striking, angular face, with high defined cheekbones and sharp features, and silky black hair that gleamed beneath his top hat and hung attractively around his temples. He wore tinted glasses with stylishly circular lenses, too dark to reveal the eyes beneath. He had snakeskin gloves, and snakeskin shoes, and was dressed at the height of fashion in a black three-piece suit with a little red handkerchief folded as a triangle in his breast pocket. His name was Anthony J. Crowley, and he was, in official terms, Aziraphale's oldest and greatest Adversary. By their own, he was his oldest and greatest friend.

As he watched, Anthony J. Crowley leaned in to Ismay and murmured something to the older man, who gave him a brief knowing smile before turning back to the photographers. Aziraphale was agog. Crowley? With the Managing Director of White Star Line?

Oh, it was so typical. That old serpent! Muscling right in on one of Britain's most powerful businessmen, influencing his decisions, convoluting his morals, getting invited to all the fancy parties, and most likely condemning the poor man to an Eternity in Hell in the process.

Aziraphale wished he could seethe at the demon. That would be the angelic thing to do. But he couldn't help himself. It was just so good to see his old friend again. It hadn't even been a century, but the decades seemed so much longer these days with the rate technology was advancing. They had so much to catch up on, so many things to discuss.

He managed to push his way (gently and politely, of course) to the front of the gang of reporters that had assembled around the trio and their entourage. Perhaps he could somehow subtly catch the demon's attention...


Anthony J. Crowley was very fond of the Titanic.

As far as transport innovations went, to him, she took the hat. Sure, it had mostly all been done before, on a smaller scale, but it was the scale that made it so flipping fantastic. Eight hundred and eighty-three feet long, nearly fifty thousand tonnes, with absolutely unparalleled luxury. It had a bloody sauna, for crying out loud. It was like travelling on a floating, super fast, six-star hotel. And he, Crowley, was going with it on its maiden voyage.

Good old Mr Ismay had assured him he would enjoy one of Titanic's finest suites, on the Bridge deck right in the centre, for all his contributions to the ship's finishing touches. Crowley was very proud of his input. It was because of him, for instance, that Ismay had decided to reject Thomas Andrews' urgent recommendations for additional lifeboats. Just think of all the deck space you'll lose, Crowley had hissed privately to the Managing Director after they'd listened to the Master Shipbuilder's argument. Crowley imagined he had really saved White Star Line a fair bob or two; he always felt he gave the most economical and helpful suggestions. Like having a smaller rudder. And reducing the number of comfortable commodities in third class.

It was devilishly good fun.

Tagging around one human for years wasn't really Crowley's style, but exceptions had to be made for men with power like Ismay's. Transnational corporations were the new nations; chairmen and presidents their royalty. And Crowley was right in the king's inner circle. It had been good fun these past few years, meddling with the plans for the Titanic and her sister ships, but he was boring of the shipping industry, and it wasn't looking like there was much chance they were going to name a ship after him, despite him dropping the odd hint. He'd got his first-class ticket; once in America he felt like taking a good decade-long nap as a pat on the back for all his hard work.

The morning of the 10th of April had passed rather excitingly. There had been press conferences to give, photos to have taken, gourmet breakfast buffets to be consumed. Crowley was of course always a real hit with the reporters, who loved his irreverent witty responses and dazzling demonic smile with the slightly too pointy teeth. He'd been in excellent spirits as he joined Ismay and his wife outside the hotel at eleven o' clock.

The White Star Line Managing Director had been giving yet another interview, and Crowley had made to go over and join him, when a voice nearby stopped him in his tracks.

"Crrrowley," it purred from behind him, uncomfortably close, drawing out the 'r' in his name like a culinary delicacy and hardening the 'ow' in a startling snap. The voice was insidious, and alluring, and coated with a glossy sheen of sophistication, hinting at a cunning, refined, and wholly unpleasant owner. Recognition slithered through Crowley's insides, feeling remarkably identical to dread. He reluctantly turned around.

"Ah," he said as his fear was confirmed, then turned it into a nicer gesture by forcing the facsimile of a smile on his face. "Asmodeus, hi. Long time no see."

The Archduke of Hell smiled back, leering and appreciative, and cocked his perfectly coiffed head slightly as though to better admire the view. "Hello Crowley," he said, with those too-tempting lips, on that too-perfect face. "It really has been far too long."

With his tan and his smirk and his slicked-back hair and his tailored pinstripe suit, Asmodeus was the Archdemon of Lust and Wrath; though clearly Pride was also highly favoured with him. If he were a human, Crowley had always thought, Asmodeus would be the kind to whiten his teeth, and shape his eyebrows, and moisturise his face conscientiously every morning and night. And be just as likely to bed the bellboys of the fancy hotels he stayed in as the maids.

He made Crowley feel understandably uncomfortable.

"So, er, how's the business going then?" said Crowley hurriedly, small-talking. He really didn't want to know the reason why an Archduke of Hell was visiting him. Hell was hardly known for handing out Demon of the Month awards or anything.

"It's good," Asmodeus smiled lazily, and Crowley could almost feel those heavy-lidded burgundy eyes mentally undressing him. "Thank you. Though to let you in on a little secret, stock-broking is going to be a rather risky form of employment in the decades to come," he gave a half-shrug. "That is, unless you know the right people." The head was cocked again, and the slow smile was back. "How about you, Crowley? How have you been keeping?"

Crowley was feeling decidedly hot all of a sudden. "Me? Oh, I'm – I'm good. I'm great. I've been keeping busy, you know, just the usual, nothing big."

"Good to hear."

There was a terrible pause, awkward and uncomfortable only on Crowley's part, who shuffled anxiously. This was even worse than the higher demon just spitting out what he'd come to say. At least then he'd leave. Crowley sighed internally.

"So what's up, Az?"

Asmodeus seemed to be relishing his tension. His oh-so white smile broadened. "Oh, no real reason. We just thought we'd check to see if you were to be boarding the Titanic today."

That was distinctly dodgy, Crowley decided.

"Oh," he said. There was another pause. "Because...?"

"Beëlzebub is hoping most ardently that you have some particularly infernal wiles up your sleeves for the trip. As do we all. It would be a most – ah – opportunistic, occasion to assert our continuing influence over mankind's activities, would you not agree?"

The hairs – and incorporeal feathers – on Crowley's back were standing on end. Beëlzebub was involved? Bloody Pandæmonium. This went even higher than he'd originally thought.

"Oh, yes," he nodded quickly. "Very opportunistic."

"I take it you do have some ideas? You're ever so imaginative like that."

Crowley wasn't sure. The wiles he'd been planning had been more along the lines of hiding important pieces of navigational equipment, creating a coal shortage, changing the lyrics in the chapels' hymnbooks, that sort of thing. Somehow Asmodeus didn't seem like the kind of demon who would appreciate those low-grade evils. Crowley gave his superior a vaguely affirmative answer and hoped for the best. Asmodeus returned a small nod in apparent satisfaction.

"Very good. I know we can count on you, Crowley."

"Did, er, did Beëlzebub happen to mention any specific infernal wiles they'll be wanting me to execute?"

"We'll keep you posted," said Asmodeus smoothly. "The Dark Councils have not yet reached accordance, but in the meantime they're placing all their faith in you. Mm, I must admit I do envy you, Crowley. Knowing the Prince of Hell it is sure to be quite spectacular."

Crowley mentally recoiled in horror. Now that was disturbing.

"Anyway, that's all I came to say," said Asmodeus. "You'll be seeing me shortly, I would expect. I do hope you enjoy your trip."

"I will. Er. Thanks, Az. Always good to see you," Crowley could see Ismay gesturing over Asmodeus' shoulder for him to come over, and he could have blessed the man. "Ah, I'm afraid I'll have to get going, I'm wanted elsewhere."

"That's quite alright. Oh, and Crowley...?"

Crowley cringed, and turned around again.

Asmodeus smiled, slowly and tenderly, in a way that made the lesser demon feel sexually violated.

"It was very good to see you too, Crowley. I look forward to our next meeting."

Crowley couldn't help the convulsive shudder that ran through him at those words. He kept walking, all the way over to Ismay, and when he had the chance to turn around again, the other demon had gone. He felt vaguely dirty and vulnerable, like – he would imagine – one would feel in the morning after you've had unprotected sex with someone who may or may not have given you some horrible infection.

He didn't have time to brood over this new worry for long, though. Ismay's choice of hotel was virtually right on the docks (apparently the motor car was necessary all the same), so before Crowley had even managed to get comfortable in his seat they were alighting and smiling for yet more photographers. In front of them was the Titanic, but Crowley was used to her by now; had figuratively watched her grow up. He felt an almost paternal pride for the magnificent ship, seeing her all ready to set sail for her maiden voyage.

Someone was waving madly in front of him. Then he caught his name, being called repeatedly.

"Crowley! Crowley!"

Crowley, surprised, looked in that direction.

By the stockings of Satan! It was Aziraphale!

"Aziraphale!" Crowley exclaimed in delight. At once he spied his old friend in the crowds, a figure of classical angelic elegance straight from a Renaissance painting, only clad in the rather less classical attire of a deep olive-green three-piece suit and matching bowler hat. His hair was a mass of cherubic golden curls; his cheeks were full and rosy; his eyes beneath the little glasses perched on the end of his nose were a deep sparkling blue.

"Crowley, my dear boy!"

"Aziraphale! I don't bloody believe it!"

They reached each other, and, unsure of how two immortal supernatural entities who have been of each others' acquaintances for almost six thousand years and technically friends for around a thousand of them greet each other after nine or so decades apart, they made to embrace, only half-changed their minds and hesitated, then somewhat awkwardly settled for shaking hands instead. Aziraphale beamed at him, still clasping his hands.

"Crowley, it's been far too long!"

"Only a century, angel," laughed Crowley, but he was thrilled himself. "When was it? Eighteen twenty-four?"

"Vienna," nodded Aziraphale, remembering. "Beethoven's ninth was premiering."

"Gosh, that was eighteen twenty-four? Fantastic after-party, if I recall correct," he grinned at the angel. "Fancy seeing you here, eh? I take it you're sailing with us?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, my boy. And naturally you'll have the best suite on the ship courtesy of Mr Ismay, I take it?"

"Naturally, angel, naturally. That's my style."

"Oh dear. I do hope you haven't tainted the poor man too much?"

Crowley smiled slyly. "I've got a job to do, angel, and I'm damned – quite literally – if I'm not good at it. And anyway, your side got Andrews, didn't they?"

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale brightened. "He's a remarkable man. He has such a steadfastly selfless and optimistic outlook on life, and such a kind and gentle temperament. A very agreeable fellow. They're qualities that are difficult to find these days."

"Well, one does one's best," Crowley spread his hands modestly.

"You aren't here on, er, business, are you?" asked the angel, unsure all of a sudden.

For a moment Asmodeus' diabolically good-looking face slithered uninvited into Crowley's head, leering appreciatively at him, but he shoved the thought away. "Nope," he managed cheerily, perhaps a quarter of a second too late. "Just for the fun. You?"

Until the Archduke got back to him with his instructions, it wasn't really a lie anyway, Crowley told himself, surprised at the guilt niggling in the back of his mind. He hoped that they weren't going to involve anything too unpleasant.

Aziraphale looked a little relieved at his response. "Only for the usual. Represent Heaven, inspire mankind, and so forth."

"Oh, good," smiled Crowley. "That significantly simplifies the matter for us both then."

"Mister Crowley! Mister Crowley!" came a gratingly pompous voice from behind him, calling imperiously over the crowds.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut in exasperation before glancing back. Bruce Ismay was gesturing at him to come over, beckoning with his hands. He might as well have whistled or snapped his fingers.

"Duty calls," sighed the demon, facing Aziraphale once more. "I've got to admit I'm bloody sick of the man."

Aziraphale made a sound that was probably intended to be sympathetic but came out more like well-that's-what-you-get-my-dear.

"Say," said the demon, brightening all of a sudden. "Here's an idea." He linked an arm through Aziraphale's, grinning devilishly at him, and when he spoke his words came out in a hiss of anticipation.

"How about I introduce you to my friendssss?"