CHAPTER 7 : Swipe Me If You Can
The return to the police station took place in a deadly rain of silence. Crowley drove at a snail's pace, his eyes glued to the road. He stopped at a red light, drawing a relieved mechanical sigh from the Mini Cooper. The little scene he had witnessed in the Forest of Tarot had rekindled the wound inflicted on his pride. He put the car in gear and set off at a turtle's pace. His 'bloody pride', as Samael had thrown at him, along with an astronomy book, during their last argument. It wasn't so much his partner's infidelity that had sounded the apocalyptic trumpets of their relationship – had he even loved him? – but the consequences for his career and reputation. He hadn't been wrong... And the Fall, although predictable, had been damn painful!
" Inspector", murmured an Aziraphale wringing his hands nervously. " I'm... I'm sorry."
" For what? " enquired his team-mate in a detached tone as he resumed his infernal driving.
" You know, I..."
Crowley gave him a puzzled look: what did the Cherub think? That he'd been deceived by a so-called true love? That he had sunk into the depths of despair and tried to heal his betrayed heart by gorging himself on ice cream and watching Richard Curtis' movies? The policeman grimaced : he may have emptied a bottle of wine and watched Love Actually for the umpteenth time after a tearful Samael had left, but he hadn't collapsed. He hadn't yet. Even though he knew he'd have to deal with a lot more than just infidelity.
" You can save your breath, Goldilocks."
" But I thought... I thought..."
" The little misdemeanour of the person who shared my bed more than my life may have cost me a few feathers, but if it's any consolation, the organic pump that serves as my heart hasn't been broken."
" I don't believe you! When you're supposed to love someone, when you're with someone, you shouldn't... it's not 'right' to do something like that! "
Crowley was about to reply that life wasn't fiction and that 'they lived happily ever after' only existed in fairy tales – and even then, no one knows what happened to Cinderella or Snow White after they married their respective princes –, when his eyes fell on his partner's left hand. The latter, succumbing to his curious habit, kept twisting his wedding ring around his finger. The skin on the ring finger was raw, as if the simple contact with the golden metal was slowly consuming it.
The inspector slammed on the brakes in front of a pedestrian crossing to let a woman holding a duck on a lead pass. The proud duck was wearing a yellow mackintosh and matching boots to protect it from the damp. Crowley stared at this strange duo, open-mouthed. He'd seen many strange things in London, especially on the tube late at night, but the town of Tadfield, with its apple thieves, gentle giants, monstrous rookeries and curly-headed cherubs, had its share of surprises in store for him! As if to confirm this opinion, the duck snapped its beak in thanks before striding away.
" What else is waiting for me in this bloody city? " muttered Crowley aloud.
His remark earned him an amused smile from Aziraphale, who forgot his cursed wedding ring. A scooter driven by a vague, brightly coloured figure passed them with a concert of loud banging noises. The two team-mates exchanged glances and laughed... The sergeant's laughter was cut short and he turned his head towards the window. Crowley pressed the accelerator pedal and, much to the Mini's chagrin, resumed his hellish journey.
" Cherub", Crowley asked suspiciously. "How long have you been in your relationship?"
" I... for over twenty years," Aziraphale replied hastily. " Since my third year at the police academy."
" Twenty years? Almost an eternity! And you're just getting married?! "
" I don't ... could we avoid the subject? I've already told you: I never talk about my private life!"
" All right, Goldilocks! No need to get on one's high bear! Ever been tempted to taste the forbidden fruit, like our supreme clot, after all these years? "
Crowley was expecting an outraged look, followed by a volley of offended protests with a hint of indignant shouts from his sergeant, but all he got was a mortified look that he didn't know how – or didn't want – to interpret. So, even dowager countesses with their stiff and starchy attitudes could behave like the last of the harlots! He saw him bring his hand, the one undamaged by the friction of the wedding ring, to his mouth to brush his upper lip. Crowley swallowed at the sight of this intimate gesture, which sounded like a confession. His air of Mary Magdalene weeping over her sins had changed into a smile not devoid of tenderness, as if he were remembering – by Satan's brain! – that sweet adultery. Crowley was tempted to provoke him by asking if, like Samael, his little 'misdemeanour' had taken place during a police surveillance and how many people had been involved in this little extramarital extravaganza...
" Careful! " shouted Aziraphale as he grabbed hold of the glove compartment.
The Mini lurched forward, narrowly avoiding the boot of a white German saloon. The sergeant sat back as the driver, a man with a pronounced bald spot, glanced at them through the rear-view mirror. Crowley nodded at him, to which the driver replied with an undead grin. The car started up again, leaving the way clear for the Mini Cooper, which had to wait a few moments before get back on track : Goliath received the day's deliveries. He waved to the two policemen and took the box containing the essential ingredients for the Welsh cakes – flour, rat poison and raisins – back to his shop.
" Fell", Crowley grumbled as he parked the Mini outside the police station. "It's none of my business... As long as you don't indulge in... what's our lovely expression ? "
" Non-reproductive reproductive acts."
" Yeah, your periphrasis in the workplace, the rest, I don't care! Unless it's with Furfur, in which case you'd drop in my esteem, Sarge Azipasifidèle!"
" Please don't sully this memory", snarled the sergeant through clenched teeth. "I won't let you!"
Crowley nearly disembodied on the spot. Aziraphale straightened his chin and got out of the car with the confidence of a queen who has just sentenced a prisoner to death. He gave him an inquisitive look: was he just lying to take him down a peg or had he just brazenly confessed an infidelity ?! He, the sergeant with his lady's language and his litte communion little girl's curls! Satisfied with his little coup, Aziraphale readjusted his soaked bow tie before turning back to Crowley, who had just joined him at the front door of the police station.
" Inspector, would you like to have dinner at home tonight? "
" Dinner ?"
"You know : sit down around a table, handle some nice cutlery, pick up a plate, share a good meal..."
" Thanks, I know the drill! Why this invitation, Sergeant? Would you like your partner and I to exchange views about our difficulties as cuckold wearing horns on our heads? Unless you have a quota of good deeds to do to erase your sin?"
" No, I'm just trying to be polite, whoopsie-daisy!"
" Whoopsie-daisy !? Bloody Hell ! How old are you?! Six?"
His attempt at humour failed and all he got this time, was a door that nearly took his nose off. Crowley let out an expletive, annoyed that he didn't know how to dance with his new partner, and this disconcerted him, because he knew how to lead the dance with others! But with the Cherub, the steps were unfamiliar. He entered the police station and was about to catch up with his team-mate in order to offer him what looked like an apology, when a tornado in the person of a young officer descended on him.
" Inspector Crowley! We've got a surprise for you! "
Without waiting for his reply, Muriel grabbed him by the arm and dragged him along. Aziraphale could have returned to the tranquillity of his office, but curiosity got the better of him. He took the direction Muriel had taken, mortifying himself for the semi-admission he had just made to this semi-unknown man who happened to be his superior. HE was right about one thing: Crowley had to leave Tadfield as soon as possible. This demon, whom he had stupidly lured into his little heaven, was exposing his heart, tearing away shred by shred the false mask he had managed to carve out for himself over the years. Passing by the reception, Aziraphale was stopped by a Shax who was reading her horoscope (from her charming temperament, our readers will have guessed that the diabolical secretary was a native of the sign of Scorpio).
"You have a message", she declared as she read the paragraph announcing some financial difficulties following some very unwise investments.
" What is the message?"
Shax looked up from her ascendant, warning her against gossip.
"You must call the Mayor back. Right away."
She picked up the antique telephone and handed it to him. Aziraphale took a deep breath and dialled the number with a trembling hand. A few notes of The Sound of Music were played before a voice came on, the tones of which he had learned to decipher in order to reveal its owner's mood. That day, he was petrified by it.
Muriel had led Crowley to the garage. They loosened their grip and whirled around, clapping their hands like a child discovering their first Christmas tree. They struck a theatrical pose before pointing with a hopping index finger, to what had once been Gomorrah's storeroom. The room, as Crowley had ordered, had been emptied of all unwanted items. The inspector stepped forward to find that only the essentials had been kept on the now empty shelves. Muriel enthusiastically told him that they and Eric had found brand new weapons and locked cartridge boxes. Crowley then spotted Furfur slumped against one of the shelves, enjoying a carton of milk. Eric turned back to Crowley, revealing the thick piece of gauze covering his right eye. "Just a little scratch", he hastened to reassure his superior. Furfur took a sip of milk and congratulated himself on having had the excellent idea of putting the two rookies in charge of this mission, thus saving himself a bout of fatigue!
Crowley gave Muriel a friendly pat on the back, but merely nodded at Eric, fearing to dislocate his shoulder.
" Well done, Junior n°1 and Junior n°2! You did an excllent job! "
Muriel and Eric let out ecstatic little cries as they gaze lovingly their superior . The two young officers were not in the habit of being congratulated on their work. Aziraphale always had a kind word for them, but this wasn't the same! They had known him since childhood; Inspector Crowley, on the other hand, came from the Metropolitan and had arrested so many criminals! Muriel and Eric had spent much of the previous evening reading articles extolling the exploits of their new inspector. Eric now wanted to know more about the crimes of Professor Satan, while Muriel was keen to ask him about the Angel Killer of the Thames.
" What about me? " begged a Furfur sucking his straw. "Don't I deserve a little compliment?"
Crowley barked at him that he should be thankful that he didn't make him clean the garage with a toothbrush to occupy his laziness! The officer let out an insolent yawn before taking an undeserved nap. The inspector explored the uncluttered room, which offered some very interesting design possibilities. On the floor, he spotted a white feather from one of the former inspector's masks. He bent down and picked it up to examine it, before making it dance between his fingers.
" What do you intend to do with this reserve, Inspector? " asked Eric, trotting alongside him." A private games room like Inspector Gomorrah? "
At that moment, Aziraphale appeared. Crowley gave him a quick glance before turning back to the two young constables.
" A shooting room wouldn't be bad..." he replied with a grunt. "We could also store some useful things."
Muriel and Eric were delighted with this proposal. Crowley turned back to his sergeant, but the latter's eyes were glazed over and he didn't seem too impressed by his brilliant idea. Aziraphale coughed to clear his throat:
" Muriel, my dear..."
" Yes, Inspector?"
" Where did you send Inspector Gomorrah's 'personal' items?"
Furfur opened his eyes and took an interest in the discussion.
" To the retirement home, as requested by Furfur ! He told us it was an order from the inspector. As we didn't have the Mini, Mr. Goliath lent us his van..."
The young officer blushed and confessed, swaying from one foot to the other.
" I might have accidentally hit the gate at the retirement home... And as for old Mrs Paddington's leg, I'm really sorry! "
" Muriel, what have you done..." gasped Aziraphale.
"" I know the insurance company didn't want to pay for my stupidity any more, but..."
" I should never have let Inspector Crowley suggest such an idea ", murmured Aziraphale, turning to him.
" I'm sure the old folks loved our offering, Cherub ! "
" I've had a call from the mayor. The director of the old people's home called him. He's furious."
Muriel let out the cry of a trapped mouse and, with a trembling voice, clutching at poor Eric's arm, asked if they should apologise to the Mayor.
" No ", Crowley reassured them, loading a gun. " I'll make arrangements with our local authority."
" What are you going to do? " asked Aziraphale, a little worried by this change of attitude.
" Nothing that concerns you, Sergeant ", replied Crowley, pointing the semi-automatic at the feather he had just tossed into the air.
He pulled the trigger. The white feather fell to the ground, pierced by a still smouldering bullet. Crowley twirled the Glock-17 around his fingers, to the applause of the two young agents.
" He knows how to aim right... " muttered Furfur.
Aziraphale could only agree with the officer at this display of arrogance. His look of surprise turned to terror when he heard Muriel beg the policeman to teach them how to handle firearms. He shook his head in a wave of fearful curls. Crowley arched an eyebrow.
" You've had to practise before, haven't you? "
" Well ", admitted the young constable, scratching the back of their neck. "I wasn't very good..."
Aziraphale made great disjointed gestures to try to get the inspector to understand that Muriel must not be allowed to go near any pistol, even a dummy one!
" If I were you, I'd avoid it " intervened Furfur. " I, on the other hand, am always ready to bang."
Crowley approached him. Thinking his time had come, Furfur adopted a decadent posture and parted his lips. The object of his desire reached out and snatched his milk carton. Furfur uttered a series of protests as the milk carton was placed on a shelf at the back of the room and used as a target. Crowley, far from caring about his whining, launched into a series of explanations aimed at the two agents who lapped up everything he said. He showed a patience that Aziraphale would never have suspected.
Aziraphale, in turn, was carried away by the clearly distilled instructions and forgot all about that cursed phone call, letting himself be carried away by a memory that took him to the Cardiff Police Academy, where he and his fellow graduates had welcomed the Scottish delegation. The young Aziraphale had found himself close to the infernal trio who run the show at the Academy. Furfur, who belonged to this detestable gang, was constantly making unpleasant remarks. A few hours earlier, the 'bad boys', as Aziraphale called them, had taken him aside to remind him of the strategy they had devised to finally defeat the Scots at these games celebrating the friendship between the two schools. Aziraphale didn't reply and his silence sounded like an agreement, when in reality he didn't care about their scheming. Aziraphale had begun to observe their future adversaries, when his gaze was caught by a cadet whose appearance contrasted with that of his comrades. His unnaturally black hair sparkled like a raven's wings and accentuated his strange appearance, standing out from all the other cadets sporting the same short haircuts. Aziraphale too, at that time, had sacrificed his blond curls for a shaved head. He tried to look away from the Scotsman but too late, the latter had noticed. He smiled at him, to which Aziraphale replied awkwardly. Furfur, who had witnessed the scene, leaned towards him and whispered:
" You don't seem his type at all."
Aziraphale gasped as he heard Furfur said exactly the same words as he had that day. He raised his right eyebrow, which Furfur, who had never been a good verbal or physical communicator, misinterpreted as a sign of acceptance.
" By the way, where the hell have you been all evening? " asked Furfur, stretching. " We'd worn those bloody Scots out so badly that we'd taken them out the next day!"
" It was a total lack of fair play ", retorted Aziraphale, who had refused to take part in this dubious plan and then in the games – because his heart was in pieces – and who had subsequently had to face the grudges of his instructors and comrades.
" No holds barred in those days! Nevertheless, we never found out who had knocked out the little Edinburgh champion!"
Crowley, who had not lost a single word of this exchange, began to get bogged down in his explanations and it took a few seconds before he got back on track. Pretending that the lesson was over, he showed Muriel how to load their gun and placed them in front of the improvised target, advising to stand on their two feet.
"Maybe, it was me ! " Furfur said loudly, as he had sensed their inspector's confusion.
Aziraphale did not reply, remembering that he had tasted ineffable delights that night only to be brutally deprived of them at dawn.
" So? " persisted his old classmate." What were you doing that night? You were devored a cock...sorry, a book ? Isn't that right, loser? "
A bewildered Crowley began to mumble contradictory orders. Muriel, thinking he was giving them the green light to shoot, pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed past poor Eric's ear, ricocheted off a shelf, capered around the garage four times, came back into the room and ended up in the back wall without hitting the milk carton. The young officer apologised, but Crowley did not hear them, as his attention was riveted by the two Welsh policemen reminiscing about their wild youth.
" Loser Raphale, that was your nickname back then ", said a nostalgic Furfur. "And it suited you like a halo on a bloody cherub!"
The perfidious blow sent Aziraphale back to a time when, wracked with anxiety, he felt out of place at the police academy. The insult hit him deeper than a bullet through the heart, and rekindled old wounds. He lowered his head and slipped out of the room to avoid the flood of emotions pouring into his chest.
Crowley ordered Muriel, in a drier tone than he would have liked, to give him back the gun. Promising them and Eric that he would buy plastic guns to train them with, he put the Glock-17 in a box on a shelf that the young constable couldn't reach. He turned to Furfur and huffily advised him to leave the room and find something to do so that he wouldn't have to deal with him. Muriel and Eric followed the grumbling agent.
Crowley found himself alone in the future shooting room. He did some tidying up to occupy his mind, but a simple nickname had brought back memories of a lying, bleary-eyed Welshman... and of some confidences exchanged after an initial embrace in a bed so narrow that he had almost fallen out of it several times! The inspector smiled at this reminiscence. The body he had awkwardly explored, was so small, so frail, that he had redoubled his tenderness for fear of breaking it. He brought his fingers to his lower lip. He had wrap his arms around him and draw him against his torso. He had probably chirped the silly words of an over-enthusiastic lover as he ran his fingers over the naked head covered with a fine blond down. Crowley leaned his forehead against the shelf. When they had broken up, Samael had accused him of not knowing how to love. The ridiculous truth was quite different : he had abandoned his heart to that one-night love he had never been able to forget.
Crowley was about to return to his office – well, pass through his office to his sergeant's office –, when Shax reminded him that he had to call the power company about the curfew. Crowley picked up the receiver handed to him by the receptionist and dialled the number. Contacting the energy supplier tested Crowley's patience to the limit. Greeted by the music of Cho...Shos...Sosh… Anyway a Russian composer ! – Shostakovich, my dear, later teach him Aziraphale – he then had to engage in a harsh duel with an unpleasant operator whose soul he dedicated to the Seventh Circle of Hell which, as everyone knows, is reserved for secretaries, receptionists, accountants and tax officers (human resources managers and other civil servants share another Circle). She transferred her call to counter no. 1 – which was located not far from the claims office, in the left-hand corridor, last door on the right. The secretary informed him that there was nothing she could do for him until he had completed form A38, which was managed by another department. She wished him a good day and told him that their conservation had been recorded and sent to the appropriate authorities because threatening a secretary with being thrown into the Phleghéton was not 'acceptable language'. He replied, before she hung up the phone, that he intended to drown her in the Styx! His call was passed on to the first operator who, recognising his grunts, quickly put him on hold. It was the secretary in the office on the sixth floor, not far from the coffee machine, who had the pleasure of greeting him and asking him to state his identity and the reason for his call. He took note of the information given before concluding that he would not be able to send him the desired document as Crowley had not yet responded to a 'small' satisfaction survey. The secretary hung up the phone, letting the notes of Waltz No. 2 scroll past once again, while a robotic voice suggested that the customer, sweating profusely, should take out insurance to cover the hazards and plans of life: separation, loss of a job, a new job, a new date, marriage and the purchase of a cottage on the South Downs. This time, Crowley's impatience exploded and he began to insult, in front of the eyes of a Shax who was more than captivated by this spectacle, the automatic voice spouting the same nonsense over and over again! He was about to hang up, muttering about how no one had any ambition to lock themselves in a bloody house in the south of the UK, when a living being took over the call. After more threats and charming promises of eternal damnation, the inspector managed to get a form sent to his e-mail, to be completed in duplicate and returned to the electricity company within forty-eight hours.
" You see, sir, there was absolutely no need to get worked up!" shouted the young operator before cutting their conversation short to the tune of Symphony No.5 in D minor, Op.47.
Once the call was over, Crowley left the reception and went into the great room. He spotted Furfur with his feet up on his computer keyboard, glued to his phone. Lilith was snoozing under the desk. Eric and Muriel, under the guise of writing a report, were sharing a computer to start writing a Wikipedia page in praise of their new hero. Passing by Furfur, the inspector couldn't resist the temptation and glanced at his phone: his agent was scrolling through the profiles on a well-known dating site whose name we won't mention, as this fanfiction is not sponsored.
Crowley had a delightful, and therefore mischievous, idea. When he arrived at his office, he grabbed his phone and activated the fake profile he used to spy on all the social networks. Babygirl, that was his pseudonym, had as an avatar, the photo of an English writer with hairs that superbly defied the most elementary laws of gravity. He connected to the site consulted by Furfur and easily found his agent's profile, who introduced himself as Fool Furry, a man who loved leather, German shepherds, moustaches, carpets and gladiator films. Crowley sent him a message telling him that, not so long ago, he had been the owner of wriggling moustache. His giggle choked in his throat as Babygirl received an instant reply, which earned his a look from Aziraphale. Crowley pretended to have a coughing fit and decided, at the sight of his team-mate's defeated cherub look, not to stop there. He smirked and, like a knight in obsidian armour, vowed to avenge Goldilocks' honour. He wrote a new message and waited. After a few seconds, he received a reply that left no doubt as to Fool Furry's intentions. What followed was an exchange of messages that were anything but professional or cordial; Crowley had to admit that the agent, despite his deplorable spelling and mediocre syntax, had imagination to spare in this area! He carried out a few quick searches to put an end to this little game of deception and sent a final message to Fool Furry asking him to meet him in two hours' time at a club in Heavell, the aptly-named Dead Boy Detectives Club. The response was swift : Fool Furry asked him to put on his best leather trousers while he, complying with a request from his interlocutor, wore buttons over his eyes as a sign of recognition. Crowley logged off with the satisfaction of vengeance accomplished.
Furfur was the first to leave the police station, claiming that he had to help his poor 'grandmother' who was ill and needed special attention. Muriel was astonished, reminding him that one of her grandmothers counted flies in her room at Tadfield Nursing Home, and the other kept company with the worms in the town cemetery. The officer retorted that no one was obliged to have only two grandmothers! Crowley, playing the role of a magnanimous leader, gave him the night off and wished him well. Furfur clicked his tongue with a sucking sound and suggested that one evening they should go to a small club in Heavell and gorge themselves on leeks, the culinary speciality of Wales. Crowley thanked him for the invitation, but declined obsequiously. A few hours later, despite their protests, Crowley gave Muriel and Eric the day off, and they promised to come at first light the next day. As for Shax, she had long since slipped away without asking for the slightest permission.
The two policemen were now alone. Aziraphale, seized by a cramp in his right hand, suspended writing his report and lost himself in the contemplation of his team-mate who had fallen asleep without warning. He could not deny that the policeman, despite his indelicate nature, was an utterly charming man. Charming... the sergeant wrinkled his nose, which could be described as charming. It wasn't the right word, too innocent. His eyes darted to the half-open lips from which a slight trickle of drool escaped before running, a touch curious, to the hollow of the plunging neckline, revelling a carnal space that he guessed would be appetising. He pinkened and, while scourging himself for his indecent thoughts, went back to his work, which, if not exciting, allowed him to turn away from a forbidden fruit. Crowley opened one eye and, like a reptile stalking its prey, began to observe his team-mate. He admired the contours of the chubby face, lingering on the rounded cheeks, before winding his way up to a neck that he guessed to be delicious, encased in a starched collar and held in place by that damned bow tie. The past,Devil emerging from his box, hit him full force, tore him away from the present and drew him back to infernal memories: those of slender legs encircling his hips, of a mouth exploring the nape of his neck and his shoulders. What confidences had they exchanged that night? He could hardly remember, too intoxicated by the voice of the curious nestling that had fallen on him during his solitary snail race, before carrying him off to his nest. The nestling had confess, mouth pressed to his chest, that he didn't feel he belonged at this school where he was considered an 'eternal loser'. Young Crowley had grabbed him by the chin and said, to chase away the tears gathering in his pale eyes, that he had always had a soft spot for so-called losers. A little laughter had shaken the body of this lover who had fallen from a cloud, and their lips had united in a new kiss, much less clumsy than the first exchanged in a Cardiff street, under a canopy giving way under the weight of the rain.
" Good evening, Inspector", whispered his sergeant.
Crowley leapt to his feet and almost lost his balance. Aziraphale had switched off his computer and put on his coat. He was about to walk through the non-existent door of his office when Crowley caught up with him.
" Cherub, I was wondering... is your invitation to dinner still open?"
Aziraphale's fingers tightened around his tartan-patterned thermos.
" Yes, it would be very discourteous of me not to keep my word."
Suddenly, a few notes of music – Bebop, Aziraphale would later comment dismissively – rang out. Crowley brought his phone up to his ear and put it on loudspeaker so as to better hear the crackle-saturated voice of the person he was talking to.
" Anthony..." whined a jerky voice. "Anthony, don't hang up!"
An unidentifiable howl echoed in the distance.
" Don't hang up!" pleaded the moaning voice." You're the first person I've managed to contact in hours!"
" By Satan's nipples, where are you Samael? " inquired Crowley in a somewhat guilty tone.
Aziraphale took the opportunity to slip away discreetly, which drew a wave of grunts from Crowley.
" It looks like Dartmoor but more deserted..." said a sobbing Samael. "Anthony, are there wolves in England?"
" Not that I know of... Why?"
" There are... There are yellow eyes watching me ! "
A crackling sound was heard, followed by a bestial scream. The line went dead. Inspector Crowley sent a quick message to Dowling to inform the Met of the loss of one of their agents, somewhere in an area devoid of any form of civilisation. With his sergeant having decided to flee, Crowley decided to leave the station, with nothing to look forward to but a meal prepared by Maggie and eaten alone while watching an episode of The Golden Girls.
As he passed through the reception area, he noticed the light coming from the garage. Driven by curiosity, and wanting to make sure that Eric hadn't locked himself in by mistake, Crowley opened the door to find Goldilocks in Inspector Gomorrah's old room, holding the Glock-17 that had been used to train Muriel. The sergeant had dropped his coat and thermos and was examining the weapon with interest, from every angle.
" You can have it ", Crowley suggested, leaning his hip against the door and crossing his arms over his chest.
Aziraphale turned to him, looking like a child who'd been caught stealing candy.
" Sorry, Inspector! I should never have touched that weapon!"
" Why's that?" Crowley frowned. "You're a cop after all!"
" In Tadfield, a gun is useless", replied his sergeant, handing him the tempting pistol.
Crowley pushed it back towards him.
You must have used it when you were in the Cardiff brigade!
The lieutenant nodded.
" It's been ages since I fired one... I'm not sure I know how."
" Bollocks! It's like riding a bike, you never forget!"
" Bicycle", corrected his partner with a smile.
Aziraphale stood where Muriel had be placed a few hours earlier. Crowley slid beside him to better observe his movements. The sergeant pointed his gun at the milk carton. He pulled the trigger, closing his eyes. The shot went off with a hiss and pierced the wall. Aziraphale reopened his eyes, apologised for his pathetic display and was about to hand back the semi-automatic when Crowley's hand folded against his fingers.
"Just because the first shot misses doesn't mean you have to give up the pleasure, Sergeant Fell. Your fingers..."
" What about them?"
" They're in the wrong position. May I? "
Aziraphale consented with a little movement of his chin. Crowley took hold of his right hand and placed it on the grip. He slid his fingers in a slow downward motion. He gave Aziraphale a few tips and advised him to make sure the gun was properly tensioned to obtain more satisfactory results. He stood behind him and corrected the position of his shoulders while whispering new instructions in his ear. Aziraphale let himself be guided, enjoying the practice. The inspector's left arm was wrapped around his waist, while his legs were inserted between his to bring them into a more suitable position.
" When you shoot, open your eyes wide to better enjoy the moment", Crowley murmured, intertwining his fingers with Aziraphale's.
Their joined hands raised the gun. Aziraphale leaned against his mentor's chest. Crowley bowed his head, his lips brushing the offered nape of his neck. The sergeant felt a shiver titillate his shoulder blades as his team-mate's breath teased his skin. Crowley began the countdown in a panting whisper and in one motion, their fingers squeezed the trigger. Aziraphale let out a barely muffled groan. The second shot went off, ripping open the brick which exploded in a stream of small milky drops.