Good Omens by Neil Gaiman

job had been done well.
    Then she collapsed the strange theodolite, strapped it onto the back of a sit-up-and-beg black bicycle leaning against the hedge, made sure The Book was in the basket, and wheeled everything out to the misty lane.
    It was a very ancient bike, with a frame apparently made of drainpipes. It had been built long before the invention of the three-speed gear, and possibly only just after the invention of the wheel.
    But it was nearly all downhill to the village. Hair streaming in the wind, cloak ballooning behind her like a sheet anchor, she let the two-wheeled juggernaut accelerate ponderously through the warm air. At least there wasn’t any traffic at this time of night.
    THE BENTLEY’S ENGINE went pink, pink as it cooled. Crowley’s temper, on the other hand, was heating up.
    â€œYou said you saw it signposted,” he said.
    â€œWell, we flashed by so quickly. Anyway, I thought you’d been here before.”
    â€œEleven years ago!”
    Crowley hurled the map onto the back seat and started the engine again.
    â€œPerhaps we should ask someone,” said Aziraphale.
    â€œOh, yes,” said Crowley. “We’ll stop and ask the first person we see walking along a—a track in the middle of the night, shall we?”
    He jerked the car into gear and roared out into the beech-hung lane.
    â€œThere’s something odd about this area,” said Aziraphale. “Can’t you feel it?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSlow down a moment.”
    The Bentley slowed again.
    â€œOdd,” muttered the angel, “I keep getting these flashes of, of … ”
    He raised his hands to his temples.
    â€œWhat? What?” said Crowley.
    Aziraphale stared at him.
    â€œLove,” he said. “Someone really loves this place.”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œThere seems to be this great sense of love. I can’t put it any better than that. Especially not to you .”
    â€œDo you mean like—” Crowley began.
    There was a whirr, a scream, and a clunk. The car stopped.
    Aziraphale blinked, lowered his hands, and gingerly opened the door.
    â€œYou’ve hit someone,” he said.
    â€œNo I haven’t,” said Crowley. “Someone’s hit me.”
    They got out. Behind the Bentley a bicycle lay in the road, its front wheel bent into a creditable Mobius shape, its back wheel clicking ominously to a standstill.
    â€œLet there be light,” said Aziraphale. A pale blue glow filled the lane.
    From the ditch beside them someone said, “How the hell did you do that?”
    The light vanished.
    â€œDo what?” said Aziraphale guiltily.
    â€œUh.” Now the voice sounded muzzy. “I think I hit my head on something … ”
    Crowley glared at a long metallic streak on the Bentley’s glossy paintwork and a dimple in the bumper. The dimple popped back into shape. The paint healed.
    â€œUp you get, young lady,” said the angel, hauling Anathema out of the bracken. “No bones broken.” It was a statement, not a hope; there had been a minor fracture, but Aziraphale couldn’t resist an opportunity to do good.
    â€œYou didn’t have any lights,” she began.
    â€œNor did you,” said Crowley guiltily. “Fair’s fair.”
    â€œDoing a spot of astronomy, were we?” said Aziraphale, setting the bike upright. Various things clattered out of its front basket. He pointed to the battered theodolite.
    â€œNo,” said Anathema, “I mean, yes. And look what you’ve done to poor old Phaeton.”
    â€œI’m sorry?” said Aziraphale.
    â€œMy bicycle. It’s bent all to—”
    â€œAmazingly resilient, these old machines,” said the angel brightly, handing it to her. The front wheel gleamed in the moonlight, as perfectly round as one of the Circles of Hell.
    She stared at it.
    â€œWell, since that’s all sorted out,” said Crowley,