Current theories on the creation of the universe state that if it were created at all and didn't just start, as it were, unofficially, it came into being about 14 billion years ago. The Earth is generally supposed to be about 4.5 billion years old.
These dates are incorrect.
Some medieval Jewish scholars put the date of the creation at 3760 BC. Others put creation as far back as 5508 BC.
Also, incorrect.
Archbishop James Ussher claimed that Heaven and the Earth were created on Sunday the 21st of October, 4004 BC, at 9:00 a.m., because God liked to get work done early in the morning while he was feeling fresh.
This too, was incorrect by almost a quarter of an hour. It was created at 9:13 in the morning. Which was correct.
The whole business with the fossilized dinosaur skeletons was a joke the palaeontologists haven't seen yet.
This proves two things.
Firstly, that God does not play dice with the universe. I play an ineffable game of my own devising. For everyone else, it's like playing poker in a pitch-dark room, for infinite stakes, with a dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.
Secondly, the Earth is a Libra.
The entry for Libra in The Tadfield Advertiser on the night our history begins reads as follows: 'You may be feeling run-down and always in the same old daily round. Home and family matters are highlighted and are hanging fire. Avoid unnecessary risks. A friend is important to you. Shelve major decisions until the way ahead seems clear. You may be vulnerable to a stomach upset today, so avoid salads. Help could come from an unexpected quarter.' This was perfectly correct on every count, except for the bit about the salads.
To understand the true significance of what that means, we need to begin earlier. A little more than 6,000 years earlier, to be precise. Just after the beginning. It starts, as it will end, with a garden. In this case, the Garden of Eden. And with an apple.
It was a nice day.
All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them so far, and rain hadn't been invented yet. But the storm clouds gathering east of Eden suggested that the first thunderstorm was on its way. And it was going to be a big one.
As Adam and Eve crawled through a gap in the stone wall surrounding the Garden, the snake that had tempted the first humans crawled up to the top. On the parapet he saw an angel. Specifically, this was the angel whose duty was to guard the Eastern Gate as well as the Trees. Her soft white feathers just barely dusted the ground at her heels, her white robes hadn't a single speck of dirt, and her curly blonde locks seemed to dance in the wind. As he moved to stand beside her, the snake transformed into a tall man, with dark robes, wings as black as tar, and fiery red hair. The angel turned to glance at the newcomer, staring at the curse mark on the side of his face just in front of his ear.
"Well, that went down like a lead balloon," The man said.
"Sorry, what was that?" The female asked, still a bit frazzled by his sudden appearance.
"I said 'well, that went down like a lead balloon'."
"Yes, I suppose it did." The angel turned back to watch over the humans once more.
"Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me." The man continued. "First offense and everything." He turned his full gaze on the angel, to see if she would be scared by his peculiar eyes. But she thought the yellow snake eyes suited him well. At least it was better than being mostly humanoid but for a snake nose. "I can't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway."
"Well, it must be bad…" she paused upon realizing that she didn't know his name.
"Crawley."
"Crawley," she tested the name out. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have tempted them into it," she reasoned, in the slightly concerned tones of one who can't see it either, and is worrying about it.
"Oh, they just said, 'Get up there and make some trouble'."
"Obviously, you're a demon. It's what you do."
"Not very subtle of the Almighty, though. Fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a 'Don't Touch' sign on it. I mean, why not put it on the top of a high mountain? Or on the moon? Makes you wonder what God's really planning." Crawley tried, just a bit, to see if he could tempt the angel.
"Are you mad? A tree like those wouldn't survive on top of a mountain, let alone the Moon. Besides, best not to speculate," she said decisively. "It's all part of the Great Plan. It's not for us to understand. It's ineffable."
"The Great Plan's ineffable?" Crawley asked in disbelief.
"Exactly. It is beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words." The angel tried to fight down a blush when she realized the man had been looking her up and down.
"Didn't you have a flaming sword?" Crawley interrupted.
"Er...uh…"
"You did. It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?" The angel merely stuttered in her embarrassment, unable to come up with an excuse. "Lost it already, have you?" the demon smirked.
"Gave it away," she mumbled.
"You what?"
"I gave it away," she said more clearly. The confidence in her voice was betrayed by the look of worry on her face. "There are vicious animals. It's going to be cold out there. And she's expecting already. And I said, 'Here you go. Flaming sword. Don't thank me. And don't let the sun go down on you here.' I do hope I didn't do the wrong thing."
"Oh, you're an angel. I don't think you can do the wrong thing." Aziraphale didn't catch the sarcasm.
"Oh, oh thank you. It's been bothering me," The angel said, genuinely comforted by the demon's words.
"I've been worrying, too." The celestial beings watched as Adam defended his woman against a hungry lion. "What if I did the right thing with the whole 'eat the apple' business?" Crawley noticed the question behind those bright blue eyes staring back at him. "A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing." They both looked back to see Adam kill the lion with the flaming sword. "It'd be funny if we both got it wrong, eh?" They looked at each other again. "If I did the good thing and you did the bad one." He chuckled. She giggled for a second before she realized.
"No. It wouldn't be funny at all." Just then, the first rain started to pour from the clouds. Without really thinking, the angel stretched out one wing to cover Crawley from the wet, even though the demon stood several inches taller than her. He shuffled in closer to be under the largest part of her wing.
"By the way," he chimed. "I don't think you gave me your name. I can't just keep calling you 'angel' forever."
"My name's Aziraphale."
Good Omens, being a narrative of certain events occurring in the last 11 years of human history, in strict accordance, as shall be shown, with The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.
**Time jump to 11 years ago, brought to you by a higher power.**
It wasn't a dark and stormy night.
It should have been, but that's the weather for you. For every mad scientist who's had a convenient thunderstorm just on the night his Great Work is finished and lying on the slab, there have been dozens who've sat around aimlessly under the peaceful stars while Igor clocks up the overtime.
But don't let the weather fool you. Just because it's a mild night doesn't mean that the forces of evil aren't abroad. They are. They are everywhere.
They always are. That's the whole point.
Two demons lurk at the edge of the graveyard, both of them Olympic-grade lurkers. If Bruce Springsteen had ever recorded "Born to Lurk," these two would have been on the album cover. They are pacing themselves, and can lurk for the rest of the night, if necessary, with still enough sullen menace left for a final burst of lurking around dawn.
"Bugger this for a lark. He should've been waiting for us."
"Do you trust him?"
"Nope."
"Good. It'd be a funny old world if demons went around trusting each other. What's he calling himself up here these days?"
"Crowley." The snake from Eden had long since changed the pronunciation of his name from Crawl-ley to Crow-ley, preferring to be associated more with an ominous black bird rather than one who crawls.
At that moment, while the two demons are gossiping about the snake going native and being flashy, the demon in question pulled up in his 1927 Bentley, Bohemian Rhapsody blaring from the speakers.
"All hail Satan."
"Uh, hi guys. Sorry I'm late but you know how it is on the A40 at Denham. I tried to cut up towards Chorleywood…"
"Now that we art all here," the demon Hastur interrupted, "let us recount the deeds of the day."
"Of course." Crowley conceded. "Deeds, yeah."
"I have tempted a priest," Hastur boasted. "As he walked down the street, he saw all the pretty girls in the sun. I put doubt into his mind. He would have been a saint. Now, within a decade we shall have him."
"Yeah, nice one," Crowley said unenthusiastic.
"I have corrupted a politician," the demon Ligur informed. "Let him think that a tiny bribe wouldn't hurt. Within a year we shall have him."
"Right, you'll like this," Crowley smirked. "I brought down every London area mobile phone network tonight." After a slightly awkward pause, Hastur spoke up.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It wasn't easy…"
"What exactly has that done to secure souls for our master?"
"Oh, come on, think about it. Fifteen million pissed off people who take it out on each other."
"It's not exactly… craftsmanship."
"Well, head office don't seem to mind. They love me down there, guys. Times are changing. So… what's up?"
"This is." Hastur held up a seemingly innocuous wicker basket.
"No," Crowley barely whispered when he saw.
"Yes," Ligur said.
"Already?" Crowley asked in shock.
"Yes," Hastur answered.
"And it's up to me to…"
"Yes," both demons reinforced. Hastur held out the basket for Crowley to take.
"You know, listen, it…" Crowley stammered, not wanting to take on this particular assignment. "Really isn't my scene."
"Your scene. Your starring role," Ligur gave no room for argument. "Take it."
"Like you said, times are changing," Hastur repeated.
"They come to an end, for a start."
"Why me?" Crowley pleaded.
"Well, they love you down there," Hastur threw Crowley's words back at him. "And what an opportunity. Ligur here would give his right arm to be you tonight."
"Or, someone's right arm, anyway."
"Sign here," Hastur held out a contract.
Crowley licked the tip of his finger, sparking it to embers to make his mark on the page. He shook his hand to extinguish the hellfire.
"Now what?"
"You will receive your instructions. And why so glum? The moment we've been working on for all those centuries is at hand." Hastur goaded.
"Centuries?" Crowley repeated, irked at the demons' short-sightedness. He'd been on the Earth for 6000 years, longer than any apart from one specific feathered friend.
"Our moment of eternal triumph awaits," Ligur added.
"Triumph," Crowley said through gritted teeth.
"And you will be a tool of that glorious destiny."
"Glorious... tool. Yeah," Crowley could barely contain his inner turmoil. "Okay. I'll, erm, be off then." He took the basket from the others. "Get it over with. Not that I want to get it over with, obviously, but, I'll be popping along. Great, fine, yeah," he said awkwardly before he sauntered back to his car. "Ciao!"
"What's that mean?" Ligur asked Hastur.
"'Ciao'. It's Italian. It means 'food'," Hastur answered, not entirely sure.
Crowley was all in favor of Armageddon in general terms. But it was one thing to work to bring it about, and quite another for it to actually happen.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit," Crowley lamented as he drove away. "Why me?"
"You earned it, Crowley, didn't you?" Satan's voice came over the radio. "What you did to the M25 was a stroke of demonic genius, darling."
"The M25? Yeah, well… Yeah, I'm glad it went down so well."
"Here are your instructions. This is the big one, Crowley."
Smoke began to pour out of the radio and into the demon's face as the operatic section of Bohemian Rhapsody once again played over the car stereo. In the haze, Crowley barely missed a head-on collision with an on-coming semi. The quick corrections of the car back into the correct traffic lane had shifted the basket quite roughly across the back seat. As the lid opened up, the baby inside began to cry.
In another corner of London, one particular angel was waiting patiently at the sushi bar as the chef came over to deliver her food.
"Here is the selection of your favorite sushi rolls, my dear Azriaphale-san."
"Thank you chef, that's very kind of you," The angel answered in perfect Japanese.
As the chef walked away, Aziraphale looked in the mirror to her left on instinct. Noticing the new arrival standing at her shoulder, she abruptly turned back around.
"Mind if I join you?" The man asked.
"Gabriel? What an unexpected pleasure. It's been…"
"Quite a while, yes… Why do you consume that?" He pointed at the plate in front of her, a look of disgust on his face like the fish had personally offended him. "You're an angel."
As if she'd forgotten. Angels, being celestial spirits, had no need to eat or sleep. But Aziraphale found that food was very delicious and pleasing when properly prepared.
"It's sushi. It's nice. You dip it in soy sauce," her smile faded as she realized that the archangel wouldn't care what she thought. "It's what humans do," she said by way of an excuse. "And if I am going to be living here among them," as she had been since the beginning of human history, "Well, keeping up appearances. Tea?"
"I do not sully the temple of my celestial body with," he grimaced, "gross matter."
"Obviously not. Nice suit."
"Yes. I like the clothes," he said with a hint of petulance, like a teenager on the verge of a shouting match with their parents. "Pity they won't be around much longer."
"They won't?"
"We have reliable information that things are afoot."
"They are?"
"Yes. My informant suggests that the demon… Crowley may be involved." Aziraphale gulped, worried about the one friend she's had for millennia. "You need to keep him under observation, without, of course, letting him know that's what you're doing."
"I do know, yes. I've been on Earth doing this since the beginning."
"So has Crowley. It's a miracle he hasn't spotted you yet," he said, somewhat condescending. "Yes, I know. Miracles are what we do," he chuckled before walking off, leaving behind a singularly worried angel.
Meet Deirdre and Arthur Young. They live in the Oxfordshire village of Tadfield.
"Are we there yet, Arthur? I'm four minutes apart," Deirdre groaned from her labor as the couple drove on their way to the hospital.
"It's definitely this way. It's just the roads look all different in the dark."
"The nuns said to come in when they were four to five minutes apart."
"It's just an-"
"Aahh, aahh, oh, do we have any egg and cress sandwiches? Oh, OOH!"
Arthur was forced to pull over for only a moment as an ambulance drove past with a police escort and a black SUV close behind.
Meet Harriet Dowling and her husband, American diplomat Thaddeus Dowling.
"Breathe, honey. Just breathe."
"I am breathing. Goddamn it, Tad! Why aren't you here?" she shouted at her husband through the video screen.
"Honey, I'm with you. I'm with you," he assured. "I'm just also here with the President." He moved his camera phone to show more of the Oval Office and President Bush.
"Hey, Harriet, sorry we had to borrow your husband."
"Birth is the single most joyous co-experience that two human beings can share, and I'm not going to miss a second of it," the ambassador said before the President called for his attention.
"Tad, if we could get back to the matter at hand," as if the birth of a child was inconsequential to their business.
"I'll get back to you honey," Tad told his wife before she began screaming.
"You're meant to be with me you useless son of a bi-"
"At some point this evening, Mrs. Dowling will arrive," Mother Superior addressed the nuns at the birthing hospital. "She will undoubtedly have Secret Service agents with her. You are all to ensure that they see nothing untoward. Sister Theresa and I will deliver the Dowlings' child in room four. Once he has been born, we will remove the baby boy from the mother and give her back our master's child." The nuns all twittered in their excitement. "Everything is ready. Tonight, it begins." One nun in front raised her hand. "Sister Mary Loquacious?"
"Yes, excuse me, Mother Superior, I was wondering where the other baby was going to come from? Not the American baby. I mean, that's obvious. It's just the birds and the bees. But, you know, the um…" Sister Mary raised her eyebrow in an unnecessarily secretive, knowing look.
"Master Crowley is on his way with our dark-lord-to-be, Sister Mary. We do not need to know more than that. We are satanic nuns of the Chattering Order of St. Beryl. And tonight is what our order was created for." The nuns began murmuring once again. "Sister Grace, you are on duty reception. Sisters Maria Verbose and Katherine Prolix, you will assist Sister Theresa. The rest of you know your duties."
The ambulance siren wailed in the distance and at the word of the head of their order, the nuns all dispersed to their places. All but one.
"Excuse me, Mother Superior. I didn't get a job. Probably an oversight," Sister Mary Loquacious said, oblivious to the fact that they all wanted her out of the way for tonight.
"Yes, of course." Mother Superior thought quick for some mundane task to send the woman on. "You could make sure there are biscuits. The kind with pink icing. I think we had a tin in the convent larder."
It may help to understand human affairs to know that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people.
Arthur, standing outside the hospital with his pipe in hand, immediately noticed the vintage Bently that pulled up to the hospital. As the demon emerged with the wicker basket in tow, Arthur thought the man was just a rather stylish doctor.
"You've left your lights on," Arthur pointed out. At once Crowley snapped his fingers, miracling the car to turn off. "Oh. Well, that's clever. Is it infrared?" Crowley ignored the man's questions.
"Has it started yet?" The demon asked, thinking the man was, in some way, part of the scheme.
"Um, they made me go out."
"Any idea how long we've got?"
"I think we were getting on with it, doctor."
"Got it. What room is she in?"
"We're in room three."
"Room three. Got it."
The demon walked through the door, wanting to hand the child over as soon as possible.
There's a trick they do with three playing cards which is very hard to follow. Some people know this game as 3-card Monte or Find the Lady. Sometimes a similar game is played with three cups and a pea. And something like it, for greater stakes than a handful of loose change, is about to take place.
Deirdre Young is in delivery room three. She has just given birth to a golden-haired male baby we will call "Baby A."
Harriet Dowling is giving birth in delivery room four. She is having a golden-haired male baby we will call "Baby B."
"Psst," Crowley hissed at the first nun he saw.
Sister Mary Loquacious is about to be handed a golden-haired male baby we will call "The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World and Lord of Darkness." Sister Mary giggled at the baby.
"Is that him?"
"Yup."
"Only I'd expect funny eyes, or teensy-weensy little hoofikins," she cooed. "Or a wittle tail."
"It's definitely him."
"Fancy me holding the Antichrist," the nun continued to fangirl. "Counting his little toesie-wosies. Do you look like your daddy? I bet he does. Do you look like your daddy-waddykins?"
"He doesn't. Take him up to room three."
"Room three. Do you think he'll remember me when he grows up?"
"Pray that he doesn't," the demon said as he waltzed around the corner and back out of the hospital.
Three babies. Watch carefully. Round and round they go.
"Sister Mary, what are you doing here?" One other nun calls her attention. "Shouldn't you be taking biscuits up to the refectory?"
"Master Crowley said to take the baby to room three," Sister Mary said determined.
The other nun approached her cautiously, opened the lid of the basket just a little before closing it again.
"Well, get on with it, then."
Sister Mary swaddled the Adversary, placed him in a cradle cart, and wheeled him into room three. Before she could take Baby A away, Arthur stuck his head in the door.
"Has it happened yet? I'm the father. Er, the husband. Both!"
"Oh, yes. Congratulations," Sister Mary clapped softly. Arthur took that as permission to enter the room. "Your lady wife's asleep, poor pet."
Just then, Arthur noticed the two babies.
"Twins? What? Nobody said anything about twins."
"Oh, no, no. This one's yours," she pointed to the Adversary. Gesturing to Baby A, she continued, "This one's someone else's. Just looking after him." She directed attention back to the Antichrist. "No, no, this one's definitely yours, your ambassadorship, from the top of his head to the tips of his hoofy-woofies-" she cooed before realizing what the said, "-which he hasn't got."
"All, uh, ahem, present and correct, is he?"
"Oh, yes. He's normal. Very, very normal."
Just then, Harriet Dowling had finished giving birth to Baby B.
"A boy!" Tad Dowling rejoiced. "Mr. President, I have the honor, sir, to report myself the father of a regular Y-chromosomed son."
"Now, we just have to take him away for a minute to weigh him and the usual," Mother Superior stated calmly as they took the child out of the room.
"This father of a male-boy-son is all yours, Mr. President."
Sister Theresa walked into a room to find Sisters Maria Verbose and Katherine Prolix lounging around.
"Where's the baby?" she asked, but the other sisters merely shrugged. "Satan, give me strength." She walked back out and asked the first nun she saw, "Do you know where our master's child is?"
"Sister Mary Loquacious has him in room three."
Upon Sister Theresa's arrival in room three, the two nuns winked at each other.
As methods of human communication go, the human wink is quite versatile. For example, Sister Theresa's meant "Where the hell have you been? We're ready to make the switch, and here's you in the wrong room with the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World And Lord of Darkness, drinking tea."
And as far as she was concerned, Sister Mary's answering wink meant "This child is the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World And Lord of Darkness. But I can't talk now, because there's this outsider here."
Sister Mary, on the other hand, had thought that Sister Theresa's wink was more on the lines of "Well done, that, Sister Mary. Switched over the babies all by herself. Now, indicate to me the superfluous child, and I shall remove it and let you get on with your tea with His Royal Excellency, the American ambassador."
"Extra baby removal," Sister Theresa sang as she wheeled Baby A out of the room. She promptly took him into room four and presented him to Harriet Dowling. "Here's your little man back, all cleaned up and weighed."
"You must name the child," Mother Superior reminded after the video feed was cut off from the Ambassador.
"Well, we were going to name him Thaddeus, after his dad, and his dad's dad," but now, Harriet wasn't so sure.
"Damien's an excellent name," the nuns suggested.
"Damien Dowling? Too alliterative," Hariet shot down.
"Warlock, then. It's an old English name. A good name."
After a moment of contemplation, Mrs. Dowling decided.
"Hello, Warlock," she cooed.
In room three, Sister Mary was having the same conversation with Arthur Young.
"Damien? No," Arthur disagreed. "I'd always fancied something more, well, traditional. We've always gone for good, simple names in our family."
"Cain," Sister Mary suggested. "Very modern sound, Cain, really." At Arthur's negative expression, she tried again. "Well, there's always I mean, there's always Adam."
When the baby began to fuss and Deirdre woke up, Arthur had made his decision.
"Do you know, Deirdre, um I think he looks like an Adam."
"Oh. Hello, Adam," the woman cooed.
It would be nice to think that the nuns had the surplus baby discreetly adopted. That he grew to be a happy, normal child, and then grew further to become a normal, fairly contented adult. And perhaps, that is what happened. He probably wins prizes for his tropical fish.
"Call Aziraphale," Crowley shouted at his mobile as he drove away from the birthing hospital ran by satanic nuns where he had just dropped of the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World And Lord of Darkness.
"Sorry, all lines to London are currently busy," the automated female voice said, reminding the demon of the evil-ish deed he had recounted earlier.
Aziraphale was in her bookshop listening to some classical music when her phone rang.
"I'm afraid we're quite definitely closed," she said as a way of greeting.
"Aziraphale, it's me," Crowley said, before the angel could think to hang up the receiver. "We need to talk." Crowley had found a telephone box on his way back to London.
"Yes. Yes, I rather think we do. I assume this is about…"
"Armageddon, yeah..." Crowley finished before hanging up the phone.
Everyone knows the best place for a clandestine meeting in London is, and always has been, St. James's Park.
They say the ducks are so used to being fed by secret agents that they've developed Pavlovian reactions to them. The Russian cultural attache's black bread is particularly sought after by the more discerning duck.
Crowley and Aziraphale have been meeting here for quite some time.
"You're sure it was the Antichrist?"
"I should know. I delivered the baby." At the surprised look on the angel's face, Crowley realized just what he had said. "Well, not 'delivered' delivered, but you know. Handed it over."
"An American diplomat, really? As if Armageddon were a cinematographic show you wished to sell in as many countries as possible."
"The Earth and all the kingdoms thereof."
"We will win, of course," Aziraphale said decisively.
"You really believe that?"
"Obviously. Heaven will finally triumph over Hell. It's all going to be rather lovely." The words left a nasty bitter taste on her tongue. She did want the good side to win, but not at the expense of her best friend.
"Common interest, how many first-class composers do your lot have in Heaven? Because Mozart's one of ours," the demon cheekily reminded her. "Beethoven, Schubert," he went on. "Uh, all of the Bachs."
"They have already written their music," Aziraphale quipped.
"And you'll never hear it again," the demon reminded her. "No more Albert Hall. No more Glyndebourne. Just celestial harmonies."
"Well-"
"And that's just the start of what you'll lose if you win. No more fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No gravlax in dill sauce. No more old bookshops."
The pair stood up from the bench and began making their way out of the park.
"But after we win life will be better!"
"But it won't be as interesting. Look, you know I'm right. You'd be as happy with a harp as I'd be with a pitchfork."
"You know we don't play harps."
"And we don't use pitchforks. I was being rhetorical. We've only got 11 years, and then it's all over. We have to work together."
"No."
"It's the end of the world we're talking about. It's not some little temptation I've asked you to cover for me while you're up in Edinburgh for the festival. You can't say no."
"No."
"We can do something. I have an idea."
"No! I am not interested."
"Well, let's have lunch, hmm?" Crowley suggested, needing more time to convince the angel to help him. "I still owe you one from…"
"Paris. 1793."
"Yes, The Reign of Terror. Was that one of ours or one of yours?" Crowley asked.
"Can't recall," she turned back to her favorite demon with a smile on her face. "We had crepes."
Crowley couldn't help but mirror her smile as they got in the Bentley and drove past an astonished traffic warden whose notebook spontaneously combusted, to Crowley's amazement.
"I'm pretty certain I didn't mean to do that," he said. Aziraphale blushed.
"That was me," she said. "I had always thought that your people invented them."
"Did you? We thought they were yours."