Chapter 4: Stop ! 0r The Apple Will Fall
The rest of the morning passed as if after a bloody battle during which the two belligerents had concluded a silent armistice. Following his altercation with Sergeant Fell, Crowley had taken refuge in his office where he noticed that the Strawberry Cornetto had disappeared. Suspecting that Shax had stolen it, he made a pointed remark to the receptionist in the great hall. Perched on Furfur's desk, her best enemy with whom she was exchanging some morning gossip, the diabolical secretary contented herself with a scornful smile, before indulging in her favourite activity, after shopping, pedicures and dismembering husbands who had become too cumbersome. Remembering the conversation he'd had with Maggie and Nina, Crowley decided to abandon the quest for the truth about the vanished ice cream: he didn't want its members scattered all over Wales! If he had turned his head towards his would-be enemy's office, he would have seen him remove a red wrapper from his coat pocket and hide it under his computer keyboard.
Once a few reports had been corrected and put in order, Crowley decided to place them in the Archives. As he entered the small room, he was overwhelmed by a deep sense of administrative despair: files were scattered across dusty shelves, sheets of paper lay strewn across the floor. He even spotted a broken cardboard box containing party favours and a few banners wishing "Happy New Year 2000". He was surprised, however, to discover a well-organised shelf, with files arranged by year and alphabetical order. He consulted the first file, which was a good dozen years old, and on doing a quick calculation, realised that the tidying up had been done by Sergeant Fell. He may have been a nag with an old lady's preciosity, Goldilocks seemed to be pretty good at what he did.
Suddenly, the light went out, plunging the archive room into darkness. Crowley uttered an expletive and moved towards the spot where he thought he would find the switch, when a deep voice burst through the darkness:
"Ever dreamt of doing that with a complete stranger?"
The light came back on and the flickering bulb revealed Furfur's presence. The officer closed the door and leaned against it, his hair waving and his eyes sparkling.
"Well, not a complete stranger," he continued, approaching his new superior.
Crowley let out a horrified scream and leapt back a few steps.
" Furfur! What the hell are you doing here ?!"
"Social intercourse," said the respondent, consulting his brand new notebook, devoid of notes.
" There's no hurry ! We can get to know each other later! Much later …" Crowley grumbled, using a shelf to protect himself from Furfur's onslaught. "By the way," he asked, consulting the first file he had, "who is this Madame Tracy? I've seen her name appear on numerous service charges drawn up by the former inspector. Is she a snitch?"
Crowley had managed to build up a good network of spies in London, people who were entirely devoted to him, working in the lowest quarters of the capital city right up to the highest circles of Buckingham Palace, and Sarah was one of his best recruits – their red hair and taste for feet's pleasures are their common points – but here, in bloody Wales, he would have to fight to obtain the slightest bit of information...
"Madame Tracy?" Furfur repeated, smiling curiously. "She consults as a medium and she also practises a different kind of sensory exploration."
He glanced over his shoulder before leaning towards his inspector.
"You should think about installing a door in your office. For privacy, you know..."
"Excellent suggestion, Furfur! You should make a note of it so you don't forget!"
" It would be nice to have a little corner to talk in peace and quiet", Furfur continued, "the Archives aren't an appropriate place to have an in-depth discussion."
" Obviously", replied the inspector, taking a few steps to the side.
"You know", continued the officer, leaning his elbow against the shelf and dropping his notepad, " we could pay Madam Tracy a visit so you could get to know her. She rents out her games room for a very reasonable price."
" I'm too old to play cops and robbers, Furfur."
" I don't believe you", the officer breathed in his face. "I could remind you of a few rules... I haven't forgotten this night, Inspector. "
Crowley's gaze met Furfur's. Clear eyes. The lying Welshman – he'd had to face the facts when he tried to track him down a few years later on social networks – also had clear eyes. Like Furfur. The officer took advantage of his inattention to whisper a few words in Scottish, which he had no trouble translating. Crowley was about to reply that he wasn't in the habit of playing bagpipes or speaking Gaelic to his bedfellows, when he remembered something he had whispered that night. Crowley waited for Furfur to utter the sweet words he had been stupid enough to utter, but couldn't make them out amongst all the insanities listed by the officer.
" You seem to be good at all types of language", declared Furfur, winking at him.
Crowley got to his feet and decided it was time to put an end to this indecent game.
" I think, Officer, that you are mistaken."
" You can deny it all you like, Inspector, but I'll get your memory back... the body never forgets."
Furfur leaned towards his superior, his mouth begging for a kiss. The door to the archives opened again and the appearance of Sergeant Fell, his arms laden with files, put an end to this attempt at seduction.
"Furfur, the forbidden car parks are waiting for you", declared Aziraphale in his most serious tone.
"Yes, Sergeant," obeyed the officer reluctantly.
Before leaving the small room, Furfur gave the captain a knowing wink. A wink, as everyone knows, can be interpreted in different ways: for Furfur, the wink meant that this conversation would be postponed, and that they would find a moment to reminisce about that delicious night of drunkenness during a particularly torrid Welsh summer. For Crowley, the wink meant new problems ahead, as he had no desire to engage in any semblance of fraternisation with an over-enterprising colleague. He had already tried the experiment and it had proved an abject failure, costing him far more than a trampled dignity.
" I..." began Crowley, trying to start a more or less peaceful conversation with his partner, "my... my predecessor didn't do a very good job."
Aziraphale, busy putting away a file, arched a mocking eyebrow.
" Have you only just realised?"
" How many years had he held this position?"
"Forty years, I'd say," replied Aziraphale, finally deigning to face him.
" Forty bloody years?! But how could this incompetent have stayed so long?!"
He saw his team-mate swaying from one foot to the other as if seized by an urge.
"Inspector Gomorrah is friends with the mayor of Tadfield," confessed Aziraphale, lowering his eyes.
"I can't wait to meet our local celebrity! I hope he gets me on the good side too!"
" Not a chance," let out Aziraphale before realising the implications of such a sentence.
He apologised profusely and tried to get out of the archive room. Crowley anticipated his escape and stepped between him and the door.
"What do you mean, Sergeant Fell?" he asked, placing his arms on either side of the doorframe.
"Nothing!" defended the interested party, trying to force his way through. "Forget what I said!"
"It's quite a common ailment around here," Crowley murmured, "oblivion".
Aziraphale lowered his head and managed to slip under his new inspector's left arm. His forehead brushed his armpit and Crowley felt an electric shock run through him from the tips of his hair to the tips of his toes. Aziraphale turned round and Crowley noticed that his curls had straightened, as if subject to the whims of the invisible current that had penetrated them both. Aziraphale reached out to flatten his recalcitrant hair and muttered that he had no time for such discussions. He added, before walking away, that an archive room was not a "suitable" place to engage in "non-reproductive reproductive acts". Crowley let out an expletive and shouted loudly, which made poor Muriel turn round, that he wasn't in the habit of practising this kind of activity at work! He refrained from adding that he had - once - the pleasure of discovering that the toilets on the second floor of the Metropolitan could be a very pleasant playground.
On his way back to the main hall, Aziraphale was greeted by the joyful cry of an Eric who had returned from the wounded. The young constable hobbled towards him and asked him to apologise for his absence the previous day. The sergeant hastened to reassure him. Crowley appeared. The young officer raised his hand and greeted him with a warmth that Muriel would not have denied.
" Hello, Inspector! I'm Eric!"
" Hello Eric, I'm at the end of my tether," replied the aforementioned inspector, taking refuge in his doorless office.
"Inspector Crowley is homesick," said a sympathetic Muriel.
" He doesn't look very friendly, does he, Sergeant?" said Eric, turning to Aziraphale.
"Not really..."
"Sergeant," Eric whispered, checking that Furfur and Shax weren't eavesdropping, "this isn't the result you were hoping for, is it?"
Muriel gave their sergeant a sad look. Aziraphale nodded as he clutched a file to his chest.
" It was a stupid idea anyway..."
"Sergeant," offered an apologetic Eric. "I can keep looking if you like and..."
"No, I should never have spoken to you about that... and I should never have accepted that you break I don't know how many rules to satisfy some crazy old man's whim!"
" You're not that old, Sergeant!" intervened Muriel.
" Consider it a lesson," replied Aziraphale, giving one of his fake smiles. "Come on, you've got work to do and so do I. Let's forget this discussion, and the one we had on that regrettable evening."
He walked away, his head bowed, under the saddened eyes of his two subordinates. When he reached his office, Aziraphale put down his file – an official report drawn up following a new neighbourly quarrel between Dagon and Uriel – and sat down in front of his computer. His screen background was a photograph of an expanse of bluebells field in bloom, taken in the Forest of Tarot. One of his favourite places. One of the only places, in truth, where he could be at peace. He tilted his head and dug his fingers into its messy curls. The only place where he could give free rein to his thoughts, without feeling the slightest hint of guilt.
After a few hours, Crowley became bored... He was ready for any physical exercise – except any activity involving any part of Furfur's anatomy – to chase away his growing and galloping boredom. Even dropping a few fines on a windscreen would be enough to make him happy! He lifted his nose from the paperwork and turned his head towards the next desk, where the lieutenant was busy typing up a report on the umpteenth neighbourhood dispute. He didn't want to become a common paper-pusher like him! He grabbed his jacket and put it on before heading for reception. Shax, her feet crossed on the counter, was reading a tabloid.
" Did you hear, Inspector?" she said, looking up from her reading. "They've found a kid on a beach in Heavell."
"Dead, I presume, if you ask me."
"Of course," replied Shax, rolling her eyes. "He had all his limbs, but they still haven't found his skateboard."
" Would you have any information to give me, Shax? Something to relieve my boredom?"
The receptionist grabbed the local newspaper and threw it in his face. Crowley unfolded the paper and saw the face of a young boy, just entering the joys of adolescence, on the front page. He skimmed through the article, picking out a few items of information he thought were very interesting, before folding up the paper.
" Who is the cop overseeing the investigation? "
"Flycatcher," replied Shax. "As the Tadfield brigade depends on the Heavell brigade, they come along from time to time to poke their little beady nose in. They give you a big smile while imposing a new budget restriction! They think they're clever, but the truth is..."
"Shax, enlighten me, you intrigue me!"
Delighted to be indulging in her favourite pastime again, Shax whispered :
"Everyone knows that Aziraphale..."
"Sergeant Fell," Crowley replied mechanically.
" Could have had his job if he hadn't decided to come back here to Tadfield. Flycatcher and Aziraphale worked together in Cardiff. Do you know Cardiff, Inspector?" asked Shax mischievously.
- Card... No! No! Absolutely not!
It wasn't a lie, just a little 'arrangement' with the truth. All he knew of Cardiff was the park next to the police academy (the ideal place to exchange a first kiss under a starry sky), a student room (perfect for a thorough body search), and the deserted streets (unsuitable for a stroll at first light, stripped of most of your clothes).
" Shax," he continued in a honeyed tone, trying to banish his Welsh memories from his mind, "don't you have a little something to offer me? Radar to install? Illegal plantations to dig up? A theft of leeks to solve?"
" If I give you a tip, how much will you pay me? "
Relinquishing the two bank notes generously loaned by thesergeant Fell, Crowley slid them towards Shax. She hastened to make them disappear into the hollow of her cleavage.
" It's almost time for 's daily call..."
The phone rang. Shax picked up the receiver and handed it to Crowley. The receptionist watched with great interest as the inspector exchanged a few words with , whose calls had been screened for several months. When the call was over, Crowley noted the "poor man's" address in his notebook and left the police station.
Mr. Tyler, Ronald by name, had spent his monotonous life as a tax agent within the four walls of an austere office in Cardiff, when he bought a charming little house and orchard as a life annuity. He and his wife, Harriet, had to wait a good twenty years before occupying their property, the former owner having had the indecency to live to be a hundred. Fortunately, her life came to an end when she used a ladder donated by the Tyler couple.
Unfortunately, the Tylers' happiness was short-lived, as young delinquents in short pants, led by the son Young, regularly came to plunder their orchard. No matter how much Mr. Tyler warned the police, they remained deaf to his pleas! In any case, he repeated defeatistly to Harriet, what could you expect from a brigade led by an incompetent – fortunately retired – and a 'precious' man like this Sergeant Fell? Ronald P. Tyler had nothing against people 'like him', but to integrate them into the British police force, such a noble institution, was a bit rich! Mr. Tyler looked up at the portrait of the late Queen hanging over the TV, which was showing a fascinating documentary on the breeding of exotic fish. Even the royal family, Harriet had told him, was not spared this scourge from trees to monkeys gassed with nitrogen oxide. The modern world was going mad, but there were still men like Mr. Tyler, rooted in their sound convictions, to prevent it from sinking into decadence.
Suddenly, the sound of an car was heard. Abandoning the news report showing the mating of an angelus piscis – a chubby fish with immaculate fins – and a red-scaled daemonium usually found in the world's warm waters, Mr. Tyler rose from his armchair and made his way into the hall. His poodle, lying on the sofa, opened one lazy eye before falling back into his dreams.
Shutzi, like his owner, was a canine individual who could boast an unblemished lineage, unlike his rival Bartholonew, whose closest relatives had tarnished the purity of his family tree. Azalea Principality of Angels had been a dog with award-winning, renowned ancestors, whose genes had been selected to make her a champion. She played her part to perfection, winning medals and cups and topping the rankings in every competition she entered. She delighted her owner – Mrs. Brown – by giving her a litter of puppies, conceived in partnership with a carefully chosen dog, from which Bartholonew was born. However, shortly after the birth of her winning offspring, Azalea was seized by an ineffable melancholy. Everything seemed so bland and pointless: the high-quality mash, the fine cuts of meat she had brought back from the butcher, the cosy little salon where she was at ease... The poor girl despaired and, with her snout glued to a window, dreamed of freedom. A poorly closed door was the perfect opportunity to escape her gilded cage. Her first steps were hesitant and she was tempted to return to her basket, but the call of the wild was stronger. Azalea was so happy! With her nose right on the asphalt, she began her escapade by chasing a few butterflies, crossing streets, moving away from the little housing estate with its twin houses and weaving in and out of cars, taking in the smell of exhaust fumes, the smoke of which stained her beautiful white coat with black spots. She took the coastal path, tasted the damp sand under her paws, did a few antics, and with her tongue hanging out, her fur streaked with foam, she resumed her wandering. That's when she came across him, as if out of the blue: a mongrel with protruding ribs and coarse red hair. At first, Azalea growled, seeing this breedless vagrant as a hereditary enemy. The valiant little dog backed away, baring her fangs, ready to defend her honour as a canine of proud lineage. He took a step towards her and she was about to lunge at him, when something in his eyes stopped her. Azalea softened and let him approach her. They sniffed at each other, bringing the tips of their noses close, intimidated, and then, as is customary with canines, they sniffed each other's rumps to get to know each other better. The mongrel led her on a new adventure, teaching her how to find the best bits in dustbins, how to bite the ankles of deliverymen and other postmen; she taught him how to bark gracefully to win the favours of human beings. Night fell and their joint steps led them to the Forest of the Tarot where Azalea, her nose buried in the bluebells, surrendered to the vigour of the tramp. Azalea and her evil canine angel were never seen again. A few people claimed to have seen them somewhere on the South Downs, enjoying an ineffable canine bliss of wandering, pilfering and mischief.
Mr. Tyler, despite Harriet's protestations that he should be careful with the tiles she had just washed, lifted the curtain and was a little surprised to find a Bentley parked outside his letterbox. He was relieved to see that the car was a perfectly decent colour. He turned back to his wife, who had abandoned her knitting.
"Harriet, I think our new police inspector is going to bring some order to this town!"
The door of the car opened and a beanpole got out. The kind of guy Mr. Tyler used to meet when he went to his office early in the morning on the very first bus. These men – but could we really call them human beings? – who wandered around, looking haggard, after a night of too much drinking to return to their slums and who counted on honest people, like , to finance their dissolute lives.
"Ronald," his wife blanched as she saw the man open their gate and walk up their flower-lined driveway, "where's the gun?"
"In the barn," replied , cursing himself for his carelessness.
Harriet pressed her hand against her throat, which she could already see being slit on both sides of her ears. had a passion for True crimes, but she never thought she would one day become the main protagonist! She tightened her fingers around the pearl necklace that would be ripped from her neck and groaned as she thought of her poor murdered body, bending under the blows of the rolling pin she had left lying on the kitchen table.
" Ronald... what are we going to do !?"
" The inspector should be here any minute !"
The Tyler backed away from the window, Harriet's fingernails digging into Ronald's shoulder pads. Alerted by the noise, Shutzi left his blissful nap and ventured into the hall, barking wildly. Mr. Tyler grabbed him and squeezed his muzzle to shut him up. The dog furious at being prevented from expressing itself, pinched his thumb and resumed barking.
Their future assassin was now standing on the stoop, glancing longingly at the green plant that had taken out in the morning to give it some fresh air. She had heard this tip on the BBC programme she followed so assiduously every late afternoon, and whose presenter, a charming little woman called Goldie, appealed to her with her good advice and, above all, for being a very British and very feminine woman.
" Ronald," Harriet murmured, thinking of her beloved begonias and other plantations, which she looked after with all the love this woman frustrated by not having children could muster, "he's coming..."
" I know," replied her husband of more than forty years, swallowing with difficulty.
The couple retreated further and further back and soon found themselves backed up against the wall, next to the chest of drawers containing the urn containing the ashes of Shutzi's predecessor and their wedding photograph frame. Harriet glanced quickly at this image of relative marital bliss, thinking that she would probably have met a less tragic end if she had finally agreed to leave with Ronald's best man. She sighed as she thought of their last non-verbal conversation, just before she walked down the aisle, her bun askew and the zipper of her dress hastily pulled up.
The murderer tinkled the little chime. Shutzi's barking became louder again. Getting no response, the beanpole banged on the door a few times.
" Ronald, oh my God, Ronald! He's at the window!"
The criminal now had his nose against the window and saw them. He took his badge out of the pocket of his too-tight trousers and placed it against the window.
"Ronald, is that the police ?!"
" Let's be careful, it's probably just a decoy! "
" Ronald, I think it's the new inspector. I bumped into Mrs. Paddington at the market this morning, and Mrs. Brown, her very dear and respectable friend, told her that the new inspector is a Londoner with a very bad type."
Mr. Tyler refrained from retorting that Mrs. Brown's son was not a "proper man" either. The man knocked at the window again. Ronald summoned up what little courage he had and made his way to the front door. He grabbed the funeral urn for protection before opening the dozen or so locks protecting them from outside dangers – such as doorstep canvassers – and faced the beanpole.
" Mr. Tyler? I'm Inspector Crowley," said the man who, a few years ago, was probably involved in some very dubious business.
"Really ? Yes..." replied Mr. Tyler, bringing the urn against him. "Come in, please."
The beanpole crossed the threshold. , who had been brought up in the pure Catholic tradition – she prided herself on having ancestors who had faithfully served the cause of King James II – made the sign of the cross while muttering a few prayers in Latin. She had just seen the Devil himself enter her home. Shutzi was about to take a bite out of the devil's right ankle when he leaned over and lowered his glasses. The threatening bark froze and turned into a frightened whimper. The little animal took refuge under the cushion of its basket.
"What's the reason for your call?" Crowley asked, readjusting his glasses before standing up.
"A delinquent regularly comes into my orchard to steal what belongs to me! I tried to warn your colleagues, but you know how it is: these yokels protect each other!"
" I see..."
"The orchard's", Mrs Tyler hastened to explain, determined to chase the Evil away, "isn't that right, Ronald?"
Mr Tyler glanced furtively at the new police inspector, nodded at his wife and pushed him towards the exit. He showed him the orchard just a few yards from their pretty house and closed the door. The beanpole took the opposite route to reach the green plot. Harriet wasted no time: she ran to the kitchen cupboard, grabbed the salt shaker and threw a good handful of salt against the door. As she poured holy water over the carpet in the hall, which she had bought in Carpet Paradise, thought that she would be better off burning it and buying one from Brown's son : he was not an 'honest' man and led a dissolute life with his... her mouth twisted at the unseemly thought, 'irregular partner', but he knew about carpets and would be able to find her the rare pearl.
" Ronald, is something wrong?" asked Mrs Tyler, finding her husband leaning against the door, clutching the urn.
"No, nothing at all..."
Mr. Tyler's thoughts wandered towards a certain dawn and the memories of his shameful little secret came flooding back. He remembered all too well the gangly gigolo, wandering the streets of Cardiff, no doubt under the influence of some illicit substance, who had come upon him. Normally, Ronald P. Tyler would have pushed the man away and, after a few contemptuous sniffs, gone on his way, but the previous evening he and Harriet had dined with the vicar who had been his best man at his wedding. His old friend had spoken to them about charity and, remembering that good sermon distilled between leek soup and a piece of bacon, Mr. Tyler had decided to show his kindness by helping the almost-naked beanpole. He supported him and drove him to the Public Finance building. The receptionist, a woman of ill repute wearing outrageous make-up, wrapped her shawl around the shoulders of the young man whose hair was too long and too black – dyed hair, noted with disgust – and offered him a coffee while he waited for emergency services. The gigolo thanked them, with a strong Scottish accent – which earned him an outraged look from his "saviour", who could not accept "strangers" coming to hang out in his home town. The gigolo was taken away by ambulance. A few weeks later, a card, a bouquet and chocolates were sent to his office. Fearing that the chocolates might contain a few drops of some kind of drug, Ronald P. Tyler got rid of them; as for the bouquet, he gave it to his wife three days later to celebrate their wedding anniversary. The card ended up in his wastepaper basket, between a tax assessment and a threatening letter.
Ronald P. Tyler went back to the window and lifted the curtain, despite the protests of his wife who intended to wash them again to cleanse them of the evil aura of their visitor, and watched the figure disappear into the orchard. The former IRS agent boasted an excellent memory, and this man with the more natural, if indecent, red hair resembled the gigolo in boxer shorts who had crossed his path on a certain summer morning. After all, these days anyone could be taken on in the civil service, starting with the Education – a den of Communist slackers – and even the noble institution he had served had been infiltrated by progressive parasites, the dregs of society! He was therefore not surprised that a 'comfort man' could join the ranks of the respectable British police force!
Far from all these societal considerations, Crowley walked through the orchard thinking that it was not apple season. Our readers will forgive us this departure from fruit laws, but fiction sometimes requires departures from reality, and the presence of apples was necessary to recall the circumstances in which the two protagonists of the original story met. It should be remembered that the original story began in a Garden, not an orchard.
A cracking sound drew Crowley from his seasonal thoughts. It was followed by a shower of apples. One of the forbidden fruits hit him in the face, knocking him off balance. He stumbled and fell under an apple tree, while a shadow jumped from the tree where it had taken refuge and began to run. Crowley straightened up and took off after a kid with angelic curls and a pair of devilish red trainers. The brat glanced over his shoulder and picked up the pace, astonished to see such an old man able to keep up such a frantic pace! The child leapt over the barrier but was soon followed by a much more alert police inspector, who had just crossed the barrier with the ease of a whale swallowing frail plankton. The apprentice thief, short of breath, felt his strength diminish and a treacherous root in his path stopped his mad dash. He fell, skinning his hands, and was lifted up by the grip of the "old Goth" who, unlike him, did not look exhausted or out of breath. Crowley then recognised the boy waiting for Pepper outside the café. Taking advantage of this second of inattention, the apprentice thief drew on his last reserves of strength and kneed him in one of the most sensitive and fleshy parts of his anatomy, then tore himself away from his grip. Crowley, blown away by the brutality of such an attack, depriving him of a potential offspring, took a few moments to overcome the pain and resumed his run, jumping up and down.
Knowing he was lost, the boy whistled; a black and white mutt woke up near the bike he was guarding. The faithful canine realised the eminence of the danger and lunged at Crowley, sinking his fangs into his ankle and stopping him dead in his tracks. The inspector Anthony J. Crowley, who had taken on many of the big shots in British crime, was defeated by a canine of dubious pedigree. The boy grabbed his dog and was about to get on his bike when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks:
" Adam, no ! "
Crowley stood up and saw Fell, his bow tie askew and his curls dancing, appear. The sergeant exchanged a few words with the budding delinquent, his right hand resting on his shoulder. Crowley rolled his eyes as he thought of the sermons his team-mate would no doubt be delivering to him, full of religious gewgaw. He straightened his sunglasses and walked towards the two Welshmen, who greeted his arrival with apprehension.
"Excuse me, sir," whispered the boy with downcast eyes.
The dog in turn gave a sort of sorry squeak.
" Well," said Aziraphale, "we can consider this 'incident' closed."
" Certainly not!" replied Crowley, placing his left hand on the boy's shoulder. "I still have a few words to say to him!"
" Captain, he's apologised and..."
"Violation of private property, theft of and damage to property belonging to others, violence against a person in authority... Shall I continue the list, or is that enough for you, Sergeant Fell?"
"Aziraphale," whispered the blond boy, raising his big cherubic eyes to the two policemen, "I ..."
" It's Sergeant Fell," Crowley intervened sternly. "Come on, I'll take you in, even you," he continued, addressing the dog.
Aziraphale tried once again to plead Adam Young's case but Crowley put him in his place by threatening him with a salty report that would lead him to manage the traffic on the only roundabout in this corner of Wales! The sergeant Fell gave him a hateful look, to which he replied with a sneer. They left the orchard and returned to the Tyler house, where the Bentley and thes sergeant's bicycle with new functional wheels, were waiting for them.
" Inspector," said Aziraphale as the Tyler couple watched in delight as the two leggy, paw-footed "criminals were apprehended, "he's just a kid!"
Adam's dog, named Dog, barked his approval. Crowley opened the back door of the Bentley and invited the criminal seed to take a seat on the bench. He ordered him to hold his nosey companion on his lap so that he didn't mess up the leather of his seat.
"The law's the law," grumbled Crowley, who had skirted the law on several occasions, by getting behind the wheel.
" I'm coming with you," decreed his annoying team-mate as he slid into the passenger seat.
" Fine ! but your bike..."
" Bicycle."
"stays here and you manage to get it back!" concluded Crowley as he started the Bentley.
There was a stunned silence in the car. Adam Young clutched Dog to his chest, dreading the repercussions of his latest blunder. Crowley, who was watching him in the rear-view mirror, looked away from the boy and glanced at his partner. The latter was tight-lipped, fidgeting nervously with his wedding ring and making supernatural efforts to contain his rage. Just as they turned onto the road leading to a lovely housing estate, the radio came on, playing a highly inappropriate song.
Love is in the air, everywhere I look around
Love is in the air, every sight and every sound
And I don't know if I'm being foolish
Don't know if I'm being wise
But it's something that I must believe in
And it's there when I look in your eyes
" Could you turn off that modern barbarian music?" grumbled his partner.
" Impossible," replied an equally annoyed Crowley, "it's not up to me."
The mischievous Bentley turned up the volume. Aziraphale let out a grunt and reached for the car radio, Crowley beat him to it, their fingers brushed against each other and once again an invisible current flowed through their skin.
Love is in the air
Love is in the air
Oh, oh, oh, oh
They hurriedly withdrew their hands. Crowley placed his on the gear lever, Aziraphale folded his fingers against his chest. The music stopped as the car pulled into a small, well-maintained driveway leading to a delightful cottage worthy of being featured in the pages of a magazine devoted to the joys of country life. Crowley got out of the car first and opened the door for the little ruffian. Flanked by two policemen, Adam Young knew he would have to face his fate. He closed his eyes and prayed to all the comic book gods he knew, from Thor to Flash to Shazam, to save him from his father's wrath. The door opened to reveal a man dressed in a tartan jumper – the people of Tadfield were definitely noted for their lack of taste in clothing – with an electronic cigarette in the corner of his mouth and a newspaper in his hand. Mr Young was an honest man who paid his taxes on time and donated a few pounds each year to charity.
"Adam! What's happened?"
"Mr. Young," began Aziraphale, "your son has..."
" I'm sorry!" cried his offspring, hugging Dog tightly. "I won't do it again!"
"Your son, ," Crowley intervened, "has..."
Seeing three pairs of pleading eyes on him, Crowley sighed:
" had a little incident with his bike."
" Bicycle," corrected Aziraphale.
"And we're bringing him back to you, safe and sound.
"Oh," said a relieved Mr Young. "Thank you ! I thought he'd annoyed Mr Tyler again. Adam was very fond of Miss Honey, the previous owner... but he's taken a dislike to the poor man and..."
" He's an arsehole," hissed Adam.
Crowley made no comment, approving the boy's words with an eloquent silence. Mr. Young picked up on his son's language and offered a smile to the fiery-haired policeman. He had heard a few rumours about the new police inspector but, despite his unorthodox attire, he seemed like a nice guy. promised himself that he would pay no further attention to the gossip of Mrs. Paddington and Mrs. Brown, who had described Inspector Crowley – Crawley? – as a deplorable and sinister man. At the next meeting of the Happy Pedestrian Club , he would do his utmost to restore the good name of the amiable police inspector. Adam Young stared at the former London policeman in amazement. He turned to him and whispered a "thank you, sir", which the inspector greeted with a grunt. Adam put Dog down on the mat and, to the astonishment of Crowley and his father, began a curious dance.
" You were right, I was wrong, you were right."
He concluded his dance with a curtsy of the most beautiful effect. Mr .Young's eyes widened in surprise. Aziraphale chuckled curiously and after declining tea and a few sweets, the two team-mates returned to the Bentley, leaving father, son and dog in peace.
"What was that?" choked Crowley once the Young's door was closed.
" What was what?"
"That ridiculous dance!"
" It's not ridiculous! It's a Welsh tradition: the apology dance."
" The dance of the fucking what?!"
Aziraphale then launched into a detailed explanation of the jig, whose origins date back to the Middle Ages when, shortly before Wales lost its independence, the last Welsh prince, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, refused to listen to his brother Dafydd's advice. After a series of strategic errors, the prince performed this little dance in front of his army to make up for his lack of judgement. The jig was not enough, however, and a few weeks later the incompetent's head ended up on the streets of London.
" By Satan's tail ! I'm in the middle of a musical! " growled Crowley.
" It's a great way to admit you're wrong. Thank you, by the way. Last year Adam defaced the Tylers' orchard and his father threatened to send him to boarding school the next time he misbehaved. It was very nice of you not to say anything."
" I'm not nice! As for you, Sergeant Fell, I would ask you in future to do your job propely !"
" My principles..."
" I don't give a shit about your principles! Who do you think you are, bloody Mary Poppins? You think you can solve everything with sugar cubes and stupid fucking dances!?"
"This isn't..."
" You're a fucking cop! Not a fucking guardian angel !"
" Obviously," replied Aziraphale, readjusting his jacket, "we don't have the same conception of the job."
"Obviously, I'm a better policeman than you are! "
" If you were so good, why did they sack you then?"
Crowley, taken aback by the perfidy of this attack, was stunned. He emitted a series of borborygms and slid behind the wheel of his car. He turned on the ignition and, with a deafening squeal of tyres, left the driveway, abandoning his team-mate to his fate. After only a few minutes, gripped by guilt, Crowley slowed his pace and rolled down the passenger window as he approached the pavement where Aziraphale was walking.
" Get in, Sergeant Fell."
In reply, Aziraphale turned his head to the other side and quickened his pace.
" Goldilocks, stop acting like an idiot and get in the car!"
The policeman began to whistle a few notes of classical music while declaring that he had no desire to "be transported in this infernal automobile".
"Very well!" exclaimed Crowley as he stopped the Bentley.
He got out of the car and stood in front of his team-mate. Aziraphale tried to dodge him to the right, but Crowley blocked his path. The lieutenant took another step to the side and the captain held out his arms to ward off any attempt to escape.
" What do I have to do, Sergeant Fell, to make your highness deign to show me a little interest at last? "
Aziraphale came back to face him, his arms folded across his chest. He raised his chin and Crowley was again struck by the brilliance of his clear eyes.
" Shall I bow, offer you a curtsy or kneel and kiss your feet, Fell?"
His partner grimaced in horror.
"I'll never let you kneel in front of me!"
" Good, because I don't intend to give you that pleasure!"
Which was a great pity for Sergeant Fell, because Inspector Crowley knew what an ineffable delight such a posture could be; for the sake of propriety, however, we'll avoid going into detail on this juicy subject.
" I'm waiting," said Aziraphale, giving him a look that Crowley could only describe as 'bastard'.
" What ... No! No! No!" exclaimed Crowley, understanding his team-mate's intentions. "I'm not doing that ridiculous dance!"
" It's tradition," said the sergeant, determined to get what he wanted.
" Go hang yourself, Fell, you, your curls, your traditions and your damned Wales!" shouted a Crowley who refused to be led by the nose by someone wearing a tartan bow tie.
Aziraphale arched his right eyebrow. Crowley knew he had lost the fight. He took a few steps back, his eyes riveted on his team-mate's face and, remembering the moves performed by Adam Young, he, the little genius from the very serious Metropolitain, performed the little jig in the middle of the street.
" You were right," he said with a flick of his wrist. "I was wrong," he continued, turning away. "You were right," he finished, offering his neck and his last shreds of self-esteem to the Welshman.
" Very well," said a satisfied Aziraphale, detailing him from head to toe.
He straightened his bow tie and strode towards the Bentley. He opened the passenger door and settled into the seat like a self-assured queen. Crowley realised that underneath his countess-like exterior, Goldilocks was hiding a cunning temperament, which did not displease him.
" Shall we go back to Tyler's to collect your bike?" asked Crowley, taking the wheel.
" Bicycle," replied Aziraphale, consulting his pocket watch. "No, I'm due at the Town Hall."
" Shall I come with you, Sergeant Goldilocks? It'll give me a chance to say hello to our local celebrity."
At these simple words, Aziraphale's self-confidence evaporated and the person now staring at him in the rear-view mirror looked like a frightened child. He raised his right hand to his left ring finger and twisted his wedding ring sharply, as if to overcome his anxiety.
" I'd rather not..." he murmured, lowering his eyes.
Crowley, repressing his cursed curiosity, asked no questions and made the Bentley adopt a slower pace than usual as he crossed the main road leading to Tadfield town centre.