“Right, love. Well, Madame Tracy Draws Aside the Veil every afternoon except Thursdays. Parties welcome. When would you be wanting to Explore the Mysteries, love?”
Newton hesitated. “The advert says ‘Join the Professionals,”’ he said. “It didn’t mention Madame Tracy.”
“That’ll be Mister Shadwell you’ll be wanting, then. Just a sec, I’ll see if he’s in.”
Later, when he was on nodding terms with Madame Tracy, Newt learned that if he had mentioned the other ad, the one in the magazine, Madame Tracy would have been available for strict discipline and intimate massage every evening except Thursdays. There was yet another ad in a phone box somewhere. When, much later, Newt asked her what this one involved, she said “Thursdays.” Eventually there was the sound of feet in uncarpeted hallways, a deep coughing, and a voice the color of an old raincoat rumbled:
“Aye?”
“I read your advert. ‘Join the professionals.’ I wanted to know a bit more about it.”
“Aye. There’s many as would like to know more about it, an’ there’s many … ” the voice trailed off impressively, then crashed back to full volume, “. . . there’s many as WOULDN’T.”
“Oh,” squeaked Newton.
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Newton. Newton Pulsifer.”
“LUCIFER? What’s that you say? Are ye of the Spawn of Darkness, a tempting beguiling creature from the pit, wanton limbs steaming from the fleshpots of Hades, in tortured and lubricious thrall to your Stygian and hellish masters?”
“That’s Pulsifer,” explained Newton. “With a P. I don’t know about the other stuff, but we come from Surrey.”
The voice on the phone sounded vaguely disappointed.
“Oh. Aye. Well, then. Pulsifer. Pulsifer. I’ve seen that name afore, maybe?”
“I don’t know,” said Newton. “My uncle runs a toy shop in Hounslow,” he added, in case this was any help.
“Is that sooo?” said Shadwell.
Mr. Shadwell’s accent was unplaceable. It careered around Britain like a milk race. Here a mad Welsh drill sergeant, there a High Kirk elder who’d just seen someone doing something on a Sunday, somewhere between them a dour Daleland shepherd, or bitter Somerset miser. It didn’t matter where the accent went; it didn’t get any nicer.
“Have ye all your own teeth?”
“Oh, yes. Except for fillings.”
“Are ye fit?”
“I suppose so,” Newt stuttered. “I mean, that was why I wanted to join the territorials. Brian Potter in Accounting can bench-press almost a hundred since he joined. And he paraded in front of the Queen Mother.”
“How many nipples?”
“Pardon?”
“Nipples, laddie, nipples,” said the voice testily. “How many nipples hae ye got?”
“Er. Two?”
“Good. Have ye got your ane scissors?”
“What?”
“Scissors! Scissors! Are ye deaf?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I’ve got some scissors. I’m not deaf.”
THE COCOA HAD NEARLY ALL SOLIDIFIED. Green fur was growing on the inside of the mug.
There was a thin layer of dust on Aziraphale, too.
The stack of notes was building up beside him. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies was a mass of improvised bookmarks made of torn strips of Daily Telegraph.
Aziraphale stirred, and pinched his nose.
He was nearly there.
He’d got the shape of it.
He’d never met Agnes. She was too bright, obviously. Normally Heaven or Hell spotted the prophetic types and broadcast enough noises on the same mental channel to prevent any undue accuracy. Actually that was rarely necessary; they normally found ways of generating their own static in self-defense against the images that echoed around their heads. Poor old St. John had his mushrooms, for example. Mother Shipton had her ale. Nostradamus had his collection of interesting oriental preparations. St. Malachi had his still.
Good old Malachi. He’d been a nice old boy, sitting there, dreaming about future popes. Complete piss artist, of course. Could have been a real thinker, if it hadn’t been for the poteen.
A sad end. Sometimes you really had to hope that the ineffable plan had been properly thought out.
Thought. There was something he had to do. Oh, yes. Phone his contact, get things sorted out.
He stood up, stretched his limbs, and made a phone call.
Then he thought: why not? Worth a try.
He went back and shuffled through his sheaf of notes. Agnes really had been good. And clever. No one was interested in accurate prophecies.
Paper in hand, he phoned Directory Enquiries.
“Hallo? Good afternoon. So kind. Yes. This will be a Tadfield number, I think. Or Lower Tadfield … ah. Or possibly Norton, I’m not sure of the precise code. Yes. Young. Name of Young. Sorry, no initial. Oh. Well, can you give me all of them? Thank you.”
Back on the table, a pencil picked itself up and scribbled furiously.