Good Omens by Neil Gaiman Page A

“perhaps it’d be best if we just all got on our, er. Er. You wouldn’t happen to know the way to Lower Tadfield, would you?”
    Anathema was still staring at her bicycle. She was almost certain that it hadn’t had a little saddlebag with a puncture repair kit when she set out.
    â€œIt’s just down the hill,” she said. “This is my bike, isn’t it?”
    â€œOh, certainly,” said Aziraphale, wondering if he’d overdone things.
    â€œOnly I’m sure Phaeton never had a pump.”
    The angel looked guilty again.
    â€œBut there’s a place for one,” he said, helplessly. “Two little hooks.”
    â€œJust down the hill, you said?” said Crowley, nudging the angel.
    â€œI think perhaps I must have knocked my head,” said the girl.
    â€œWe’d offer to give you a lift, of course,” said Crowley quickly, “but there’s nowhere for the bike.”
    â€œExcept the luggage rack,” said Aziraphale.
    â€œThe Bentley hasn’t— Oh. Huh.”
    The angel scrambled the spilled contents of the bike’s basket into the back seat and helped the stunned girl in after them.
    â€œOne does not,” he said to Crowley, “pass by on the other side.”
    â€œYour one might not. This one does. We have got other things to do, you know.” Crowley glared at the new luggage rack. It had tartan straps.
    The bicycle lifted itself up and tied itself firmly in place. Then Crowley got in.
    â€œWhere do you live, my dear?” Aziraphale oozed.
    â€œMy bike didn’t have lights, either. Well, it did, but they’re the sort you put those double batteries in and they went moldy and I took them off,” said Anathema. She glared at Crowley. “I have a bread knife, you know,” she said. “Somewhere.”
    Aziraphale looked shocked at the implication.
    â€œMadam, I assure you—”
    Crowley switched on the lights. He didn’t need them to see by, but they made the other humans on the road less nervous.
    Then he put the car into gear and drove sedately down the hill. The road came out from under the trees and, after a few hundred yards, reached the outskirts of a middle-sized village.
    It had a familiar feel to it. It had been eleven years, but this place definitely rang a distant bell.
    â€œIs there a hospital around here?” he said. “Run by nuns?”
    Anathema shrugged. “Don’t think so,” she said. “The only large place is Tadfield Manor. I don’t know what goes on there.”
    â€œDivine planning,” muttered Crowley under his breath.
    â€œAnd gears,” said Anathema. “My bike didn’t have gears. I’m sure my bike didn’t have gears.”
    Crowley leaned across to the angel.
    â€œOh lord, heal this bike,” he whispered sarcastically.
    â€œI’m sorry, I just got carried away,” hissed Aziraphale.
    â€œTartan straps?”
    â€œTartan is stylish.”
    Crowley growled. On those occasions when the angel managed to get his mind into the twentieth century, it always gravitated to 1950.
    â€œYou can drop me off here,” said Anathema, from the back seat.
    â€œOur pleasure,” beamed the angel. As soon as the car had stopped he had the back door open and was bowing like an aged retainer welcoming the young massa back to the old plantation.
    Anathema gathered her things together and stepped out as haughtily as possible.
    She was quite sure neither of the two men had gone around to the back of the car, but the bike was unstrapped and leaning against the gate.
    There was definitely something very weird about them, she decided.
    Aziraphale bowed again. “So glad to have been of assistance,” he said.
    â€œThank you,” said Anathema, icily.
    â€œCan we get on?” said Crowley. “Goodnight, miss. Get in, angel.”
    Ah. Well, that explained it. She had been perfectly safe after all.
    She