Chaptere thee Fyfthe

Crowley was sitting in his Bentley, longing to take it up to 90mph, but considering that he was stuck in the middle of a traffic jam, this would not have been a wise move. The sun blazed down from the azure heavens and beat down hard upon the streets of London. He regretted popping the tyres of that flash motor up ahead, as now he was boxed in on all sides and trapped in stifling heat. Well, not quite. He was enjoying a cooling breeze and a tall glass of iced tea – something nobody else had, and they were trapped within their metal ovens for at least another 30 minutes, fanning themselves in vain with newspapers, magazines or whatever else came to hand.

He smiled to himself, and thought that perhaps this traffic jam wasn't such a waste of time. That was where the real work of Hell was, he thought, not by burning down department stores (regardless of whether a horde of window shop dummies brought to life by a hostile alien force was inside it at the time or not) or murdering people. Because if one did destroy a department store, what happened? There would be a few inquiries, the whole thing would be demolished and something new would be built in its stead and everyone would forget the whole thing in a few years – and you lost a good place to buy new threads – not that Crowley ever needed to, of course.

But, if you blocked the telephones lines or set up a traffic jam, (this was where the genius lay) large numbers of people became angry and took this anger and frustration out on other people, who took it out on more people, and thus instead of just one large evil incident, there would occur lots of little evil incidents that amounted to the same "mass" for a fraction of the work involved.

Crowley briefly wondered about popping down to Soho to see how the angel was getting on - they hadn't spoken directly or seen each other in the flesh for about 3 years now, not since the Auditors had started to monitor them everywhere they went. Although this was frustrating him, it did give Crowley a giggle every now and then.

Because angels had certain moral standards to maintain, they felt morally obliged to buy their own clothes, use the electricity provided and didn't like to simply wish themselves clean – they had to wash, like everyone else. It always gave the demon a laugh to think of the fastidious and gentlemanly Aziraphale unable to shower with three robes staring coldly at him, even from behind a plastic curtain.

It was almost a year and a month since that snake had escaped from London Zoo. Odd, that. Crowley had checked with Downstairs to see if they'd sent anyone. He had also left a letter with Aziraphale – in code, of course. They had worked out a system of writing letters in nonsense verse - something random and strange enough the Auditors couldn't understand. Posting the letters had been more of a challenge until they started scenting the pages with wild and exotic colognes.

Crowley had last written:

The old man looked asunder

Like a yellow turning peach

And to the rising shining eagle

He once more did beseech:

"Do you have my balls sir?

I know it to be true

For Mistress Brown removed her gown

Before I lost them in my stew."

The angel had replied:

And so the shining rising eagle

Did glibly rally a reply

"I'm sorry sir, for I have none

lest I fall down from the sky."

(And try not to be so...coarse next time!)

None of it could be called great poetry, but it got the job done. Crowley's gaze started roaming across the high rooftops and towards the Post Office Tower. He suddenly bolted upright, blessing under his breath as the iced tea (third, to be precise) had just slopped all over him.

Was that-? Was that...a flying car? He blinked and looked again. Not only was it a car, but it was flying over this street! It was a battered old Ford Anglia, that chugged and spluttered, as though unsure of why it was even up there.

As the car floated over the street, Crowley's Bentley lurched forwards suddenly, as though it was a hellhound on heat. For a second time the demon wished the spilt iced tea off himself. He felt a rush of wind as though something had shimmered past him by inches in the air. If he had looked out of the window towards the pavement just three seconds sooner, he would have seen a woman dressed in swimming flippers and a ski jacket tucking a thin wooden wand into the pocket of her pink jeans.

(_)

One year had elapsed.

Aziraphale was feeling dejected as he sat down at the desk in the back room of his little bookshop in Soho. He had made himself a fresh mug of cocoa, but it did little to improve his mood. He plonked down a fresh diary onto the desk and began to scribble furiously.

The one positive thing that could be said about his forced segregation from his only friend was that he could at last write down his true thoughts in his diaries. Before, Aziraphale had always suspected that the demon would manifest a copy of his diary whenever he wasn't looking and take it home to read; so the angel was always conscientious about what he wrote in it.

Now, however, he had been able to pour out his heart into the pages of diaries for four years (they took up two broom cupboards, (carefully and continuously filled with jazz music playing from nowhere)), as he was doing now. Lately, he had realised that his old feelings for Crowley had been resurfacing. He tried to convince himself that it was nothing, tried to follow the advice given to him long ago, back in 1893, but could not. He missed Cowley, certainly; but there was more to it than that. It was a corny thought, certainly, but he felt that the demon completed him; far, far more completely than anything else in his life.

He finally stopped writing around midnight, and closed the now three-quarters-full diary with a small sigh, taking care to scent it with eucalyptus and honey so as to keep the Auditors at bay. The cocoa was now stone cold. He felt so depressed he couldn't even be bothered to warm it up in the kitchen and drank it as it was.

He knew what must be done. The Auditors had just left him, and the angel knew that if he didn't make his monthly report that matched up to their monthly report, he would be in trouble. He didn't much want another 50 smitings.

He rolled up the small oval rug in the middle of the room and revealed a chalk circle decorated with arcane runes and sigils. He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out seven small candles which he arranged at even intervals around the circle. After lighting the candles he stepped into the circle and said the Words. After an interval of seven seconds and beam of blue-white light shone down through the ceiling and a rather bored and lofty voice asked:

"Yes?"

"It is I, Aziraphale."

"What kept you?" enquired the well-educated tones of the Metatron.

"Pardon?" the angel asked, looking confused.

"You are late." A hint of testiness had crept into the Metatron's voice.

"I wasn't aware that celestial monthly reports could be late." Aziraphale replied, allowing bitterness to gnaw at his vocal chords.

"They can be now. What has happened recently? What has happened to the boy, Harry Potter?" the Metatron was never one to mince words. It was as impatient as a small child in a sweet shop, although it had the demeanour of a glove sales accountant with a bad head cold.

"Well, um...I went over to his house, I did not meet anyone, apart from helping that dear old Mrs Figg cross the road, bless her soul, and I saw a very horrible woman inflated to five times her size floating off into the sky. Was that a miracle performed by one of us, or one of the party Down There?" Aziraphale knew he was babbling, but he couldn't help it, the Metatron always intimidated him into chronic nervousness.

"Would you call Down Below a party?" Anger was unmistakeable in the Voice of God now.

"Oh, well, now you mention it; I would rather like to...to...apply for a Transfer..." the angel said weakly, quailing at the rumble of thunder that echoed from the voice. He wasn't up to arguing with this cosmological bully at the moment.

"A Transfer? You dare to stray from the Love of God?" The Metatron thundered. There was a long, awkward silence, before the Voice of God continued in more civilised tones "Er. You are aware that there is a long waiting list? You won't be Transferred for at least two years."

Aziraphale sighed in resignation. He had been afraid the Metatron would have put up a greater fight simply to annoy him. Luckily he hadn't. "That sounds perfect." he said happily and hopped out of the circle before another words could be issued. The light faded huffily.

The angel collapsed into the chair beside the desk, satisfaction replaced by grim apprehension and pondered over what the Heaven he had just done.