The residents of a particular Soho neighborhood were used to seeing a CLOSED sign in the window of the bookshop, since it was open so rarely (though they had been getting better just lately). But now the bookshop wasn't the only one closed. Nearly all the shops on this street were shut down, because of what Mr. Fell, the proprietor of said bookshop, called "the unpleasantness." The streets were empty even in the middle of the day.
Everyone was deathly afraid of some virus that had come out of China and was sweeping across Europe and even as far away as America. It wasn't quite the Black Plague, but it was as bad any anything anyone had seen in this young century.
The dark, old-fashioned car that screeched to a halt at the corner was a familiar one. Mr. Fell's friend, the one with the ginger hair who wore black all the time like one of those Goths, stepped out and rapped on the front door of the shop, right under the CLOSED sign.
There was no answer.
"C'mon, angel, I know you're in there." He tried again. When there was no answer a second time, he looked around cautiously, and then used a demonic miracle to unlock the door, stepping inside.
"Aziraphale?"
The angel stepped out of his office, momentarily startled to see his visitor. "Oh! Crowley. What are you doing here?"
"Getting you out. You're coming to my place for the duration. Pack what you need to pack and let's go."
"But-why can't I stay here?"
"Because there's no one watching over you! If they shut everything down and don't let us leave our homes, at least we'll be together. I've got all the streaming channels, including one that exclusively plays all the Jane Austen adaptations - "
"Oh, I do like her."
"I'm fully stocked with food - nothing fancy, but we'll manage. When it comes down to it, we don't really need to eat, do we?"
"But it makes life so much more enjoyable!"
"I know, I know. I'll get whatever you want me to get while we're still able, but I warn you, I'm not a gourmet chef. Most nights I don't even bother cooking. But if it's what you want, then I'll do my best."
"You're too good to me, you know that."
"Right. Grab your things and let's hit the road before they block it off."
"Are they doing that?" The angel's eyes were wide with fear. "I hadn't heard about that!"
"Well, not yet, but if this keeps up, it'll come to that. Now let's go!"
"All right, all right! Give me a moment!" He disappeared up the back steps into the flat above, and returned carrying an old-fashioned carpet bag that was bulging out rectangularly in several places. "Is that enough, do you think?"
Crowley rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses. "How many books did you pack?"
"Only a few."
The demon raised his eyebrows.
"Just what's on my current reading list."
"Angel . . ."
"Well, if we're going to be shut up for weeks, I'll need something to read!"
"More than twenty?"
"Slightly more."
Crowley sighed. "Fine. Get in the car. We'll discuss what exactly is meant by 'emergency rations,' later."
Warlock Dowling was bored out of his mind.
School was called off for at least the rest of the month. Maybe longer. And while that was normally something he looked forward to, school holidays weren't supposed to be indefinite. All the fun places to go had already closed down. His friends were similarly confined, and though a few of them had Face-Timed him, they had quickly run out of things to talk about that weren't virus-related.
And the situation was even worse in America. Captain Do-Nothing, as Harriet Dowling called the current U. S. President, was entirely unhelpful, so it had fallen to the individual states and cities to run themselves for a while. All the flights in and out were cancelled. Warlock's mum and dad had nothing to do right now but sit around and argue about the situation.
"There's nothing you can do?" Harriet demanded.
"Like what? I can't pull a cure out of my ass!"
"No, but you can talk to the right people and get things moving."
"I've tried! Everyone's in the same boat! All we can do is stay inside and wait this out."
"I wish that idiot in the White House would do something besides telling us not to worry!"
"Don't call the President an idiot!"
"He makes George W. look like Albert Einstein! The man may be a good businessman, but he has no common sense!"
"He's done more for this country than all the Democrats put together!"
"Stop it!" Warlock screamed. "Stop yelling! You're not helping anything!"
The fighting ceased . . . but only for a moment.
"Don't you dare blame this on Barack Obama!"
"All I'm saying is-"
Warlock put his hands over his ears and tried to think of happier times. He couldn't think of one.
Then his phone rang.
It was his personal line rather than any official number, and very few people had it. He picked it up and pressed the button. "Hello?"
"Hello, Warlock dear."
"Nanny!"
"Just checking to see that you're all right, pet."
"Oh, Nanny, I'm not! Mum and Dad are fighting over silly things and I'm soooo bored! I can't go anywhere or do anything!"
"Now, don't you worry, love. I'll be sending something along to you right away. And you have my number; if you ever need to chat, I'm right here. They can't take that away from us."
"I guess. Thanks, Nanny."
"You take care now, my sweet."
It wasn't but a moment later that the doorbell rang. Warlock ignored it, because someone else always got it, but his parents were still fighting and the Secret Service men were watching the lack of sports in the lounge. It was up to him.
"Hello there," said the man in the International Express delivery uniform. "Are you Warlock Dowling?"
"Yes, I am."
The delivery man stood at the foot of the front steps, waving up at him. "Package there is for you. No need to sign; it's all been arranged. I'll just go and change my gloves before I do the next one. My Maud doesn't think I should be out, but I told her, s' long as I keep a safe distance, wear the gloves and change 'em often, and wash up as soon as I get home, it'll all be fine. You have a great day, now."
And he climbed into his little truck and drove off.
Warlock cautiously picked up the package and shook it. It thumped heavily, but not breakably. He brought it up to his room and ripped it open sitting on his bed.
Inside was a note: Every good boy should read the classics. Courtesy of A.Z. Fell and Co.
They were books. The top one was Classic Science Fiction Stories, 1939-1955. There were copies of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, The Red Badge of Courage and Paradise Lost[1]. Plus some on sports and history and strange wonders of the world. Enough books to keep a boy busy for quite a while.
Warlock sat back, opened one, and began reading. Then when he had trouble concentrating, he put his earbuds in and cranked the music up, blocking out the noise and bother of the outside world.
It was bliss.
"Why can't I go out?" Adam Young asked, for the four thousand, seven hundred, and twenty-first time. At least, that was how it seemed to his overwhelmed parents.
"I've explained this to you," his mother said calmly. "It's better for everyone to stay inside right now. That way, the virus isn't transmitted, and it will go away quickly, and life will go back to normal sooner. Don't think we're happy about it, either. Your father can't go to work, I can't go to the store, no one can go anywhere."
"I won't go far! Just to the woods. We were going to play Zombie Apocalypse."
"Do you really think that's appropriate?" his father asked him sharply.
"Arthur, please. They're just children. They don't mean anything by it."
"Tell that to all the corpses in Rome! This is a serious situation and we need to deal with it seriously! Not playing zombies!"
The doorbell rang.
"If that's one of your friends," Adam's mother said as she went to answer it, "you can play, but only around the house. Don't go where I can't see you."
To her surprise, there was a delivery man standing there. He put down the package he was holding and stepped back as soon as he saw her.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. Package for one Adam Young?"
She turned and looked at him. "Did you order something?"
"No, Mum."
"You didn't send away for sea monkeys or anything, did you?" asked his dad.
"No, I swear."
"Actually, sir," said the delivery man, "this has been sent by a third party, fully paid for and free of charge. Enjoy. I have one more delivery to make in this vicinity, and then I've got quite a long trip ahead of me. Have a good day."
Adam picked up the package and brought it inside. Very carefully using a kitchen knife to open it, he found a selection of books, a few heavy-duty dog toys, and a note:
Keep your mind busy, and time will fly by. Compliments of A. Z. Fell and Co.
At Jasmine Cottage, the delivery man dropped off a package containing copies of 101 Household Experiments Not Involving Electricity in Any Way, What to Do with the Rest of Your Life, and several of the novels detailing the further adventures of Doctor Who. Then he moved on.
Anathema and Newt barely glanced at the books before getting back to what they had been doing, which was far more engrossing.[2] They had plenty of time, and the books would be there when they were ready.
In a little cottage by the sea, the phone was ringing. The business line.
"Thank you for calling Madame Tracy's Psychic Hotline. What do you wish to know?" She listened. "The spirits are, ah, unclear on that. Please try again later."
She listened for quite a long time.
"Well, it's not an exact science, dear. Sometimes they don't have the answers any more than we do. No, I don't know when they'll have a better idea. Thank you for calling. Goodbye."
She hung up and looked at her partner, who was reading the newspaper and grumbling. "I don't know, they're all asking the same questions right now. What's going on? How long will this last? Am I going to die? And I don't know what to tell them!"
"Yer witchcraft givin' out on ye, wimman?"
"I usually know exactly what to say to people to reassure them, but this whole situation is beyond me! What do I do?"
"Could ye not shut down f'r a while? Like all the others."
"But it's all I've got left! If the mail shuts down and the pension checks stop coming, what will we do?"
Shadwell got up and went to the window. "Mail's 'ere. Someone's still aboot."
The International Express man didn't bother making conversation; he left the package on the doorstep and waved at them through the window.
"Now what could this be?" Madame Tracy opened it and found a number of books, some to do with witchfinding and the mystic arts, others more . . . earthly pursuits. There were three or four Mills and Boone paperbacks that looked enticing.
On top was a note: I think Her Majesty said it best: Keep Calm and Carry On. We must remember that this too shall pass, and nothing lasts forever. Please keep safe. Angels[3]are looking out for you.
A. Z. Fell and Co.
"What's that, then?" Shadwell peered over her shoulder. "Witches in Salem: the Hunt in North America. Interestin'. I'll just take this one, then."
"He's right, you know. We'll get through this. People just have to keep their heads and not panic. I think I know what to do now."
The next time someone called, she had a better answer for them: "The spirits say that everything will be all right, and not to worry. They're watching over you. All the good people Up There are watching over us, and they tell me that we'll get through this just fine."
"I'm back!" Crowley set the shopping bag down on the coffee table and looked around. No angel. "Wasn't too bad down the shops, but they still don't have loo paper. But then . . . we don't need any, do we?"
There was no answer to this.
"Angel? You didn't go out, did you?"
He passed through the solarium, barely even glancing at his shaking plants, and when he got close to the bedroom, he heard soft sighs and gasps, over the noise of a television broadcast.
"Are you crying?" He opened the door.
Aziraphale was sitting in the middle of the bed, fully dressed, tears streaming down his face. Crowley glanced at the screen and saw the headline "140 NEW DEATHS IN ITALY TODAY."
"Oh, Crowley," the angel sobbed, "those poor people! There must be something we can do!"
"We can't." Crowley flopped down on the bed next to him. "A mass healing of that scale would kill you."
"Yes, but . . . there's so many of them . . ."
"We've done what we can for now. We've taken care of our own. All the packages were delivered safely. They're all okay. That's all we need to do right now. Everything will work itself out in the end."
"When?"
"I don't know, love. My people - course, they're not my people anymore, but you know what I mean - they're not responsible for this. I'd know."
"I certainly hope you're not insinuating that Heaven is to blame!"
"Nah, I doubt it. Some things just happen, and it's nobody's fault. And yes, people will die, but people die anyway. We can't stop that. All we can do is try and make things a little bit better for a few people we know." He slipped off his glasses and his yellow eyes met Aziraphale's blue ones. "Your problem is you think too big. Try thinking smaller. One person, one problem. Or more than one. Just today, we've fought boredom, shared the classics with the younger generation, given a young couple some options besides . . . well, the usual, and given old people hope. All with one phone call. Well, two; I talked to Warlock. Small steps, small solutions. It's all we can do right now."
The angel leaned against him and wiped his eyes. "I suppose you're right. We'll do what we can. Even if it isn't much."
"The right word, at the right time," said Crowley, "could make a world of difference to someone. Now turn off the pain and misery and let's watch something fun."
"All right." Aziraphale flipped the channels until he found something with a laugh track. They sat back and watched it together.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.
[1] Crowley had been against it, considering the work pro-Heaven propaganda, but Aziraphale had insisted.
[2] Checkers. My, you people have dirty minds.
[3] Aziraphale no longer considered Crowley a demon; he had been an angel once, and something of an angelic nature had persisted despite the circumstances. A being who made a habit of saving children and puppies could hardly be called demonic.