Hot Church

by CircetoVanaen

Anthony J. Crowley is the best policeman in London. So good that he makes his colleagues and superiors look like ordinary traffic wardens. When the Fall comes, he is transferred to Tadfield, Wales. There, Crowley has to deal with the disappearance of an accordion-playing duck, the theft of a garden gnome, a theatrical murder and the hostility of his new partner: Aziraphale Fell.

6. 6: The Snail Road

Chapter 6: The Snail Road

Over the last few years, Crowley had been able to take advantage of the incredible suppleness of his body, even if this sometimes cost him a few inconveniences, particularly when he woke up in positions that no normal human would ever have been able to adopt. That morning, he woke up to the sound of Julie Andrews' melodious voice, his rump straightened, his pyjama bottoms – black silk , good quality – pulled down over his hips and his head resting on the 'Morpheus' file, which he was spraying with a drizzle of saliva. The ringing of his telephone snapped him out of a dream involving his curly-haired partner and a freezer... He opened one eye and grabbed his mobile. He picked it up, without thinking to look at the name of the person calling him so early in the morning.

" Hello," he mumbled in a voice that was half-wrinkled, half-snarled, as the last chimerical pictures images of a caramel Cornetto Ice, that hadn't been used to satisfy a craving, evaporated.
"Anthony! You're finally answering my calls! "
Crowley let out a swear.
" Shorten Samael," he grumbled as he sat cross-legged on the bed with its scattered sheets.
" Look, I know the last few months have been a bit complicated..."
"Complicated?! spat Crowley. "The press went wild against me! I nearly lost my job and was sent here! Wales! Your fault!"
" I know... maybe we should talk about this... You, me... I miss Mayfair and since you no longer occupy the flat…"
" If you set one foot in there, you should know that I've acquired carnivorous plants specially trained to eat blondie!"
" Anthony... what if I came to see you? For a chat. At the moment, things are a bit difficult for me at the Met too... Dowling refuses to tell me where they've sent you! "
Inspector Crowley's lips quirked into a strange, almost devilish grin. He did a few quick searches on Google and adopted that vocal tone that had delighted his former partner.
" Cockermouth, my little devil..." he whispered, using the nickname he had given him at the beginning of their relationship.
" Are you sure it's a town in Wales? It doesn't sound very Welsh!"
" What do you know ? you've never left London since you were old enough to wear nappies! I'll send you the exact address so you can surprise me... "

He didn't wait for his former lover to reply, just hung up and gave him the coordinates of an obscure town where the poet Wordsworth had lived, and which, as Samael had guessed, wasn't in Wales at all.

After feeding Junior, who was acclimatising rather well to Welsh life, and looking after his green plant, it was a rather satisfied Crowley who went down to the café. Thanks to Aziraphale's good care, his haematoma had deflated. He put his hand to his cheek. Before going to bed, he had smeared some more ointment on his face, but he had to admit that he was much less skilled at it than his new partner. He began to whistle cheerfully:

This little piggy went to Hades

This little piggy stayed home

This little piggy ate raw and steaming human flesh […]

To spare the most sensitive souls, the rest of this song will not be transcribed. We apologise in advance for this terrible mutilation of this musical masterpiece. However, you can still find the lyrics in Antechrist's nursery rhymes, a collection of songs that will incite your children to vice, with titles such as: Little piggy, the grand Duke of York, The Good King Henry VIII, Agrippina's tuck and Damien Thy Kingdom come.

"Hello Nina, you're looking lovely this morning!" chirped Crowley as he took a seat at the counter. "You too, Maggie, my radiant one!" he added hastily to the little blonde, who giggled with pleasure.
"Are you sure everything's all right? Are you out of your mind?" asked Nina, who was surprised to see him so happy.
" Why wouldn't I be?"
He turned to Pepper, who was busy sweating over a maths assignment. The little girl sighed and looked up at Crowley:
" Does crime pay well?"
" You know what?" whispered the policeman mischievously, "I think I'm going to try my hand at this new career. Do you want to be my partner?"
" You bet! "
" Don't put far-fetched ideas into her head," Nina muttered. "Pepper, you should go."

Promising to think about this future project, the little girl stuffed her crooked notebook into her bag and jumped off the stool to join Adam. The boy, his nose pressed against the café window, caught sight of Crowley. He grinned at him and held up a plump apple. The policeman gave a thumbs up in recognition of his achievement.

" Can I get you the usual coffee?" said Nina, putting down the mug containing the six shots of espresso.
Crowley nodded and begged for a tiny slice of apple pie, which Nina, although grumbling that she would count it in his bill, ended up offering. Maggie leaned over and noticed the bruise on his left cheekbone.
" Did you hit your head, Inspector Crowley?"
" Occupational hazard, Maggie."

At that moment, the ring sounded. Crowley swivelled on his stool, but instead of the curls he had hoped for, a moustachioed carpet salesman appeared. Mr. Brown was one of the morning regulars and always came to drink his coffee – without sugar and with a dash of milk – before his shop opened. The rug salesman greeted him, but instead of sitting down at his usual place, a table not far from the antique television, he approached the counter, his moustache twitching. Crowley didn't know why, but he felt a pang of annoyance at the sight of the man who had twice come to his aid.

" Have you heard the news about poor David?"
Maggie and Nina exchanged puzzled looks, Crowley took a sip of coffee to hide a sneer.
" Mrs. Paddington, Mummy's dearest and most respectable friend, got it from Mrs. Potter, the unfortunate boy's neighbour... He was taken to a 'rest home' early this morning. The unfortunate man is said to be suffering from overwork! "
" Overwork?" repeated a somewhat sceptical Nina.
" Yes... According to , he went home during the night rambling about a Nile crocodile, a demon and an angel exchanging a kiss in a shower of frozen peas."
This time Crowley's grin turned to a snigger, which earned him another glance from Nina.
" I hope he gets over it," murmured a sympathetic Maggie.
" He probably wanted to play hardball again and came up against someone stronger than him. Now that Uncle Gomorrah's gone, he'll have to keep a low profile!
" Come on, Nina," insisted Brown, smoothing his moustache, "that's not very charitable! Isn't it, Inspector Crowley?"

Crowley looked up from his now empty mug and nodded weakly. The carpet merchant, delighted to have found a companion for discussion, slid onto the next stool. He ordered his inevitable, ridiculously banal coffee and launched into an utterly uninteresting monologue about the forthcoming meeting of the Happy Pedestrians Club and the Tadfield theatre company of which he was the scriptwriter and director. The inspector listened only half-heartedly, his fingers brushing his still bruised cheek. Brown, having exhausted his two favourite subjects, with carpets and dog shows, asked him with a discreet cough:

" By the way, Inspector, how is your wound? "
" Quite well," replied Crowley, stroking his cheekbone. "To tell the truth, I was lucky enough to be looked after by an angel who has nimble fingers. "

Crowley, though usually attentive to such small details, did not notice the change in the carpet merchant's affable face. An almost imperceptible movement on the right side of his moustache suggested that Inspector Crowley was no longer as friendly to him. As he finished his coffee, Brown thought he'd better buy a new bag of flour and sultanas and bake some Welsh cakes.

The door opened again, this time to Gabriel in his usual grey sweatpants. He took out his phone to take a photo of himself, as he did after every run, so as to offer his divine silhouette to his devoted subscribers, who follow the progress of his perfect day every morning, always starting at dawn after gobbling four dozen eggs.

" Good morning company," exclaimed the estate agent, flashing his best toothy smile at his new audience. "Nina, carrot juice today. "
The landlady let out a grunt and went into the small kitchen to prepare the required drink. She had told Crowley that she always added a certain amount of sugar to his vegetable juices.
Gabriel walked over to Crowley and thrust his phone in his face:
" Look at that, mate ! I've got you a little property gem! It's just a stone's throw from Heavhell. You're more of a city boy, aren't you?"
He scrolled through a few photos and stopped at one showing a bedroom with a bed of enormous proportions. He winked at Crowley:
" You're just the sort of chap who likes a big bed... not like good old Brown who can be satisfied with a small one! Isn't it true that you and your over-feathered nightingale aren't very sex-mad ?" he added saucily, offering the poor carpet merchant an affectionate pat on the back.
" It's not..." stammered a blushing Brown." It's hardly proper to assume that sort of thing... and..."
"Two little cooing nightingales who are content with a cosy little nest," said Gabriel with a smile. "But you need more than a love nest, don't you, Inspector? If you make me an offer, I'll ask Brown to give you a discount on a carpet! I'm sure he'd be willing to give you one of his prized possessions! "

A very important call, according to Gabriel, put an end to this conversation. The estate agent, while giving them the smile of a man with real responsibilities, took refuge in the café toilets to answer his caller. A new regular entered the room. Ennon, wearing his usual sullen expression, took the newspapers out of his bag: he placed a few on a table before approaching the counter. He grabbed the magazines – on dog welfare and marriage – intended for Brown and threw them at him ruthlessly, narrowly missing spilling his cup of coffee. The carpet merchant reprimanded him gently before asking him if he had enjoyed the Welsh cakes he had given him a few days earlier. Ennon contented himself with a vague grunt that could have passed for a statement when, in reality, the pastries had ended up in the stomachs of the sheep's family.

Nina returned with the drink Gabriel had ordered, which she placed next to the fruit basket. She greeted the young paperboy, who couldn't take his eyes off Crowley. The policeman gave him a little nod, to which the youngster replied with a grimace before leaving the establishment.

"What a curious kid," Crowley grumbled.
" Who's that, Ennon? It's just that he hasn't found his place yet," replied Maggie, who was coming back towards them after exchanging a few words with Mary, another regular here, who was proudly wearing her seventh immaculate conception.
"At the start of the new school year, he has to go back to Cardiff," continued Nina, "to start his fourth...
" Fifth, darling," Maggie corrected her.
"Fifth first year at university. Law, right?"
" No, Medicine."
" No, that was last year."

The two women exchanged loving smiles. Crowley thought that they must be the most amorous couple in the café: he felt sorry for the poor person who shared Gabriel's life, and Brown seemed to be having a few problems with his mysterious nightingale. The carpet merchant opened one of his magazines and plunged into his reading. Crowley swivelled on his stool and saw a familiar figure walk past the café. Pretending to have work to do, he took his leave of Nina and Maggie.

As he was about to leave, Crowley was stopped by a slightly worried Mary: she asked him if he had seen Godot, his companion, whom she and Joe, her other partner, had been looking for since the day before. The policeman replied in the negative and promised to put out an APB if he didn't turn up later that day. The young woman put her hand on her pregnant belly and thanked him for his kindness.

Gabriel came out of the bathroom, somewhat annoyed, just as Crowley was crossing the street. He grabbed his carrot juice and swallowed angrily. He turned his head outside and saw a cluster of golden curls familiar to the community.

"It isn't our plump nightingale ? He hasn't been to the café for a while!" he wondered, turning to the carpet merchant.

By way of reply, Brown continued reading a fascinating article about the olfactory hypersensitivity of dogs and how to remedy it.

Crowley joined his partner when he was on the level of the bookshop. He greeted him warmly, startling him. The sergeant seemed a little surprised but responded with a smile. Crowley approached the shop and pressed his nose against the window with the blinds down.

" The owner is on holiday," informed Aziraphale. "She should be back in a week or two..."
" I presume she's related to you," said Crowley, pointing to the name of the bookshop in gold letters on the shop window.
" No, she bought it from my mother... My grandfather owned it, like his father before him... I wouldn't have made a very good bookseller myself! I love books, but I don't like to part with them!"
Aziraphale turned his head towards his partner. Crowley thought to himself that tubes of cream could work miracles when it came to bringing people together!
" Are you looking for a particular book? What do you like to read?"
"To tell you the truth," confessed Crowley, running a hand through his hair, "I'm not really into literature... I'm just curious."
" Are you planning to become friends with every shopkeeper in Tadfield?"
" Rule no. 1 learned in Soho: always get the shopkeepers on your side! They're damn good informers!"

Crowley turned to his Bentley parked outside the café and waved. He began to trot along beside Goldilocks, who walked briskly with his hands clasped behind his back, while he adopted a more casual, vaguely stumbling gait. The two formed a strange duo, which did not fail to arouse the inhabitants's curiosity. Aziraphale, who had decided to act as a tourist guide, introduced and greeted every shopkeeper who crossed their path. Goliath swept across the threshold of his shop, doing a few dance steps – as if his partner's enforced rest had lifted a weight off his shoulders! – . At the sight of the two policemen, he made friendly gestures before resuming his surprising ballet. Aziraphale deliberately avoided the shortcut he would normally take and continued his babble while extolling the beauties of his home town. The journey, which should only have taken them ten minutes or so, stretched on and on.

When they passed the carpet king's shop, which was still closed, Aziraphale's voice was drowned out by the barking of his roquet. The little dog, his nose pressed against the door, showed them his drooling fangs.

" This mutt hates me," Crowley said, quickening his pace.
" Don't worry," replied Aziraphale, turning an authoritarian gaze on the animal, which turned into a slobbering, howling fury, "he hates me even more!"
" What have you done to him ?!"
" My mere presence disturbs him..." muttered the sergeant, "it seems that my new Eau de Cologne 'upsets his delicate snout'."
" I like your Eau de Cologne!
" Oh," exclaimed a delighted Aziraphale, "thank you, my dear! I changed it recently on the recommendation of my barber and ..."

Crowley was no longer listening to a word of Aziraphale's explanations, who had launched into a long palaver about the good advice given by his barber, who also acted as his hairdresser. He realised that his team-mate was afflicted with a disease that affects many letter-writers of his ilk: a taste for pointless digression. Normally, such an infection would have been unbearable for him, but he found him amusing with his chastened language and his habit of using language as an ornament to which he added pearls rather than saying things clearly. Not to mention that he really liked the way he smelled. He lifted his nose and began to feel the air as if he wanted to keep a trace of it. Taking this gesture as a sign of boredom, Aziraphale apologised, still in his characteristic pompous tone, for his "unbearable circumlocutions". Crowley hastened to reassure him with a vague grunt and the two of them resumed their stroll through Tadfield.

They finally arrived at the police station, after taking a number of circuitous routes that had taken them a good half hour longer, their arms laden with various gifts from the shopkeepers they had met along the way. Aziraphale had told him that in Tadfield, secrets don't last long and that the merchants were undoubtedly aware of their little altercation with David the day before... and of the hasty departure of the petty thief whose reign of terror had just come to an end thanks to Inspector Crowley. Aziraphale put down the two bottles of wine given to him by the owner of the French restaurant and opened the front door.

" After you, foul fiend," he said, holding the door for Crowley.
" Thank you, servant of God," Crowley replied in the same tone, bowing his head.

They exchanged amused glances and rushed into the entrance hall, giggling like two teenagers who had just skipped the first few minutes of the first lesson of the morning. They passed the reception desk and barely said hello to Shax, who was busy slathering a clay mask on her face. Shax, who had just taken up her post, had been somewhat surprised to see that the two policemen had not yet arrived, while Aziraphale was still there at the crack of dawn. She rose from her seat and leaned towards them as they passed through the door of the break room. She had, of course, heard the strange rumour that Inspector Crowley and Sergeant Fell had chased the abominable David out of his mini-market. Shax, who preferred to spread rumours rather than be told about them, had at first refused to believe this new rumour, but on seeing the two of them so complicit, had to bring herself to give it some semblance of credence. The eyes of the diabolical secretary and chief purveyor of gossip crinkled into two mischievous slits. She grabbed her phone and sent an 'informative' text to her new friend – much to Furfur's dismay at no longer being privy to her gossip – the mayor's new assistant with the original pumps!

The food took refuge in the small fridge in the break room. Crowley offered the leg of lamb, which he had received from the butcher, to his team-mate, who exchanged it – with a touch of regret, Crowley noted – for the two bottles of wine. Aziraphale confessed that he was not allowed to drink anything other than tea and water until further notice. When he asked why, the sergeant looked away and mumbled that during Inspector Gomorrah's farewell party, under the influence of drunkenness, he had made a "regrettable mistake". This simple word was enough to arouse Crowley's curiosity and he pressed him with questions, which his stubborn partner refused to answer.

" I'll get it out of you in the end, Cherub!" exclaimed Crowley as he took a cactus, a gift from the florist, into his office.

To his great misfortune, the cactus was placed next to the Ficus. It waved its leaves and, in its chlorophyll language, launched into a terrified speech, interspersed with sobs, to inform him of the fate that awaited him. The bewildered cactus lost a few thorns, which earned him a stern reprimand from Crowley, who immediately set him straight by inveighing and making him understand who was now his lord and master. Despite Aziraphale's protests, inviting him to show a little compassion towards his poor plants, Crowley grabbed his spray bottle and began a pleasant little morning torture session. When he felt the drops of cold water falling on him, the little cactus thought of his companions left behind in the shop and let out a cry of despair.

After an hour, and after demanding that the cactus regrow the few thorns that had fallen, Crowley began to get bored. Determined not to get bogged down in a routine of paperwork and the inevitable phone calls from R.P Tyler, he invited himself into the next office. Aziraphale looked up as he walked through the non-existent door and couldn't help but squeal indignantly as his colleague slumped onto the sofa. He reminded him that the sofa was not meant to be used for the sleep of the dead, but for taking the confidences of any victims who might come to them.

" I'm a victim!" Crowley retorted, adopting a completely relaxed posture," a victim of boredom !"

Aziraphale, realising that he would have to do with the presence of his diabolical captain, heaved a defeatist sigh and plunged into reading Furfur's report.

" By the way," he asked, starting a polite conversation, "are you enjoying your stay with Nina and Maggie?
"Just fine," replied Crowley, turning onto his side and resting his chin on his left hand. "I'm even lucky enough to be woken up every morning by Julie Andrews! I hope she's burning in Hell!"
" She's not dead," mumbled Aziraphale, straightening his glasses on the tip of his nose.
" Are you sure?" said Crowley, doing a quick search. "Ah yes, too bad... but why inflict such celestial harmony on us?"
" The Sound of Music is the Mayor's favourite movie..." replied Aziraphale, trying to divert the conversation. "Nina makes the best coffee in Wales and probably the UK, don't you think? "
Crowley wasn't fooled by the manoeuvre but decided to play along. He'll know how to tame him and get him to talk about this mayor who seemed to wield a certain amount of power over Tadfield.
" I doubt you have much to compare it to, Cherub!"
The inspector saw the anger beneath the impassive mask.
" I lived in Cardiff!" snapped the sergeant with an outraged rustle of curls." I went to Police Academy there and I even worked for this brigade for a while!"
Cardiff. He should never have ventured into that territory... Regretting having led his partner to evoke that cursed city, Crowley in turn tried to change the course of the discussion with a completely unpleasant pirouette:
" Oh, what a change of scene! Let me guess : in those days, you used to collapse into your little student bed every night, weeping over your beloved Tadfield! "
" No!"
" So provincial and predictable," spat Crowley with more bitterness than he would have liked.

Aziraphale put his fountain pen down in front of him and stood up slowly. He clenched his fists, trying to suppress the anger boiling in his veins. He took a deep breath and confessed, in spite of himself:
" The truth is, I liked it there. I even tried to go back, for G..." He clamped his hand over his mouth, barely holding back an expletive. "Why am I telling you this! You're so unpleasant! "
"Because I'm the only sane human being in this bloody police station ?" said the inspector, sitting down.
" Give me a break!"
" So," questioned Crowley, whose cursed curiosity had replaced his bad mood." Why did you decide to come back here?"
" I promised," murmured an Aziraphale with a faraway look in his eyes." I had to keep my word. Now let me get on with my work."

He sat back down and resumed reading the report to chase away the memories revived by this discussion. The letters danced before his eyes and he couldn't concentrate. He glanced at the place where the portrait of the person who shared his life should have been, before remembering that he had broken it, clumsily, when he had returned to his office the previous day after seeing Crowley off. The cracked frame, a gift from his mother-in-law, had been hidden in the top drawer of his desk. Aziraphale had learned that it was best not to provoke her wrath. She could be particularly irritating when her maternal pride was bruised, as she considered herself Aziraphale's 'surrogate mother'. A bitter smile played across the sergeant's lips. He shook his head and promised himself to conceal this incident to avoid any further marital 'misunderstanding'.

" I'm bored!" said a moaning Crowley. "Can't you think of something more exciting to do?"
" Furfur has to go and lay down radar in the Forest of Tarot, so go with him!"
" I will not!"

Crowley was horrified at the prospect of spending long hours alone with the officer. He probably wouldn't have the patience to put up with the officer's attempts to approach him, and would end up on the front pages of the local and even national press for murdering a colleague. He got up from the sofa and approached his partner's desk with the slowness of a reptile preparing to munch on a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest.

" Come with me," he murmured as he leaned towards his sergeant, his buttocks at attention and his elbow resting by the pencil cup. "It'll be a nice change from all this paperwork!"
" My job..."
" You're a cop, not a bureaucrat! Come on!"
In front of Aziraphale's astonished eyes, Crowley pulled a coin from his trouser pocket and tossed it in the air before catching it with his left hand.
" Heads, you're coming with me; tails, I'm going with Furfur... but I can't guarantee to bring him back in one piece!"
" I haven't got time for this nonsense!"
" Come on, give it a try, Cherub. I'll give you a choice: heads or tails?"
Aziraphale tore off his glasses and pinched the tip of his nose to control his exasperation.
" Tails and now let me do my job!"
Crowley flipped the coin and collected it in the palm of his hand. A smile spread across his face.
" Heads, excellent choice! You're coming with me!"

The sergeant looked at him suspiciously. Crowley hastily folded his fingers against the coin, fearing that his partner had discovered the magic trick. Aziraphale stood up and headed for the coat rack. Had he guessed that the bet was rigged and that the coin had two heads sides? Crowley was unable to answer this question, but when he saw his partner put on his coat, the captain knew that he had just won the game.

Crowley's surprises didn't stop there, however. He followed Aziraphale into the garage adjoining the police station. His partner flicked the switch, and the dim light revealed the presence of the only vehicle used by Tadfield's brigade. Crowley gave an indignant squeak before turning to his partner:
"It's a joke !?"
"A joke?"
" That... that thing!" replied the inspector, pointing to the old-generation Mini Cooper with its scratched bodywork and crude repainting in the colours of the noble British police.
"No," replied his sergeant, "that's our car."

Crowley went round the little car, examined the dented bumper – an unfortunate accident involving Muriel and the back of a van – noted a few scratches on the bonnet – an unfortunate encounter between Muriel and a letterbox – and a large crack on the boot – an unfortunate encounter between Muriel and a wall. He grumbled as he noticed that two tyres were in a deplorable state and the rear door wouldn't close. On his way back to his starting point, he noticed a door that he hadn't seen on entering the garage. Aziraphale followed his gaze, muttering that this room contained nothing of any interest. Not believing a word of it, Crowley grabbed the keyring he'd been given when he arrived, unlocked the door... and stumbled into Inspector Gomorrah's personal storeroom. Aziraphale joined him as a furious Crowley discovered a collection of miscellaneous useless objects, except perhaps the many pairs of handcuffs arranged by colour on a shelf.

" I told you this room wasn't interesting..."

The inspector stomped angrily around the room, cursing when his foot came into contact with an unidentified object, the use and origin of which he refused to identify. He took a deep breath and shouted Furfur's name. The officer answered the wild call and came into the garage. Seeing the door to the private room open, he loosened his tie and adjusted his gait, which he hoped would be sensual. He froze as he caught sight of Aziraphale.

" Inspector," he murmured, "you know... I'm not really in favour of sharing..."
" Listen to me Furfur," barked the inspector, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, "you're going to get rid of all this mess!"
"But... but..." stammered Furfur, "what am I going to do with it !?"
" I don't bloody know! Give all this shit to the retirement home if you like, it'll be a nice change from Bingo, but when I get back, I want this room cleared out, understand?"
" Yes, Inspector..." murmured the officer, casting an apologetic glance at the objects he would have liked to test with his superior.
" Good," Crowley said, releasing his hold. "For the handcuffs, you'll rip off the ridiculous little tassels and wash them: they'll still be useful." "Fell", he choked as he saw his partner busy with a whip, " put that back, now!"
Aziraphale slammed the strap against the floor with a deft movement. Furfur let out a terrified scream and took refuge behind their inspector.
" Could we perhaps keep it?" asked the sergeant in a pleading tone.
" Certainly not!" offended Crowley.

Aziraphale reluctantly put down the whip between the riding crop and the swift. Crowley turned back to Furfur to give him his final instructions. The sergeant took the opportunity to steal an object from Inspector Gomorrah's private collection, which he slipped into his pocket.

The Mini had had a lot of scares in Muriel's company, but all those misadventures were nothing compared to what it was about to experience with Inspector Anthony J. Crowley at the controls! The little car knew that its destiny was about to take a completely different turn as soon as it emerged from the garage, thundering as loud as it could. Despite the frightened protests of an Aziraphale clutching the handgrip, Crowley revved up the little car's engine and sped off through the narrow streets of Tadfield. The poor girl thought its last hour had come when its driver 'failed' to stop at the town's only set of traffic lights and nearly collided with a candy-pink buggy. The sergeant was frightened to recognise the driver as the very dear and respectable Mrs. Paddington, who was staring at him with her mouth agape. He waved to her before the Mini sped off with a roar of Hell.

Somehow they reached the Forest of Tarot alive. Crowley parked the Mini in the path indicated by Aziraphale and got out of the car, contorting himself to extract its gangly carcass. The little car let out a motorised sigh of relief. Crowley, hands planted on his hips, contemplated the landscape in front of him: on the other side of the road, a cliff overlooked the sea. Aziraphale patted the bonnet of the wretched car, shaken by so many emotions, and tried to console its by promising that after this day, he would never let the inspector near its steering wheel again.

" Why is it called the Forest of the Tarot?" Crowley asked as he watched the sergeant unfold the wobbly legs of the radar they had managed to squeeze into the back seat.
" A witch used to live there. The locals used to come to her for fortune-telling and she even wrote a book of prophecies. "
Aziraphale took a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe the radar.
" Nobody knows what happened to her... She was burnt at the stake for witchcraft, but managed to escape from Tadfield. To this day, it's said that this forest continues to be protected by the invisible presence of Agnes Nutter. "
" Do you believe in all this nonsense?" muttered Crowley, resting his divine buttocks on the bonnet of the Mini.
"Don't you?" said Aziraphale vivaciously, "Magic is an art!"
" It's only good for entertaining kids, just like clowns," retorted his team-mate, thinking of his godson's last birthday party, which had ended with the clown being tied up by a bunch of wild kids.
" I practice the art of prestidigitation! informed Aziraphale enthusiastically. Would you like a demonstration?"
" Go on, Cherub, amaze me!"

Delighted to demonstrate the full extent of his talent, Aziraphale stood facing Crowley and concentrated for a few seconds. He took a black feather from his pocket, placed it in the hollow of his right palm and held it out to his sceptical team-mate. He blew on it and folded his fingers over the feather.

" It's vanish!" exclaimed the apprentice magician in a high-pitched voice.
" No," replied Crowley, straightening up, "it's in your pocket."
" Of course it's not!"
" Then empty your pocket, Goldilocks."
" Certainly not!" refused the sergeant, taking a few steps back.
" If you don't obey, I'll be forced to carry out a body search... so?"

With a sigh, Aziraphale withdrew the black feather he had hidden in his coat pocket. Crowley examined it and was struck by a curious suspicion when he thought he recognised its origin. He let out an expletive and accused his team-mate of having exceeded his orders by stealing one of the objects in Gomorrah's collection! Aziraphale protested... then finally gave in. He took a black masquerade mask out of his pocket and handed it to his team-mate.

"I think it's pretty..."
" Pretty?! You don't even know where that thing has been!"
" It's just a mask," replied Aziraphale, taking back what he now considered to be his property.
Before putting it back in his pocket, he placed it against his face, revealing only his pale eyes. Crowley scrutinised him carefully and felt a curious shiver tickle the tips of his fingers and toes. The memory of another mischievous face, hiding behind a sheet and gradually revealing itself, resurfaced in his mind... The sergeant's mischievous smile faded, as if he felt crushed by the weight of Crowley's gaze, which he could not perceive but which he guessed all the same...
"Inspector," he murmured, "is everything..."

Crowley's hand moved towards the mask to tear it off him. Aziraphale felt Crowley's fingers brush against his skin. Suddenly, the sound of an engine backfiring shattered this curious suspended moment where the present and a few snatches of the past were intertwined. They pulled away from each other and Crowley saw a tractor speeding along the road. He recognised Ennon, perched behind the wheel, wearing his green K-Way. The policeman wanted to stop him, claiming an infringement. Aziraphale put the mask in his pocket and pulled his team-mate away by the arm.

" Leave the poor boy alone, he wasn't speeding!"
The tractor passed in front of them. The young man gave them a surprised look before giving Aziraphale a small, shy smile, which Aziraphale gladly returned.
"You see!" replied Crowley as he tore himself away from his grasp, "wrong positioning of the fingers! I'm going to give this little delinquent a hefty fine!"
" You'll do nothing," sighed his partner as the vehicle drove away in a cloud of smoke. "Ennon is Farmer Uz's son and the only delivery boy in Tadfield!"
" He could be the mayor's son and I still wouldn't give a fuck ! I'm sure his scrap heap isn't even approved! I'll give him a suspension! For excessive pollution! "
" If you take away his licence, we won't get any more letters, newspapers or pizzas. You'll no longer have your morning pastries !"

Crowley gave him a surprised look. Aziraphale explained to him that the "student in transition", as his family said it, provided many services to the community. He told him that it was he, and not Shax, who brought the pastries every morning for the brigade. The sergeant, determined to defend the young man, went on to say that he also came to trim the hedges in his garden and look after his flowerbed every other Saturday for free! He concluded his defence by saying that Ennon Uz was a perfectly lovely boy and that he didn't understand Crowley's belligerent attitude towards him.

"Belligerent?" Crowley shouted. "I didn't do anything to that kid!"
" That's not what he told me," replied Aziraphale. "You've been pestering him ever since you arrived. What do you dislike so much about him? "
"Nothing !," defended the accused, "he's the one who's got some bloody problem with me!"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and said he didn't believe a word he was saying. Vexed at not being believed by his team-mate, Crowley locked himself in a stubborn silence and refused any further discussion. Another third of an hour passed, followed by another, equally uneventful one. With his arms folded across his chest, the sulky inspector glanced at his team-mate who, disdaining the relative comfort of a car bonnet, stood stiff next to the radar which he supported with one hand to prevent it from falling over in the slightest gust of wind.

Another half hour passed in inactivity and speechlessness. Crowley heaved a deep sigh and took a few steps to stretch his poor legs. He wasn't asking for the moon, though! Just something to occupy his mind and get him out of this boredom sticking to his skin like inextricable treacle. Unable to bear the silence, he started whistling a tune, but it wasn't enough to arouse the interest of the only human being for miles around. Suddenly, his gaze was drawn to a small group of snails that, sensing the rain was coming, had just appeared on the deserted road. He approached them and crouched down to get a better look at their slobbering gait. He plucked two of the poor gastropods from the asphalt and, in front of Aziraphale's astonished eyes, carried them over to the Mini.

" Cherub," he ordered, removing this piece of cloth that Aziraphale couldn't decently call a tie, "lend me your bow tie."
" What!? Certainly not!"
" By order of your superior officer, Sarge Goldilocks," he said, placing his untied tie on the floor.
" My name is Aziraphale," mumbled the person concerned as he complied with this strange whim.

Driven by curiosity, he took off his bow tie and brought it to his team-mate. The latter placed it about twenty centimetres from the tie before depositing the two snails.

" What are you going to do?" asked Sergeant Fell, intrigued by this curious distraction.
" If you're going to do something stupid, you might as well do something really silly! How about a snail race, Cherub?"
" A... snail... race..." stammered Aziraphale in a troubled voice, "is that a Scottish tradition? "
" I don't bloody know ! Which one will you have?"

Aziraphale didn't answer, his eyes riveted on the lanky figure crouching again. A snail race... Images of a similar race came back to him. Claiming to have felt a drop of rain, he rushed to the car and pulled out an umbrella with a twisted frame and a hole in the fabric. He opened it and walked towards his partner, who had not noticed his excitement, too busy cheering on one of the two participants in this impromptu race. Aziraphale tilted the umbrella towards Crowley to protect him from the threatening downpour. Indifferent to the raindrops, the inspector was shouting himself hoarse, encouraging the slowest of the gastropods.

" Why are you supporting this one?" asked Aziraphale.
" I've always had a soft spot for losers," Crowley admitted, turning to him.

Aziraphale's fingers began to tremble. He had already had this conversation, more than twenty years earlier, in a park next to the Cardiff Police Academy, while in the distance the music and shouting from a party he had run away from echoed. He had found refuge in a place still spared from the comings and goings of drunken students, and had walked to his favourite corner to find a little peace and quiet, when his eyes fell on a young man crouched down and shouting like a damned man. He approached and coughed to make his presence known. The brown-eyed stranger, sporting an unnatural raven-black haircut, asked him in a thick Scottish accent if he wanted to take part in a snail race. The young Aziraphale initially declined the strange offer, but won over by the stranger's touch of madness, finally gave in to the temptation... and positioned himself beside him to encourage the gastropod abandoned by the Scotsman.

"Sergeant Cherub?" inquired Crowley in a voice pierced by a hint of concern. "Is all well?"

By way of reply, Aziraphale crouched down beside him and supported the snail, which had not been favoured by his team-mate. Crowley, delighted with the competition, shouted louder to encourage his favourite. Aziraphale was caught up in the game and shouted back at the snail as it approached the finishing line. Despite Inspector Crowley's best efforts, his protégé was unable to beat his rival and he was forced to admit defeat. The rain had doubled in intensity and the broken umbrella no longer protected them from the water sliding down their faces, which were reddened by the excitement of the race.

Suddenly, a burst of voices disrupted the end of the race. They exchanged glances as they recognised the sounds of a heated argument. Aziraphale closed the umbrella and they both decided to head for the scene of the dispute. They made themselves as inconspicuous as possible and entered the Forest of Tarot, which had become much less welcoming since the sky had darkened. Crowley couldn't suppress a shiver and mechanically reached for his pistol holster. Aziraphale, who had been guiding him through the forest he had known since childhood, stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the two figures standing a few metres away. He grabbed his team-mate by the arm, forced him to hide behind a bush and pointed to the two belligerents. It took Crowley a few seconds to recognise Gabriel standing opposite a much smaller person wearing an abomination as a hat.

" What the hell is Gabriel doing here ! planning to buy the forest? And who's the person with him?" he whispered to his partner.
" She's an environmental activist, she had a few run-ins with the law a couple of years ago."
"For what?" sniggered Crowley, "for wearing capri pants ? "
Aziraphale, not enjoying the joke, replied in a very serious tone:
" She threw rotten eggs at Gabriel's estate agency... I don't understand why, they're here..."
" Has she threatened him recently?"
" Not that I'm aware of... I thought their tensions had eased," added Aziraphale." They're both members of the Tadfield theatre company!"

At that moment, they saw the little person's face flush with anger. Gabriel, for his part, was wearing his best real-estate smile. He planted a falsely threatening index finger on the nose of his interlocutor, brushing it with a flick. She pushed him away before pounding her furious little fists against his chest. Gabriel laughed at her efforts and grabbed her wrists to make her listen to reason. The woman's screams were replaced by inaudible murmurs. Crowley knew perfectly well that this was not the kind of attitude you could have with someone with whom you'd had a few legal setbacks. The woman stopped gesticulating and, with the grace of a fly, slipped into the arms of the estate agent. Crowley heard a sucking sound.

" She's not his wife, is she?" he whispered as amorous laughter replaced the furious cries.
The not-quite-legitimate couple stalked off into the forest. Crowley leapt to his feet.
" I don't... I don't understand..." swallowed an Aziraphale stunned by such a discovery.
"What's that?" spat a bitter Crowley, "infidelity? Some people just don't have any bloody moral principles!"

Aware of being a little too touched by this thorny subject, the inspector looked away. Aziraphale sat up slowly. Crowley felt the wound of pride reignite, biting at his heart just as he had thought he was finally rid of it! The past few months and his exile far from London had still not healed this raw wound! He gave a small pebble within his reach a furious kick. Aziraphale, sensing the pain beneath his angry glare, suggested that he return to the police station to avoid catching pneumonia. Besides, he added in a poor attempt at humour, they couldn't arrest Gabriel for adultery. Crowley grumbled that it was a pity, before following his team-mate. They found their way back to the Mini without difficulty. The snails had run off, leaving only a long trail of slime from the silver tie to the tartan bow tie.