To the untrained observer, the Compliance might look like a giant spike-backed sea urchin, stuffed into a business suit, and given a quick wash and polish so it could pass among hedge-fund managers without notice.
To me, it looked like the end of everything I'd grown to love about being on Earth.
The street was not busy. Passers-by ducked their heads and stepped around the steaming, pinstripe monster without making eye contact. This was London. Nobody wanted trouble.
Yet here, unmistakably, trouble stood.
"Good afternoon," I offered, since it was emitting a stench in my direction. "May I help you?"
It shook out its wobbly, spike-studded throat and spoke. Then it uttered the word I'd been dreading for at least a millennium.
"Paperwork."
I recognised the Compliance, of course. I'd never before met it, or rather, met one of its representatives, but regardless of its oceanic/ banker form, it was unmistakably one of the creatures employed to maintain Balance.
My side has a vast bureaucratic machine of its own, of course. A clean copybook is practically an angelic requirement, in bookkeeping terms. The accounts note trials and victories, tot up miracles, and generally ensure that the war on Satan stays on track and in budget. And Crowley's superiors keep count, in a brutal, ragtag way, of how their own campaign is proceeding.
For ledger writing, Heaven has the advantage of peace, quiet and decent light. The other place lacks these but makes up for it with threats and eye-watering demonstrations of the consequences of not doing one's timesheets.
Between these two great efforts in accountancy sits the Compliance. It is assumed by everyone that the Compliance answers directly to God. Agents of the Compliance sniff out holes in balance sheets, incorrect expenses claims and above all, absolute separation of angelic and demonic efforts.
Since Armageddon was averted, everyone's new watchword has been Loyalty. Sticking to one's own side with rigid devotion is not only to be admired, but also, to be in evidence at all times. The Compliance were celestial auditors, and now here was one of their number, and it wanted to know why I'd been spending so much time with a demon.
Many thoughts crossed my mind. Firstly, what did they know?
Secondly, what could I get away with telling them?
"Do not lie," ground out the Compliance. "I see your thoughts like elver, struggling in river mud."
All right, fibbing was out. How about the incomplete truth?
"Omission is also lies," said the Compliance before I could think what to omit. Its teeth were curved and inward-leaning like a shark's.
I was running out of options. "Cup of tea?"
It pulled fleshy lids down over slug coloured eyes, then back up again. The effect was disturbing. "You survived hellfire before," it said.
"Ah, well." That little episode of body-swapping. Best left unmentioned.
"This time your punishment must be complete."
The thing is I am a little lax with my paperwork. I tend to think that as long as the work gets done, the paperwork is a nicety.
Crowley, he's far more administration-oriented than I am. The devil is in the details, as they say, and he enjoys nothing more than an afternoon toying with a spreadsheet, making numbers add up, or other numbers disappear conveniently into a cost centre marked General.
I'm better at the coalface, so to speak. The work itself.
Which is why, for the last little while, I've let Crowley take care of the office sort of stuff, while I have done most of the hands-on requirements. As an arrangement, it's been going quite swimmingly. I have stopped getting those automated Late Timesheet reminders, and he is able to get in some quality time with the latest online accountancy software.
In fact I believe Crowley invented that software. The Devil makes work for idle hands, and he would naturally start with the hands in charge of the credit cards.
"Your ledger. Now."
Oh dear.
As I stood procrastinating, enough in itself to attract a mild reprimand if my other crimes were not so severe - the upstairs telephone rang.
Only one person calls me. I fear only one person knows my number. I am not much for advertising.
I darted upstairs and snatched up the receiver. I sent a small prayer that the Compliance would not think to pick up the extension which sat on my desk in the shop.
"Aziraphale," came the jovial burr down the line. "It's me."
Crowley.
I clutched the receiver. "I can't talk now," I breathed. "Don't come here."
His appearance in the shop would seal my fate. Demons rarely visit uninvited. One has to have given in to temptation (lunch, dinner, endangering one's eternal soul) before they turn up unannounced proffering two glasses and a bottle, as had become Crowley's habit.
Crowley bellowed into my ear, "Is there a storm near you? I can't hear a word you're saying."
"The weather is a little unsettled, yes. For this time of year," I added loudly so the Compliance would think I was chatting about nothing. "It might rain later listen do not come here, they know, they have sent their agent and it's sitting at my desk thumbing through my books and I just know it's going to find-"
"It, what do you mean, it. Who. What. Talk to me, angel."
The staircase creaked as a great weight landed upon the first step. I smelled burning.
For a demon, Crowley could be remarkably slow to recognise the presence of evil, even down a telephone line. "Stay away," I hissed, and slammed down the phone.
I hurried downstairs to prevent the Compliance coming up. "Ah, right, How are we getting on?"
"Timesheets," it croaked.
"Ah yes, should be all here." Maybe if I handed them over it would be satisfied. It smelled strongly of pitch and I hoped the reek wouldn't get into my books. I grabbed the ledger from my desk and warily offered it to the Compliance.
It banged the book down on the desk. "Missing," it said. With surprising delicacy it extended a claw and riffled to the start of the year.
I saw numbers and codes on the yellow page, entered in the requisite black ink. I recalled spending a miserable January scratching my deeds onto the heavy parchment pages. January was definitely complete.
But for February ... empty lines.
"I can explain - "
March, April ... The great blank continued. My year stretched across the pages, apparently without activity.
"I really thought I'd done them," I said weakly. Or rather, I'd happily forgotten about them because Crowley seemed to enjoy all that kind of work.
"Funny thing," said the Compliance in a voice like lumps in a sewage filter.
"Oh really, ha ha."
"Funny thing," it repeated.
I had laughed too soon. A nervous habit born of people frequently trying to kill me.
The Compliance said, "Nobody thinks timesheets matter. But they do." It loomed over me.
I blenched. The Compliance's breath smelled like the lavatories in a bean factory, and it was treating me to a full dose. "An administrative oversight," I'm sure, I said. "I'll fill mine in straight away."
"No."
"At your earliest convenience."
"No."
"Um…"
"You have allowed Earth to wallow in its own effluent for months," it said. "Humans create ideas, it is your job, your exact job, to turn those ideas toward God."
"Well, I-"
"Shut up. Your laxity has allowed the other side to forge ahead. They have social media, clear shampoo, Oatibix -"
"Actually I'm fairly sure Oatibix is ours-"
"Shut up. The humans are drowning in filth and looking at this sorry effort-" It tapped the page with a claw the colour of wet plaster - "Heaven can never catch up."
Outside, the sky rumbled. I might have thought it a regular storm, the result of summer heat and humidity... except for the clouds outside my window spelling Got you in Sumerian, in Gabriel's handwriting.
I felt sick. "We can catch up," I said. "Surely it's inevitable. We are... The good guys."
The clouds shifted, dispersed into formless mist.
"Your office says no. They sent me."
I said, "Now wait a minute. You cannot simply call in the auditors. The auditors come in as and when they see fit. Otherwise it's just a, a false reading."
"They called me in," it said and stood, its maw dripping white saliva. "And now you have a choice."
I drew a breath and stood up straight. Choices I could do. There is always a right and wrong, and following what's right usually leads to the correct outcome. "Which is?"
"Destroy the demon Crowley."
Of course. "How?" I asked, cunningly playing for time.
"Holy water has no effect on him," rasped the Compliance. "Hellfire is balm to him. You will have to be inventive."
I nodded. I would ask Crowley for help with falsifying his own death. All he had to do until then was stay out of the Compliance's way.
The Compliance said, "And of course, first, you will have to find him."
The upstairs phone rang, with that unsettling two-five time which is peculiar to British telecommunications.
"Of course," I said.
There followed an awkward silence during which I did not move to answer the phone. The ringing stopped.
"And if I can't, ahem, find him?"
The Compliance hauled itself towards my shop door. "I will punish you."
"Oh. Right."
"Hellfire has no effect on you," it stated. "Holy water is as balm…"
This was familiar ground. I was not inclined to be inventive about my own demise. It had ruled out the obvious choices. What could it do that could possibly hurt me? If Crowley was safe, and hellfire was off the menu, then what, really, could harm me?
It said, "So I will simply torture the humans."
Oh. That would do it.
The Compliance said, "I will be back on Friday to collect the demon."
Upstairs, the phone began to ring again.
