"Ach, ye beldame," muttered Shadwell. She had one of her gentlemen callers in there, obviously.
"To be frank, dear lady, my plans at this point are perforce somewhat fluid."
Shadwell's blood ran cold. He marched through the bead curtain, shouting, "The sins of Sodom an' Gomorrah! Takin' advantage of a defenseless hoor! Over my dead body!"
Madame Tracy looked up, and smiled at him. There wasn't anyone else in the room.
"Whurrizee?" asked Shadwell.
"Whom?" asked Madame Tracy.
"Some Southern pansy," he said, "I heard him. He was in here, suggestin' things to yer. I heard him."
Madame Tracy's mouth opened, and a voice said, "Not just A Southern Pansy, Sergeant Shadwell. THE Southern Pansy."
Shadwell dropped his cigarette. He stretched out his arm, shaking slightly, and pointed his hand at Madame Tracy.
"Demon," he croaked.
"No," said Madame Tracy, in the voice of the demon. "Now, I know what you're thinking, Sergeant Shadwell. You're thinking that any second now this head is going to go round and round, and I'm going to start vomiting pea soup. Well, I'm not. I'm not a demon. And I'd like you to listen to what I have to say."
"Daemonspawn, be silent," ordered Shadwell. "I'll no listen to yer wicked lies. Do yer know what this is? It's a hand. Four fingers. One thumb. It's already exorcised one of yer number this morning. Now get ye out of this gud wimmin's head, or I'll blast ye to kingdom come."
"That's the problem, Mr. Shadwell," said Madame Tracy in her own voice. "Kingdom come. It's going to. That's the problem. Mr. Aziraphale has been telling me all about it. Now stop being an old silly, Mr. Shadwell, sit down, and have some tea, and he'll explain it to you as well."
"I'll ne'r listen tae his hellish blandishments, woman," said Shadwell.
Madame Tracy smiled at him. "You old silly," she said.
He could have handled anything else.
He sat down.
But he didn't lower his hand.
The swinging overhead signs proclaimed that the southbound carriageway was closed, and a small forest of orange cones had sprung up, redirecting motorists onto a co-opted lane of the northbound carriageway. Other signs directed motorists to slow down to thirty miles per hour. Police cars herded the drivers around like red-striped sheepdogs.
The four bikers ignored all the signs, and cones, and police cars, and continued down the empty southbound carriageway of the M6. The other four bikers, just behind them, slowed a little.
"Shouldn't we, uh, stop or something?" asked Really Cool People.
"Yeah. Could be a pile-up," said Treading in Dogshit (formerly All Foreigners Especially The French, formerly Things Not Working Properly Even When You've Given Them a Good Thumping, never actually No Alcohol Lager, briefly Embarrassing Personal Problems, formerly known as Skuzz).
"We're the other Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse," said G.B.H. "We do what they do. We follow them."
They rode south.
"It'll be a world just for us," said Adam. "Everything's always been messed up by other people but we can get rid of it all an' start again. Won't that be great?"
"You are, I trust, familiar with the Book of Revelation?" said Madame Tracy with Aziraphale's voice.
"Aye," said Shadwell, who wasn't. His biblical expertise began and ended with Exodus, chapter twenty-two, verse eighteen, which concerned Witches, the suffering to live of, and why you shouldn't. He had once glanced at verse nineteen, which was about putting to death people who lay down with beasts, but he had felt that this was rather outside his jurisdiction.
"Then you have heard of the Antichrist?"
"Aye," said Shadwell, who had seen a film once which explained it all. Something about sheets of glass falling off lorries and slicing people's heads off, as he recalled. No proper witches to speak of. He'd gone to sleep halfway through.
"The Antichrist is alive on earth at this moment, Sergeant. He is bringing about Armageddon, the Day of Judgement, even if he himself does not know it. Heaven and Hell are both preparing for war, and it's all going to be very messy."
Shadwell merely grunted.
"I am not actually permitted to act directly in this matter, Sergeant. But I am sure that you can see that the imminent destruction of the world is not something any reasonable man would permit. Am I correct?"
"Aye. S'pose," said Shadwell, sipping condensed milk from a rusting can Madame Tracy had discovered under the sink.
"Then there is only one thing to be done. And you are the only man I can rely on. The Antichrist must be killed, Sergeant Shadwell. And you must do it."
Shadwell frowned. "I wouldna know about that," he said. "The witchfinder army only kills witches. 'Tis one of the rules. And demons and imps, o'course."
"But, but the Antichrist is more than just a witch. He—he's THE witch. He's just about as witchy as you can get."
"Wud he be harder to get rid of than, say, a demon?" asked Shadwell, who had begun to brighten.
"Not much more," said Aziraphale, who had never done other to get rid of demons than to hint to them very strongly that he, Aziraphale, had some work to be getting on with, and wasn't it getting late? And Crowley had always got the hint.
Shadwell looked down at his right hand, and smiled. Then he hesitated.
"This Antichrist—how many nipples has he?"
The end justifies the means, thought Aziraphale. And the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.* And he lied cheerfully and convincingly: "Oodles. Pots of them. His chest is covered with them—he makes Diana of the Ephesians look positively nippleless."
"I wouldna know about this Diana of yours," said Shadwell, "but if he's a witch, and it sounds tae me like he is, then, speaking as a sergeant in the WA, I'm yer man."
"Good," said Aziraphale through Madame Tracy.
"I'm not sure about this killing business," said Madame Tracy herself. "But if it's this man, this Antichrist, or everybody else, then I suppose we don't really have any choice."
"Exactly, dear lady," she replied. "Now, Sergeant Shadwell. Have you a weapon?"
Shadwell rubbed his right hand with his left, clenching and unclenching the fist. "Aye," he said. "I have that." And he raised two fingers to his lips and blew on them gently.
There was a pause. "Your hand?" asked Aziraphale.
"Aye. 'Tis a turrible weapon. It did for ye, daemonspawn, did it not?"
"Have you anything more, uh, substantial? How about the Golden Dagger of Meggido? Or the Shiv of Kali?"
Shadwell shook his head. "I've got some pins," he suggested. "And the Thundergun of Witchfinder-Colonel Ye-Shall-Not-Eat-Any-Living-Thing-With-The-Blood-Neither-Shall-Ye-Use-Enchantment-Nor-Observe-Times Dalrymple… I could load it with silver bullets."
"That's werewolves, I believe," said Aziraphale.
"Garlic?"
"Vampires."
Shadwell shrugged. "Aye, weel I dinna have any fancy bullets anyway. But the Thundergun will fire anything. I'll go and fetch it."