Chapter 3: The Boy Who Played With Cornetto

Lying on the marble counter of a café/hotel/pub in the depths of Wales, Crowley had to face reality: fate had a personal grudge against him. The last twenty-four hours had been the worst of his life... along with all the other hours he was about to spend here, in this godforsaken hole. He looked up at the calendar hanging on the wall and realised that his day had definitely been placed under very bad auspices when he discovered today's date. Two years ago, at this time, he had spent a perfectly delightful night and had used the excuse of indigestion – he, the workaholic! – to devote a little of his precious time to Samael's charming feet. At that time, he was the little star of the Met' and received calls from the Home Secretary himself; he had not yet taken an interest in this story of the Antichrist, the convent and the vegetable garden that would cost him his glorious halo.

" Inspector Crowley, you're up early!"

He straightened up and let out an exaggerated sigh, which earned him all the sympathy of dear Maggie, who had been taking good care of him since his arrival. She had demanded to know his dietary preferences so that she could prepare meals to his taste. When he returned to his room the day before, he had even discovered a small packet of homemade soft toffees on his bed and a black scarf – Maggie had told him, when he came down to thank her, that the one he was wearing was not suitable for the maritime climate.

" Maggie, my flame, my lighthouse, my star!" he exclaimed as she took her place beside him. You're my only hope in this desolate world!

" Hey!" protested Nina, who had taken place behind the counter, "don't overdo it! I'd remind you that she's in a relationship !"

" Who knows…" replied Crowley, determined to nag his landlady, "maybe a change of scenery would do her good."

The record shop owner said she was delighted by the offer, but gladly declined, smiling at her companion:

" I have everything I need at home."

" Anyway", muttered Crowley, "it's not like me to steal other people's property."

" Apart from a few pensioners and Furfur, there aren't many free hearts around here," said a distressed Maggie.

" And Shax?"

" I wouldn't risk it if I were you", said Maggie. "Her husband's head has never been found!"

" Or his arms," Nina said thoughtfully.

Seeing the flabbergasted look on the policeman's face, Maggie was quick to reassure him:

" It didn't happen in Tadfield. Shax was living in Heavell at this time."

" Nevertheless, it was in the Angel's Creek that his toes and tongue were found."

Crowley was about to ask for more explanations about poor Mr. Shax, who had obviously lost a few limbs, when a little girl appeared in the café, dragging a discarded school bag behind her. She was wearing mismatched trainers and a brightly coloured coat, hardly suitable for shoplifting and pilfering in orchards.

" My daughter", said Nina, "Pippin Galadriel Moonchild."

Let us pause for a moment to allow our readers to satisfy their curiosity about this new character. Pippin Galadriel Moonchild, who was lucky enough to be born into a loving family that gave her enough freedom to enjoy the ineffable joys of childhood, was the product of the love affair between Nina and an explorer - collector of legends who had landed in Tadfield to gather Welsh legends. Once his book was born and Pippin had been conceived, our adventurer set off in search of new stories. By now, Pippin had a sister living in Sydney (Samwise Arwen Rainchild), a brother in Osaka (Merry Legolas Stormchild), another in Athens (Frodo Boromir Windchild) and a newborn sister in Krikjubaejarklaustur (Rosie Eowyn Sunchild). With our storyteller planning a future trip to the United States, Pippin Galadriel was eagerly awaiting the arrival of a new member to add to this family, which was more composed than decomposed.

" It's Pepper", said the young girl, turning her curious gaze towards Crowley.

" Will you hurry up, you're going to be late again!"

" Is he the "big cunt"?"

" Pepper!" a blushing Maggie exclaimed, while Nina stifled a giggle. "That's no way to address the Chief inspector!"

" Uncle Zira said so!"

" He didn't quite use that word", protested an increasingly confused Maggie.

" A fop-doodle is the same thing!"

It didn't take a mind reader to work out that 'Uncle Zira' was none other than his new team-mate, who thought he was a promotion thief and whose bike he had somewhat damaged. Maggie apologised profusely, saying that Pepper had misinterpreted a conversation. Nina, for her part, observed the scene with amusement and after Maggie had obtained an "apology, sir" from her charming offspring, the incident was closed and Pepper was allowed to join her best friend – a kid to whom one would have given the Devil and God without confession – waiting for her outside the café door.

Nina turned to Crowley.

" What can I get you?"

" Nothing at all", replied Crowley, thinking of the disastrous state of his finances.

" I won't count it on your bill, you can thank Pepper for that. Would you like an almond coffee?"

" I'd rather have six shots of espresso in a large mug."

To his surprise, Nina agreed to his request and placed the desired drink on the counter. He grabbed the mug and swallowed the contents in one gulp, remembering the last time he'd enjoyed a coffee in relative peace and quiet, and not at his desk. The last time? It must have been one of those lazy, naughty Sundays spent under the sheets – high quality black silk – his legs entwined with a pair of gams a little more muscular than his own, his head resting against a chest covered in fine blond fuzz, comfortably installed to watch an episode of The Golden Girls before resuming an activity that would not have displeased Blanche Deveraux.

He finished his coffee, which now tasted a little bitter, and left, mumbling a few words of thanks. As he went through the door, he bumped into a young man wearing a green K-way and carrying a bag overflowing with newspapers. He apologised, but the young man took his apology as an admonition, and crossed the street.

" Ennon!" greeted Maggie with a big smile." You're up bright and early today!"

" Yeah…" grumbled the young man, pulling back his hood to shake out his too-long hair dripping with rain. "Dad needs me at the farm... Who's this old grump ?"

" Inspector Crowley seems a bit gruff, but he's got a good heart."

" Darling, you've fallen for him!" exclaimed Nina, giving her companion a mischievous look.

The young delivery boy placed a few newspapers on a table and grabbed an orange from the fruit basket on the counter. He glanced furtively at the slim figure coming through the door of the convenience store.

" This job should have gone to Mister Aziraphale", he grumbled, starting to peel his favourite fruit.

" Anyway", replied Nina with a curious smile, "I know someone who has something to worry about..."

Seeing the puzzled looks of the two people standing in front of her, she hastened to add:

" At one time, the fop-doodle would have been just the type of a certain sergeant..."

Maggie burst out laughing before refuting what her companion had said. She, too, had had a 'type' in her youth, more of a Boy Band type, but how she had changed! Nina, curious to know more, bombarded her with questions and the two of them began to tease each other, asking about their childhood crushes. The young paperboy, not enjoying the conversation, squeezed his fingers around the fruit so hard that the skin broke and a little juice spurted out.

Unaware that he had become the target of a newspaper deliveryman's jealousy, Crowley wandered through the aisles of the neat little mini-mart, watched by the giant at the till. The policeman finally found something to carry out his plan. He took a small can of petrol and, armed with his purchase, approached the cash register. He added a box of matches and set everything down in front of the mute salesman.

" Hello, er... Goliath," he said, glancing at the badge pinned to his imposing chest.

Getting only a vague grunt, he hurried on:

" What a lovely shop! You'll never get bored there!"

The giant simply scanned the petrol can. Crowley then noticed the frozen food bin beside him. He lifted the lid and took out two Cornettos, which he placed in front of the crate.

" A bit of sugar never hurts, does it, mate?"

Only a threatening look answered him. Just as he was about to pay up and leave, a young blond man appeared beside the giant and gave him his most affable smile.

" You must be our new police Inspector ! We rarely have robberies here!"

" Wonder why"… replied Crowley as he swiped his bank card through the reader, which displayed a "payment refused" message.

The giant cracked his knuckles. Crowley looked his friendliest.

" She's having a bit of trouble getting used to the sea air", he said as he rubbed the recalcitrant card against his sleeve, before trying again with the same result.

This time, the giant cracked the bones in his neck. As he apologised, Crowley reached for his phone and checked his current account: six months of suspension and his recent expenses had plunged his finances into the final circle of overdraft.

" Look, he began, my card can't quite acclimatise to Wales... crossing the border, you understand... So if you could do me a small, tiny favour..."

The giant was about to make a move towards him, but his associate held him back by the forearm. He leaned towards Crowley. His mercantile grin turned into a criminal grin.

" At The Little Giant , we are not in the habit of negotiating and we always demand payment of the debts..."

The giant seemed to be about to open his mouth, but his colleague stopped him in his tracks with a murderous stare.

" Pay up or we'll find you."

The arrival of the carpet salesman, with his dog on his heels, offered Crowley a way out. Blessing the Welsh gods for putting the moustachioed man in his path, and dodging the dog already attacking the bottom of his trousers, Crowley grabbed his purchases and ran out of the shop. Brown gave him a big wave and wished him a good day. He then turned to the young shop assistant, named David, to ask if he had replenished the stock of raisins, an essential ingredient in making Welsh cakes.

At the police station, Crowley noticed that Shax was not yet at her post but was surprised to see the sergeant already busy reading the reports submitted the previous day by Muriel and Furfur. The curly-haired policeman was correcting the spelling mistakes and other syntactical horrors of his subordinate, whose language had never been his strong point.

Crowley slipped into his office, hid the petrol can there and crossed to his colleague's office, the two Cornettos hidden behind his back.

" Hello Sarge," he exclaimed in a cheerful, overplayed tone that did not faze the man sitting not far from him.

" Good morning Inspector Crowley", replied the latter, adding a missing 's' to a noun phrase before tackling a dubious conjugation.

" The weather's fine today", said the inspector, "but let's be careful! Don't forget the proverb: N'er cast a clout till May is out. Did you have a good evening? Are you married? Any kids?"

His team-mate, tired of this insincere chatting removed his glasses and slowly raised his head. Crowley then noticed the purplish rings around his pale eyes – very pretty eyes, thought the inspector, who couldn't quite work out the colour – and the curls, which were less tidy than the night before. The sergeant had undoubtedly spent a much more intense night than he had and had probably didn't go to bed early, after getting drunk on camomile tea.

" Inspector, what do you want?" sighed the Welshman as he established the missing punctuation in Furfur's report. "Come to the point."

" Would you like an ice cream?" suggested Crowley, handing him the two Cornettos. "Vanilla? Strawberry? Both, if you like! Although I think you're more a vanilla person."

A glint of lust crossed the sergeant's eyes, but he declined the offer.

" I'm sorry, but I don't have much of an appetite for this type of sweet."

" Nonsense!" shouted Crowley, waving the two ice creams under his nose. "A bit of fun never hurts. Succumb to the temptation, Sarge !"

The sergeant seemed to hesitate. He glanced at the picture frame next to his computer, which his shoulder was hiding from Crowley's view, and reached for the strawberry Cornetto before giving up.

" That wouldn't be reasonable..."

" Well! " said his team-mate, bringing the two ice-creams behind his back. "Have you got ten quid to spare? I'll pay you back."

" I beg your pardon ?!"

" I did a bit of shopping at the Giant and nearly had a few teeth knocked out as payment."

The sergeant gave him a bemused look but made no comment. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out two banknotes from a tartan wallet, which he handed to his lieutenant.

" Thank you!" exclaimed Crowley this time with sincerity. "I owe you one! You're an angel, Sarge Assis le falafel !"

" My name is..."

" I know your bloody name !" replied his superior, striding back to his office. "See you later, sergeant l'Aziza Raphael !"

This new spelling distortion was enough to disconcert the poor sergeant. He was used to his first name being the subject of a few linguistic incorrectnesses, especially when he had left the soft cocoon of Tadfield school to go to Heavell middle school – Nina had even used her fist a few times to correct the mockery of certain friends on this subject –, but it had been a long time since he had been graced with the angelic name! He tilted his head and watched his new partner as he frantically sorted through the cupboard. To tell the truth, the last time someone had misunderstood his first name had been his own doing, when he had pretended to call himself that, at a time when he was trying to get rid of his past and a name that had become too cumbersome. Aziraphale raised his right hand, the one adorned with the signet ring he had worn for years, and brought it up to his mouth. He palmed his upper lip with his fingertips, renewing a little gesture that he had sworn to himself he would forget... just like the memory of that night that was associated with it. He closed his eyes. A voice that he had never been able to get out of his mind whispered "Tha thu bòidheach" in his ear. It was much later, when he had embarked on a desperate and pointless journey to Edinburgh, that he had understood the meaning of those words, which had been whispered to him between two kisses, while, in the privacy of a student's room, Vera Lynn hummed the last notes of a song evoking a nightingale and Berkeley Square.

A very English swear word, which it is not necessary to transcribe here in order to avoid the wrath of the censors, replaced the Scottish sweetness. The sergeant turned his head again towards the next desk and saw a pile of files and papers at the feet of his inspector, who had had the excellent idea of confronting the mess left by his predecessor. Aziraphale glanced at the frame containing the photograph of the person who shared his life and, while offering him a mute apology for this moment of absent-mindedness – another one – plunged back into Furfur's detestable essay.

Inspector Gomorrah, who could be classed as a third-rate member of the UK police force – if you have a short memory, please refer to the first chapter of this story – had accumulated a pile of paperwork in the course of his lazy, lacklustre career and had not bothered to bring any semblance of order to this administrative chaos. Crowley, munching on a piece of vanilla Cornetto, sat down among the scattered files and emptied three boxes, which he named "Archives", "Discard" and "Keep". Just as he had put a number of the Inspector's private photographs in the "Discard " box and a few unfinished, undated reports in the one for the Archives, a photograph that had slipped out of a file hidden under a pile of old leaflets caught Crowley's eye.

Expecting just another photo of the former inspector and his wife on holiday – Gomorrah could afford more than a couple of miserable Cornettos – he was about to throw it into the throwaway box when he turned it over : the photograph, taken during a sting, showed a group of two people leaving the bookshop. As well as being a first-rate slacker, could Inspector Gomorrah also have been a stalker? Crowley examined the man and felt a curious sensation, as if he knew him without knowing him... The man was very tall, with a pale, emaciated face, framed by messy black hair; his dark eyes stared at the horizon and did not seem to belong to this world. His companion looked even more familiar, with her blonde curls, round cheeks and, above all, light eyes of an indefinable colour. Crowley turned the photograph over again and discovered an almost faded date in the corner. He turned his head towards his partner: the year could correspond to the year of his birth.

Crowley was about to get up and tell him about his discovery, but remembering Shax's warnings about snooping and realising that his cursed curiosity would not be well received, he finally gave up his questions. The policeman rummaged around again and, between the pages of an old catalogue of fishing and hunting accessories, unearthed a few pages of an interrogation from that same year, on which had been stapled a photo taken in the office he now occupied. He recognised the black-haired man. The transcript of the interrogation told him that the man was not a talkative man and that he had simply agreed to give his first name: Morpheus. The questions then followed on about his age, his job and what he was doing in Tadfield, but to all the questions and other threats, the man had only responded with a stubborn silence. Crowley put the interrogation to one side and tore out each page of the catalogue to make sure it contained no further information, before placing it in the 'Discard' box.

Sensing movement in the next office, he quickly hid the 'Morpheus' file he had just compiled under a report on a fish theft.

" Inspector Crowley," asked Aziraphale, poking his head through the non-existent door, "would you like a coffee?"

Crowley turned towards him, the last pieces of the ice cream biscuit between his lips. He gobbled it up before wiping his mouth, where a few white drops were beading.

" No, thank you, Sarge Vas-y la flanelle !"

His sergeant's lips twitched into an ugly grimace. He seemed about to put him in his place but preferred to leave the battlefield with a shrug. All in restraint, Crowley judged as he watched him cross the great hall. Everything about him seemed so artificial and calculated: his refusal to succumb to greed and anger... you'd think Sergeant Fell made it a point of honour to embody the cardinal virtues! Well, not that much ... judging by the busy look on his face, Mr. Fell had had an interesting night's.

As he threw away a forty-year-old bill for chloroform, Crowley found himself imagining the personality and features of the mysterious Mrs. Fell: was she a petite blonde – recessive genes tended to mate to preserve their gene pool, which was doomed to extinction – a schoolteacher who volunteered for a number of charities and cooked blueberry muffins on Saturdays, roast chicken on Sunday lunchtimes and ravioli on Monday evenings? Or was it her complete opposite: a tall, muscular and adventurous brunette, capable of killing a wolf with her bare hands and a champion axe-thrower? He stood up, dusted off his trousers – he'd chosen the tightest in his collection – and entered his new partner's office. Or this 'particular' person was a ginger with a brilliant mind and a talent for many things? A grouch, to make up for the preciousness of his companion's language, with excellent taste in clothes and a fine connoisseur of French wines and green plants?

As Crowley made his way into the small room, he was struck by the scent of his team-mate wafting around him. The scent (Eau de Cologne, the smell of old books and a hint of vanilla) tickled his nostrils nicely. While sniffing the delicious odour, he examined the office carefully: Sergeant Fell had the same cupboard as his, but it was tidy; a small sofa, conducive to confessions and confidences, complemented the warm surroundings. Crowley approached the desk and held out his hand to the frame, determined to solve the mystery of Mrs. Fell. His fingers brushed the edge of the photograph and...

" Inspector Crowley?"

Caught red-handed, the policeman turned round and mumbled a vague apology. Aziraphale placed his thermos next to the computer.

" I was looking for some ideas for decorating my office", said Crowley, moving away from his partner.

" I don't think our tastes match, Inspector."

Crowley cleared his throat and thought it an opportune moment to clear up the few misunderstandings pitting them against each other:

" Listen, for the promotion..."

" It's not your fault", replied Aziraphale, looking away, "it's a mistake of... whatever! I knew I wouldn't get it anyway. I... I've..."

He seemed on the point of confessing a heinous crime. Once again, Crowley's curiosity was aroused:

" You what?"

" Ihithim."

" Wat ?! "

" I slammed my fist into his face!" the sergeant admitted with a cry of liberation. "The inspector", he explained. "He had behaved inappropriately towards Madame Tracy. We'd been called in to get rid of a customer who was a bit too 'enterprising' and Inspector Gomorrah was very rude to her, and as I couldn't get through to him, it was the only solution I could come up with. He threatened me and I threatened him back, telling him that I would tell his wife all about his so-called 'seminars'."

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley and was surprised to see the ecstatic smile he gave him at that moment.

" You stuck your fist in his face!" hissed Crowley, overcome with admiration. "You made the right decision, Sergeant."

" You'd think... I nearly lost a few feathers, but Madame Tracy interceded on my behalf and the inspector finally hushed up the affair to avoid any trouble."

" Typical of the kind of arsehole he is... I've been there, too."

Crowley then saw a smile, which was anything but fake, spread across the sergeant's lips. A smile that pleased him... Pretending to still have work to do, he took refuge in his office and avenged his inane thoughts on some old, equally inane files. He promised himself that he would invest in a green plant to torment so that he could pass his nerves. Poor idiot! he thought as he tore up a photograph of his predecessor sunbathing on a sandy beach, although he knew how fatal a Welsh smile could be and how it could lead him to make stupid decisions – like finding himself in his pants on the streets of Cardiff in the early hours of the morning, after a night spent in the company of a complete stranger –. He smashed another photograph to pieces – Captain Gomorrah eating cheese in a Swiss chalet – to push the memories from his mind. Memories that had been plaguing his life for a good two decades and that, according to Goldie, his first girlfriend, prevented him from truly loving.

Once the 'Discard' box had been filled to the brim and his memory stripped of all memories of Cardiff, Crowley placed the can of petrol in it, crossed the large room with his burden and went out through the door opening onto a pretty garden. He poured the contents onto the ground and poured a good deal of petrol onto Inspector Gomorrah's photographs, forgotten catalogues and other personal order forms; he also lit a dozen or so matches and threw them onto the small pile. A flame rose into the air and a strong smell of burning permeated his clothes. Crowley took a few steps back to admire the growing intensity of the fire: this simple gesture relieved him and eased the wound of pride he had been suffering for several months, ever since he had sacrificed his career out of loyalty. He closed his eyes and felt a wave of heat brush his cheek.

" What are you doing ?!"

For the second time, Fell had caught him doing something that could be construed as dubious. Crowley turned briskly to defend himself when he saw the sergeant grab the hose and point it towards the blaze. The water gushed out, splashing Crowley as it went, and flooded the fire, which gradually lost its intensity. Crowley shouted angrily and, cursing his infernal partner, grabbed the end of the hose. A fight ensued between the two foes, with a jumble of insults, first in the language that united them and then in their own dialect: the Welsh words clashed with the Scottish insults, but little by little, the language intertwined and became a curious, harmonious melody. Crowley, surprised by the strength of his opponent, had to give in and dropped the object of discord. Fell extinguished the last flames of the blaze before dropping the pipe. He turned his head towards Crowley, his face dripping with water and drops of sweat. The glow of the dying fire was reflected in his clear eyes. Crowley saw fear. A fear that he had already seen in the eyes of many victims and unmasked culprits.