They saw no reason for the father to be involved in the proceedings. When you thought about it, Mr. Young mused, they probably saw no reason why the father should be involved anywhere.
He finished thumbing the so-called tobacco into the pipe and glared at the little sign on the wall of the waiting room that said that, for his own comfort, he would not smoke. For his own comfort, he decided, he’d go and stand in the porch. If there was a discreet shrubbery for his own comfort out there, so much the better.
He wandered down the empty corridors and found a doorway that led out onto a rain-swept courtyard full of righteous dustbins.
He shivered, and cupped his hands to light his pipe.
It happened to them at a certain age, wives. Twenty-five blameless years, then suddenly they were going off and doing these robotic exercises in pink socks with the feet cut out and they started blaming you for never having had to work for a living. It was hormones, or something.
A large black car skidded to a halt by the dustbins. A young man in dark glasses leaped out into the drizzle holding what looked like a carrycot and snaked toward the entrance.
Mr. Young took his pipe out of his mouth. “You’ve left your lights on,” he said helpfully.
The man gave him the blank look of someone to whom lights are the least of his worries, and waved a hand vaguely toward the Bentley. The lights went out.
“That’s handy,” said Mr. Young. “Infra-red, is it?”
He was mildly surprised to see that the man did not appear to be wet. And that the carrycot appeared to be occupied.
“Has it started yet?” said the man.
Mr. Young felt vaguely proud to be so instantly recognizable as a parent.
“Yes,” he said. “They made me go out,” he added thankfully.
“Already? Any idea how long we’ve got?”
We, Mr. Young noted. Obviously a doctor with views about co-parenting.
“I think we were, er, getting on with it,” said Mr. Young.
“What room is she in?” said the man hurriedly.
“We’re in Room Three,” said Mr. Young. He patted his pockets, and found the battered packet which, in accord with tradition, he had brought with him.
“Would we care to share a joyous cigar experience?” he said.
But the man had gone.
Mr. Young carefully replaced the packet and looked reflectively at his pipe. Always in a rush, these doctors. Working all the hours God sent.
THERE’S A TRICK they do with one pea and three cups which is very hard to follow, and something like it, for greater stakes than a handful of loose change, is about to take place.
The text will be slowed down to allow the sleight of hand to be followed.
Mrs. Deirdre Young is giving birth in Delivery Room Three. She is having a golden-haired male baby we will call Baby A.
The wife of the American Cultural Attaché, Mrs. Harriet Dowling, is giving birth in Delivery Room Four. She is having a golden-haired male baby we will call Baby B.
Sister Mary Loquacious has been a devout Satanist since birth. She went to Sabbat School as a child and won black stars for handwriting and liver. When she was told to join the Chattering Order she went obediently, having a natural talent in that direction and, in any case, knowing that she would be among friends. She would be quite bright, if she was ever put in a position to find out, but long ago found that being a scatterbrain, as she’d put it, gave you an easier journey through life. Currently she is being handed a golden-haired male baby we will call the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.
Watch carefully. Round and round they go. …
“Is that him?” said Sister Mary, staring at the baby. “Only I’d expected funny eyes. Red, or green. Or teensy-weensy little hoofikins. Or a widdle tail.” She turned him around as she spoke. No horns either. The Devil’s child looked ominously normal.
“Yes, that’s him,” said Crowley.
“Fancy me holding the Antichrist,” said Sister Mary. “And bathing the Antichrist. And counting his little toesy-wosies. … ”
She was now addressing the child directly, lost in some world of her own. Crowley waved a hand in front of her wimple. “Hallo? Hallo? Sister Mary?”
“Sorry, sir. He is a little sweetheart, though. Does he look like his daddy? I bet he does. Does he look like his