AUTHOR: SARAH PALMER
In a small diner not far from an entrance to the London Underground, two beings were sharing a simple lunch. This establishment’s only window, adorned with a substantive layer of fingerprints and nonspecific grease, functioned much like a confessional through its sheer mundanity. The location itself, with only a few rickety tables, harsh fluorescent ceiling lights, and a noticeable lack of catering staff seemed more like set dressing than an honest dining experience.
Of course, this was all planned. And by planned, I do mean prophesized.
~
The first guest was a Mr. Azra Fell, though he often omitted the first name. Out of his extensive compilation of past pseudonyms, he had decided that ‘Mr. Fell’ held equal parts mystique and modernity, which he had recently been trying to embody simultaneously.
Mr. Fell hadn’t sought out such an eatery by intention – in fact, he would have much preferred the new high-end French cuisine available just two blocks West – and yet there he was. That’s the way prophecies usually go. He hadn’t busied himself with them in nearly the same capacity in recent times, yet he always found himself entwined within them. Something to do with that woman and her bicycle. She still hadn’t finished her Tadfield holiday.
The second guest, the Principality Aziraphale, entered the room with a flourish, almost losing the scrap of aged paper pinched between his fingertips in his jubilation. The intensity of such a grip was not obvious at a distance, but Aziraphale would have gone great lengths to protect such a scrap. It’s not every day the one true prophetic text in all of human history mentions you by name.
Despite his need for said text concluding definitively last Sunday, Azirphale had kept a hold of the shoddy old book for the sake of future nostalgia. The day before present, a scrap had fallen from within the binding as he reorganised his bookshelves, which read:
Heede my wordes, Azraphel: Wonne week since the Endeth of Days hath paffed, and the Humane Incarnate hast revealed himselfe; thee, both principalitee and Earth-dweller, now sep’rated by the Inspired Creator, shalle greet an angel whom is Fell, and heareth of thy shortcomingf.
He had practically jumped for joy at the discovery.
Aziraphale didn’t bother to introduce himself, and as a result Mr. Fell wasn’t immediately aware of their shared ethereal lineage. Despite this, both diners instantly recognised a strong, gravitational bond drawing them in orbit of one another, like a binary star. From a distance, through the grubby window, a stranger passing by may have even mistaken them for one person.
Mr. Fell eyed the guest’s all-beige ensemble. “I can only assume you’re from… upstairs.”
“Not so! I’m here at Agnes’ bequest.” Aziraphale slid over the scrap and took his seat. As Mr. Fell scanned the text, his apprehension began to fade. Another angel, invested in Agnes’ benign prophecies as well as the Apocalyptic. This was promising.
Aziraphale waved his hand and two coffees materialised – upon taking a sip, he recoiled. The angel’s miraculous capabilities had been noticeably capped since his recent dissent; the only coffee he could summon was instant. He gingerly returned it to the table.
“Oh! My apologies, I didn’t even think to ask for your order!” Aziraphale chuckled to himself, “Although, I would be remiss to inform you that this brew is not particularly, er, high standard. I just can’t seem to summon a proper cup these days. Not since… Well, er. You know.” He shifted in his seat.
“I seem to be doing fine. Just yesterday I snagged a table at the Ritz for Crowley and I without trouble.”
Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Crowley?”
Mr. Fell blinked. “Yes. Do you know him?”
Aziraphale pondered this, a smile flitting across his face. “I suppose I do.” As he said this, the nightingale resting just outside the window twittered something to itself and set off in the direction of Berkeley Square.
~
“Right, but the Archangel spelled it out quite clearly, did he not?” Mr. Fell laughed, “Something about Heaven not… backing down?”
“You can’t have a war without war,” Aziraphale parroted. “That was Sandalphon.”
“Charming.” Mr. Fell paused. “Well that’s just it.”
Aziraphale looked puzzled.
“Did you believe that the way Gabriel – and Sandalphon, and Uriel, and all the others – did you actually believe they had The Ineffable Plan all figured out? That their instructions to you must be intrinsically good because they’re the ones speaking?” Mr Fell scoffed. “Did you not question their methods?”
“You act like I was supposed to!” Aziraphale guffawed. “I assumed that these kinds of questions – these temptations – I assumed they were efforts by, er, the other side to… to undermine my position. Right from the start he was doing it, with his little… suggestions.”
“They would undermine you by… asking questions?”
“Crowley’s gotten very creative, you know.”
“Ah, but you just admitted it wasn’t him.” Mr. Fell raised his brow. “You dedicated so much of your faith to Heaven, or, at least, to what you thought Heaven to be, you left none for yourself.”
Aziraphale fell silent, clasping his hands on the table. The sun had settled comfortably into the creases of the horizon, giving way to an intricate, speckled sky. Foot traffic had picked up outside as groups of done up twenty-somethings began their bustling nights out, adding a pleasant hum to the background of the two beings’ philosophising. No other patrons joined the angels in the diner. Aziraphale’s cup of coffee, hours old, sat untouched on the table, and above him a fluorescent tube light began to fizzle. From inside the diner, neither angel had noticed the time passing – without constant cues from a physical body it was quite easy to let time run its course. Sometimes for centuries.
This revelation made the gears in Aziraphale’s head turn almost audibly. He muttered, “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“You had it in you all along.”
He shrugged, embarrassed. “Why, thank you.”
“This isn’t flattery, dear boy. Crowley didn’t tempt us into passing down the sword, did he? That was done out of our own love.”
Aziraphale blinked. “Quite so!”
“Imbuing ambiguity into the ineffable out of sheer compassion. And what of The Arrangement? Blessings and temptations alike, forged status reports. That was quite the disobedience.”
“I suppose I am a bit of a… rebel,” Aziraphale giggled.
“Quite so.”
The silence that followed was comfortable. By now, the heavy bass of nearby club music rumbled through the walls. The night was well underway.
With a sigh, Aziraphale stood and adjusted his suspenders. “Even so, I should be, er, going now. It is quite late.” Pushing in his chair, he looked forlorn.
“One more thing!” Mr. Fell smiled warmly. “Whatever The Almighty has in store will play out as they intend it to, so leave it be.” And right he was. “They’re doing Hamlet at the Globe next Tuesday. I suggest you bring Crowley along.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there!” Aziraphale winked.
Mr. Fell laughed. “Maybe.”
Inspired by Good Omens – both novel and the TV series – this year’s Major/Minor English class were tasked with constructing a narrative in which the same character from the book and show somehow come to meet one another. This submission, featuring the angel Aziraphale or sometimes ‘Mr. Fell’, includes a number of symbols from both texts, and mirrors the style of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett’s satirical and quirky prose. If you enjoy science fiction or fantasy, texts with a style like Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, or simply enjoy a good satire, you’ll enjoy Good Omens. It’s available from our school library whenever you are.