wretchedly. “No one’s actually going to get killed. They’re all going to have miraculous escapes. It wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.”
Aziraphale relaxed. “You know, Crowley,” he said, beaming, “I’ve always said that, deep down inside, you’ ［re really quite a—”
“All right, all right,” Crowley snapped. “Tell the whole blessed world, why don’t you?”
AFTER A WHILE, loose alliances began to emerge. Most of the financial departments found they had interests in common, settled their differences, and ganged up on Forward Planning.
When the first police car arrived, sixteen bullets from a variety of directions had hit it in the radiator before it had got halfway up the drive. Two more took out its radio antenna, but they were too late, too late.
MARY HODGES WAS just putting down the phone when Crowley opened her office door.
“It must be terrorists,” she snapped. “Or poachers.” She peered at the pair of them. “You are the police, aren’t you?” she said.
Crowley saw her eyes begin to widen.
Like all demons, he had a good memory for faces, even after eleven years, the loss of a wimple, and the addition of some rather severe makeup. He snapped his fingers. She settled back in her chair, her face becoming a blank and amiable mask.
“There was no need for that,” said Aziraphale.
“Good”—Crowley glanced at his watch—“morning, ma’am,” he said, in a sing-song voice. “We’re just a couple of supernatural entities and we were just wondering if you might help us with the whereabouts of the notorious Son of Satan.” He smiled coldly at the angel. “I’ll wake her up again, shall I? And you can say it.”
“Well. Since you put it like that … ” said the angel slowly.
“Sometimes the old ways are best,” said Crowley. He turned to the impassive woman.
“Were you a nun here eleven years ago?” he said.
“Yes,” said Mary.
“There!” said Crowley to Aziraphale. “See? I knew I wasn’t wrong.”
“Luck of the devil,” muttered the angel.
“Your name then was Sister Talkative. Or something.”
“Loquacious,” said Mary Hodges in a hollow voice.
“And do you recall an incident involving the switching of newborn babies?” said Crowley.
Mary Hodges hesitated. When she did speak, it was as though memories that had been scabbed over were being disturbed for the first time in years.
“Yes,” she said.
“Is there any possibility that the switch could have gone wrong in some way?”
“I do not know.”
Crowley thought for a bit. “You must have had records,” he said. “There are always records. Everyone has records these days.” He glanced proudly at Aziraphale. “It was one of my better ideas.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mary Hodges.
“And where are they?” said Aziraphale sweetly.
“There was a fire just after the birth.”
Crowley groaned and threw his hands in the air. “That was Hastur, probably,” he said. “It’s his style. Can you believe those guys? I bet he thought he was being really clever.”
“Do you recall any details about the other child?” said Aziraphale.
“Yes.”
“Please tell me.”
“He had lovely little toesie-wosies.”
“Oh.”
“And he was very sweet,” said Mary Hodges wistfully.
There was the sound of a siren outside, abruptly broken off as a bullet hit it. Aziraphale nudged Crowley.
“Get a move on,” he said. “We’re going to be knee-deep in police at any moment and I will of course be morally obliged to assist them in their enquiries.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps she can remember if there were any other women giving birth that night, and—”
There was the sound of running feet downstairs.
“Stop them,” said Crowley. “We need more time!”
“Any more miracles and we’ll really start getting noticed by Up There,” said Aziraphale. “If you really want Gabriel or someone wondering why forty policemen have gone to sleep—”
“Okay,” said Crowley. “That’s it. That’s it. It was worth a try. Let’s get out of here.”
“In thirty seconds you will wake up,” said Aziraphale, to the entranced ex-nun. “And you will have had a lovely dream about whatever you like best, and—”
“Yes, yes, fine,” sighed Crowley. “Now can we go?”
NO ONE NOTICED THEM leaving. The police were too busy herding in forty adrenaline-drunk, fighting-mad management trainees. Three police vans had gouged tracks in the lawn, and Aziraphale made Crowley back up for the first of the ambulances, but then the Bentley swished into the night. Behind them the summerhouse and gazebo were already ablaze.
“We’ve really left that poor woman in a dreadful situation,” said the angel.
“You think?” said Crowley, trying to hit a hedgehog and missing. “Bookings will double, you mark my words. If she plays her cards right, sorts out the waivers, ties up all the legal