01x02 - The Book

Episode transcripts for the 2019 TV mini series "Good Omens". Aired: May 31, 2019*
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Series follows longtime friends; a demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale who live on Earth teaming up to prevent the final battle between Heaven and Hell.
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01x02 - The Book

Post by bunniefuu »

Can I help you?

I would like to purchase one of your material objects.



Let us discuss my purchase in a private place, because I am buying, uh...



Gabriel, come into my back room.

We humans are extremely easily embarrassed.

We must buy our p*rn secretively.

Human beings are so simple...

and so easily fooled.


Ahem, good job.

You-- You fooled them all.

You remember Sandalphon?


Sodom and Gomorrah.

You were doing a lot of smiting and turning people into salt.

Hard to forget.

Something smells...evil.

Oh, that'll be the Jeffrey Archer books, I'm afraid.

Well, we just wanted to stop by and check on the status of the Antichrist.


What's wrong?

I-- I mean, if there is something wrong, I could put my people onto it.

Nothing's wrong.

Everything's going perfectly.

There's a lot happening.

All good.

All good?

Well, all going according to the Divine Plan.

The Hell Hound has been set loose, and now the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are being summoned.

Death, Pollution, Famine, w*r.


Who exactly summons them?

Not my department.

I believe we outsource that sort of thing.

About time, that's what I say.

You can't have a w*r without w*r.

Sandalphon, that is very good.

You can't have a w*r without w*r.

I might use that.



no problems?

How was the Hell Hound?

I-- I didn't stick around to see.

Thank you for my p*rn!

Excellent job.

"You can't have a w*r without w*r." Clever.

Welcome back.

Now, the government's foreign affairs spokesman will be here to comment on the recent increase in international tensions.

But first, do you know what's in your fridge?

Morning, Crowley.

Just checking in.

Nice chair.

Hey, guys.

It's about the Antichrist.


Great kid.

Takes after his dad.

Our operatives in the State Department have arranged for the child's family to be flown to the Middle East.

There, he and the Hell Hound will be taken to the Valley of Megiddo.

The Four Horsemen will begin their final ride.


-Armageddon will begin.

The final combat.

It's what we've been working towards since we rebelled.

We are the fallen.

Never forget that.

Well, it's not the sort of thing you forget.

I don't trust you, Crowley.

Everything's going just fine.

I didn't mean to fall.

I just hung around the wrong people.

Somebody has to summon the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

But they outsource that sort of thing these days.

Meet the Summoner.

He has four items to deliver in his van.

He works for the International Express Company.

And he's about to make his first delivery in a former w*r zone.

Sometimes, despite everything, peace breaks out.

People get tired of fighting, and pain, and death, and are willing to start all over again.

Excuse me, who are you?

Carmine Zingiber.

National World Weekly.

w*r correspondent.

Well, this is good, my friend.

It is good that a member of the world press is here to see us sign the peace accord.

Right, well, if you'd like to sign this first, Your Highness, and then the Prime Minister, then the Supreme Leader, then we'll get a photograph of all three of you together.


He signs first?

It is just a formality who signs first.

A formality?

You make me a laughingstock in my country, and you call that a formality?

Somebody has to sign the peace agreement first.

They do, and it's me.

Oh, don't mind me, ladies and gents.

Oh, what a day, eh?

Nearly didn't find the place.

Someone doesn't believe in signposts, eh?

Package for you, miss.

You, uh...

you have to sign for it.

Well, it's a lovely place you got here.

Yeah, I always wanted to come here on my holidays.


-Put it down.

Oh, you sweet thing.

That's not gonna happen, is it?

Sorry, folks.

I'd love to stay and get to know you all better...

but duty calls.

She's the first of four.

And you can't have a w*r without her.

She's been k*lling time for so long now.

Time, and sometimes people.

And now, 60 centuries of waiting are about to end.

This is also the story of a witch, a Witchfinder, and a book.

And that story starts about 360 years ago, with the last witch burning in England.

Witchfinder Major Pulsifer, all is prepared.

Where is the hag?

In her cottage.

She suspects nothing.

I thought you'd tested her with a pin.

We did.

Regulation-issue Witchfinder's pin.

-Pricked her all over.

-And what was the result?

She said it cured her arthritis.


Of what else is she accused?

Predicting the future, mostly.

She told Mistress Bulcock that Adultery would be coming to town.

Such nonsense.

That's you, isn't it?

It's not me.

My given name, Witchfinder Private Maggs, is Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery.

But you can call me "Witchfinder Major Pulsifer".

So they don't call you "Adultery Pulsifer"?

They do not.

Good milkman...

bring no more milk, not this day or ever, for today I am to die in flames.

Yours, Agnes Nutter.


My best wishes to your wife.



They're late.

She runs, I have heard tell, with no one pursuing her.


She says running each morning in an unladylike manner around the village doth improve her health.


Perhaps invisible demons pursue the witch as she runs.

No, she says it's good for you.

She said we should get more fibre in our diet.

I told her, I said, it's hard enough picking out the gravel.

Aye, she is obviously mad.

But how can we be certain she is a witch?

She cured me of the howling pox.

And cured my son of the bloody flux.

Obviously, a witch.





Adultery Pulsifer...

good people, thou art tardy.

I should have been aflame 10 minutes since.


Mistress Nutter?

- Hey!

- Hey!


This is most irregular, Mistress Nutter.

Gather thee right close, good people.

Come close until the fire near scorch ye, for I charge ye that all must see how the last true witch in England dies.

And let my death be a message to the world.



Gather thee close, I say.

And mark well the fate of those who meddle with such as they do not understand.

Oh, bugger.

Among the folk from the next village, there was much subsequent debate as to whether this disaster had been sent by God or by Satan.

However, a note found in Agnes' cottage suggested that any divine or devilish intervention had been materially helped by Agnes' petticoats, in which she had concealed 50 pounds of gunpowder and 30 pounds of roofing nails.

Oh, bugger.

Agnes also left behind a box and a book.

They were to be given to her daughter and her son-in-law, John and Virtue Device.

"Dear Mistress Nutter, we take great pleasure in enclosing your author's copy of your book.

We trust it will sell in huge numbers, yea, and be reprinted even unto a second printing.

Yours, Bilton and Scaggs, publishers." The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.

"Reminiscent of Nostradamus at his best." Ursula Shipton.

What does this mean, John?

It means, Virtue, that even though Agnes is dead, we must study her book.

For your mother knew the future.

"Prophecy 2,214.

In December 1980, an Apple will arise no man can eat.

Invest thy money in Master Jobbes's machine, and good fortune will tend thy days." Oh, I mean, this is balderdash.

The book Agnes left behind her was the sole prophetic work in all of human history to consist entirely of completely correct predictions concerning the following 350-odd years.

Being a precise and accurate description of the events that would culminate in Armageddon.

It was on the money in every single detail.

On the night the Antichrist was born, in a house in Malibu, Agnes Nutter's great-great-great-great-great granddaughter was drawing on the title page.

And, metaphorically, the book had just begun to tick.

Okay, Anathema.

Prophecy 2,214.

"In December 1980, an Apple will arise that no man can eat." That one's stupid, Mom.

It doesn't mean anything.

My mom bought 5,000 shares in Apple in 1980.

That's worth $40 million today.

Okay, 2,213.

"Four shall ride, and three shall ride the sky as two, and one shall ride in flames, and there shall be no stopping them.

Not fish, nor rain, neither devil or angel.

And ye shall be there also, Anathema." You see?

She's got special plans for you, mi amor.

Agnes gave us the easy job.

We just had to make sure everything was good for the family.

You're the one that's going to have to save the world.

Meanwhile, in Dorking, Surrey, Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery Pulsifer's great-great-great-great-great grandson should have been in bed hours ago.


It's after your bedtime, dear.

Just a few more minutes, Mum.

I'm putting the old computer back together.

You young scientists and your experiments.

It's not really an experiment, Mum.

I just changed the plug.

It'll work now.

I do hope the man from the electric isn't going to be upset again.

-It's not fair.

-Oh, don't worry, love.

It's not as if it's the end of the world.

I just wanted to say, well, good luck on the new job.

I hope it works out this time.

-I'm sure it'll be fine, Mum.

-You've just been unlucky.

I made you sandwiches.

And you are?

Newton Pulsifer.

Wages clerk.

I'm new.

Excuse me, I was just wondering, is there a way that I could do this without putting it in the computer?

Is there a way of accessing the wages database...

without using a computer?

Or maybe someone could print it out for me, and then I could do the sums on paper.

Okay, who's excited by the training initiative?

Let's see some hands.


Just so that you know, Norman, I've registered a complaint with HR about this whole training initiative nonsense.

It's a team-building exercise, Janice.

And, um, just so as you know, there's no "I" in "team", yeah?

But there's two "I's" in "building", Nigel.

And an "I" in "exercise".



So, can I have everybody's attention, please?

Sorry, I've just got to hit return and I'll be with you.

- Oh!

- Uh-oh.

Sorry, just not very good with computers.

Need a hand, d*ck?

My name's not actually d*ck.

It's the car's name.

You can ask me why, if you like.


"Athaneema Device"?

Anathema Device.

It's an old family name.

Purpose of your visit to the United Kingdom?

Well, I'm commanded by an ancient family prophecy.

I'm going to use all the wisdom and witchcraft at my disposal to hunt down the heart of darkness, and then do all that I can to destroy it before it brings about the end of the world.

I'm sorry?


Hello, Mum.

The new job?

Yeah, it's going really well.

They're great.

- They love me.

- -Walk past them with your noses in the air.

Bye, Mum.

There's only one thing we have to fear, you sissies, and it's not global warming, and it's not nuclear Armageddon.

Can anyone here tell me what it is?


You don't answer.

You don't answer, because you know it's true.

They are hidden in our midst.

I'm the thin red line that stands between humanity and the darkness.

-Yea, I'm talking about-- -Witches?

Aye, witches.

They lurk behind a facade of righteousness.

And there's naebody can stop them...

but me.

In the old days, Witchfinders were respected.

Matthew Hopkins, Witchfinder General...

...he used to charge each town and village ninepence for every witch he found.

And they paid.

Are you, um, Witchfinder General?

Oh, I am not.

There is no longer a Witchfinder General.

Nor is there a Witchfinder Colonel, a Witchfinder Major, not even a Witchfinder Captain.

There is, however, a Witchfinder Sergeant.

And you're looking at him.

Well, pleased to meet you, Mr Shadwell.

Um, cup of tea.

Nine sugars.

And a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

Coming right up.

Get your wallet out, laddie.

You never want to appear tight-fisted on first acquaintance.

- Thank you.

- And it's not "Mr Shadwell".

It's "Sergeant".

Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell.

What's your name, lad?


Newton Pulsifer.


That's a familiar name, now you mention it.

You have your own teeth?


-How many nipples have you got?


Nipples, laddie.

How many?

Um, just the usual two.


Be here at 11:00 tomorrow.

Bring scissors.

Just put it there.

Thanks so much.

What a gorgeous village, huh?

Thank you.



To work.

Easy job.

Deliver the Antichrist.

Keep an eye on him.

Nice, straightforward job, eh?

Not the kind of thing any demon is going to screw up, right?

The only things in the flat Crowley devotes any personal attention to are the houseplants.

He had heard about talking to plants in the early '70s, and thought it an excellent idea.

Although "talking" is perhaps the wrong word for what Crowley does.

Is that a spot?

Is it?

Right, you know what I've told you all about leaf spots.

I will not stand for them!

You know what you've done.

You've disappointed me.

Oh, dear.

Oh, dear.


Say goodbye to your friend.

He just couldn't cut it.

Now, this is going to hurt you so much more than it will hurt me.

And you guys, grow better!

What he does is put the fear of God into them.

More precisely, the fear of Crowley.

The plants are the most luxurious, verdant and beautiful in London.

Also, the most terrified.

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter?

I'm so sorry, I can't help you.

Well, of course I know who she was.

Born 1600, exploded 1656.

But there are no copies of her book available.

No, I can't name my price.

I don't have it.

Nobody has-- Well, there really is no need for that kind of language.

Um, hello.

I'm here about the advert in the paper.

Well, Madame Tracy draws aside the veil every afternoon except Thursdays.

I think there must be another advert.

Oh, right.

Come in, dear.

You're lucky.

One of my regulars had to cancel.

Now, I don't do anything kinky except by prior arrangement.

And my knees aren't what they were.

Also, if it's strict discipline you'll be wanting, you'd better tell me now because it can take me half an hour to squeeze into the leather pinny.

I'm sorry?

Are you not here for intimate personal relaxation and stress relief for the discerning gentleman?


I'm here to join the Witchfinder Army.


Mr Shadwell said he was expecting a visitor.

It's just been him for so long.


It's your new recruit, Mr Shadwell, look.

Away with you, harlot.

Scarlet woman.


Oh, Mr Shadwell.

I'll bring you both tea.

Milk and sugar, dear?

He's in the army now, Jezebel.

He'll make his own tea.

Welcome to the Witchfinder Army, new recruit.

You are, as of now, Witchfinder Private Pulsifer.

We used to be powerful.

We used to be important.


-Condensed milk, lad.

-And I take-- -Nine sugars.


We were the line of fire between the darkness and the poor unsuspecting folk who don't believe in witches.


-But, Sergeant Shadwell, don't the churches do that these days?

Nay, laddie.

Against the darkness?

It's a w*r.

And you know what our first w*apon is?


The Thundergun of Witchfinder Colonel "Get 'em before they get you" Dalrymple?

Nay, laddie.

That'll never be used again.

Not in this degenerate age.

Very good.

And you know what we do with them?

No, lad.

We read.

And we cut.

Hey, this is Anthony Crowley.

You know what to do.

Do it with style.

No leads yet my end.

Anything at your end?

Listen, I have sort of an idea.


Ah, hello.

When you did the baby swap 11 years ago, could something have gone wrong?


-You've lost the boy.

-"We've" lost him.

A child has been lost.

-But you still know his age-- -"We" know.

His birthday.

He's 11.

-You make it sound easy.

-Well, it can't be that hard.

I just hope nothing's happened to him.


Nothing's happened to him.

He happens to everything.

So, we only have to find his birth records.

Go through the hospital files.

-And then what?

-And then we find the child.

And then what?

Watch out for that pedestrian.

She's on the street.

She knows the risk she's taking.

Just watch the-- Watch the road.

Wh-Where is this hospital, anyway?

A village near Oxford, Tadfield.

Crowley, you can't do 90 miles per hour in Central London.

-Why not?

-You'll get us k*lled.

Well, inconveniently discorporated.


Why don't I put on a little...


What's a Velvet Underground?

You wouldn't like it.




I still can't believe your dad let you keep him, Adam.

Actually, when I found a cat we had to put up a notice saying we found a lost cat, and then we had to give her back.

It's my birthday.

And he wasn't wearing a collar.

And we asked, and nobody's reported a missing dog.

Our dog doesn't like me.

It pretends I'm not there.

Did you know that my cousin Charlotte says that in America, they have shops that sell 39 different flavours of ice cream.

Wensleydale's first name is Jeremy, but nobody's ever used it, not even his parents, who call him "Youngster".

All that stands between Wensleydale and chartered accountancy is time.

There aren't 39 different flavours of ice cream.

There aren't 39 flavours of ice cream in the whole world.

Pepper's given first names were Pippin Galadriel Moonchild.

She had been given them in a naming ceremony in a muddy valley field that contained several sheep and a number of leaky polythene tents.

Six months later, sick of the rain, the men, the sheep who ate first their marijuana crop and then their tents, Pepper's mother returned to Tadfield and enrolled in a Sociology course.

There could be, if you mixed them up.

You know, strawberry and chocolate.

Every g*ng needs a Brian.

Always grimy, always supportive of anything Adam invents or needs.

Vanilla and chocolate.

Chocolate and vanilla.

Strawberry and vanilla and chocolate.

Anyway, nobody's going to take Dog away from me.

We're together to the end.

Aren't we, boy?

Eye of newt and tongue of dog, north by northwest.


And it's southwest.

You must be here somewhere.

There's a witch moved in to Jasmine Cottage.

- That's stupid.

- -It's not stupid, stupid.

Mrs Henderson told my mother that the lady there gets a witches' newspaper.

Excuse me.

My father says there's no such thing as witches.

It makes sense that witches would have their own newspaper.

My dad gets the Angler's Times, and I bet there's loads more witches than anglers.

Shut up.

I'm trying to tell you things.

It's called the Psychic News.

She's a witch.

Actually, there are no more witches, because we invented science and all the vicars set fire to the witches for their own good.

It was called the Spanish Inquisition.

I don't reckon it's allowed, going round setting fire to people.

Otherwise people'd be doing it all the time.

It's alright if you're a vicar and it stops the witches from going to hell.

So I expect they'd be quite grateful if they understood it properly.

We could be the new Spanish Inquisition.

Actually, we can't be the Spanish Inquisition, because we're not actually Spanish.

I've been to Barcelona.

I can teach you Spanish.

They say "olé" a lot.

We should practice before we start burning witches.

We should start small and work our way up.

Leave it to me.

This is the Tadfield area.

Does it look familiar yet?

You know, it does.

I think there's an air base around here somewhere.

Air base?

Well, you don't think American diplomats' wives usually give birth in little religious hospitals in the middle of nowhere, do you?

No, it all had to seem to happen naturally, so there's an air base at Lower Tadfield.

Things started to happen, base hospital isn't ready.

"Oh", our man there said.

"There's a birthing hospital just down the road." And there we were.

Rather good organisation.


It should have worked.

Ah, but evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction.

No matter how well-planned, how foolproof an evil plan, no matter how apparently successful it may seem upon the way, in the end it will founder on the rocks of iniquity and vanish.

For my money it was just an ordinary cock-up.

-Hey, guys.


Nice hat.

Actually, we made it out of cardboard.

It's for our game.


What are you guys playing?

The British Inquisition.

- Come on, Wensleydale.

Sounds like fun.

How does the game work?

I am chief inquisitor.

Brian is head torturer.

And we're trying to find a witch.


Sounds very sensible.

- How do you do that?

- Watch.

Art thou a witch?



You can't say yes.

You've got to say no.

Then what?

Then we t*rture you until you say yes.

Wait, you're going to t*rture him?

We built a torturing machine.

It looks like a swing.

But, obviously, in this situation, I actually am a witch.

I have a big pointy hat, and we have a cat at home, and-- and I borrowed Mum's broom.

Look, no one's saying you can't be a witch, but you just have to say you're not a witch.

There's no point taking all this trouble if you're going to go round saying yes the minute we ask you.

- Just say no.

- But-- Art thou a witch, oh, evil crone?

Excuse me, Adam, why must I do all the work?

I'm being tortured here.

Actually, this is very painful.

I am thinking of admitting to being a witch.

I'm going to go home if I can't have a go.

Don't see why evil witches should have all the fun.

You have to keep pushing.

- Hey, kid.

- Yeah?

-Can I ask you something?


Are there any great beasts or strange things happening?

Well, there's Dog.

I mean, he's a beast.

Come on, Dog, say hello.

Not what I was looking for.

Hold on.

I have to tell them what to do.

All right, evil witch Wensleydale, don't do it again.

And now you get off the torturing swing and let someone else have a turn.

Right, well, you kids are hilarious, but I'm going to keep looking, so, bye.

Um, are you sure this is the right place?

This-- This doesn't look like a hospital.


...it feels loved.

No, it's definitely the place.

What do you mean "loved"?

Well, I mean the opposite of when you say, "I don't like this place.

It feels spooky".

I don't ever say that.

I like spooky.

Big spooky fan, me.

Let's go talk to some nuns.




- Oh, it's paint.

- Hey!

You've both been hit!

I don't know what you think you're playing at right-- Aah!

-Well, that was fun.

-Well, yes, fun for you.

Look at the state of this coat.

I've kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years now.

I'll never get this stain out.

-You could miracle it away.


Yes, but...

well, I would always know the stain was there.

Underneath, I mean.

Oh, thank you.

Impressive hardware.

I've looked at this g*n.

It's not a proper one at all.

It just sh**t paintballs.

Don't your lot disapprove of g*ns?

Unless they're in the right hands.

Then they give weight to a moral argument.

I think.

A moral argument?


Come on.

This is definitely the place.

Management training no longer meant watching half a dozen unreliable PowerPoint presentations.

Firms these days expected more than that.

They wanted to establish leadership potential, group cooperation and initiative, which allowed their employees to fire paintballs at any colleagues who irritated them.

Wonder where the nuns went.

The brochure for Tadfield Manor Crowley is inspecting fails to contain any sentences along the lines of, "Until 11 years ago, the manor was used as a hospital by an order of Satanic nuns who weren't actually very good at it".

Oh, Millie from Accounts caught me on the elbow.

-Who's winning?

-You're all going to lose.

What-- What the hell did you just do?

Well, they wanted real g*ns, so I gave them what they wanted.

I always said you couldn't trust those people from Purchasing.

The bastards.

There are people out there sh**ting at each other.

Well, it lends weight to their moral argument.

Everyone has free will, including the right to m*rder.

Just think of it as a microcosm of the universe.

I wanted to be a graphics designer, design LPs for the Rolling Stones, but the careers teacher said he hadn't heard of them.

- So I spent 36 years double-checking form BF-18.

They couldn't just say, "Oh, Norman, we're giving you early retirement.

Have a watch, bugger off and tend your marigolds".

Well, if they want w*r...

we're going to give them w*r.

Okay, guys, let's get the bastards.

They're murdering each other.

No, they aren't.

No one's k*lling anyone.

They're all having miraculous escapes.

It wouldn't be any fun otherwise.

You know, Crowley, I've always said that deep down, you really are quite a nice-- Shut it!

I'm a demon.

I'm not nice.

I'm never nice.

Nice is a four-letter word.

- I will not have-- - Excuse me, gentlemen.

Sorry to break up an intimate moment.

Can I help you?


-Saints and demons preserve us, it's Master Crowley.

You didn't have to do that.

You could have just asked her.


of course, of course.



"Excuse me, ma'am, we're two supernatural entities just looking for the notorious Son of Satan.

Wonder if you might help us with our enquiries?" Um, ahem, look...


You weren't by any chance, a nun here at this convent 11 years ago, were you?

I was.

Luck of the devil.

What happened to the baby I gave you?

I swapped him with the son of the American ambassador.

Such a nice man.

He used to be ambassador to Swindon.

Then Sister Theresa Garrulous came and took the other baby away.

This American ambassador, what was his name?

Where did he come from and what did he do with the baby?

I don't know.


There must have been records.


There were lots of records.

We were very good at keeping records.

Well, where are they?

b*rned in the fire.


Well, is there anything you remember about the baby?

He had lovely little toesie-woesies.

Let's go.

You will wake, having had a lovely dream about whatever you like best.


You'd think he'd show up, wouldn't you?

You'd think we could detect him in some way.

He won't show up.

Not to us.

Protective camouflage.

He won't even know it, but his powers will keep him hidden from prying occult forces.

Occult forces?

You and me.

-I'm not occult.


Angels aren't occult.

We're ethereal.

Is there some other way of locating him?

How the heaven should I know?

Armageddon only happens once, you know.

You don't get to go round again until you get it right.

But I know one thing, if we don't find him, it won't be the w*r to end all wars.

It'll be the w*r to end everything.

Most books on witchcraft will tell you that witches work naked.

This is because most books on witchcraft are written by men.

"Darksome night and shining moon..." Come on.

There's a very peculiar feeling to this whole area.

I'm astonished you can't feel it.

I don't feel anything out of the ordinary.

But it's everywhere.

All over here.


Flashes of love.

You're being ridiculous.

Last thing we need right now is-- You hit someone.

I didn't.

Someone hit me.

Let there be light.

How the hell did you do that?

I think I hit my head.

That's it.

No bones broken.

My bike.


Amazingly resilient, these old machines.

Where do you need to get to?

No, no, we're not giving her a lift.

Out of the question.

There's nowhere to put the bike.

Except for the bike rack.

Do get in, my dear.

So, where are we taking you?

Back to the village.

I'll give you directions.

Listen, my bike, it didn't have gears.

I know my bike didn't have gears.

Make a left.

Oh, Lord, heal this bike.

I got carried away.

Oh, you can drop me off here.

Oh, look, no gears.

-Just a perfectly normal velocipede.


Can we get on?

Get in, angel.

Hola, mi amor.

How is it going?


Any progress in finding the--?

The young beast and the lesser beast?

It must be at the north end of the village.

I'm certain of it.

I just can't figure out where.

Have you used your pendulum?

Mom, I'm not a kid.

If I get too close, the signal swamps me.

Further away, I can't get an accurate fix.

Mi amor, the answers are always in the book.

It's just sometimes you don't see them till afterwards.

The book.

Holy sh*t, Mom.

I'm going to have to call you back.


You know, we might get another human to find him.


-Humans are good at finding other humans.

They've been doing it for thousands of years.

And the child is partly human.

Other humans might be able to sense him.

He's the Antichrist.

He's got an a*t*matic defence thingy.

Suspicion slides off him like...

whatever it is water slides off.

Got any better ideas?

Or one single, better idea?

I still don't know why you let him keep that dog.

It was his birthday.

And, oh, I don't know, the way that he was looking at the dog and the dog was looking at him.

As if they were made for each other.

Arthur, you are a softy sometimes.

I resent that remark.

-Where's the dog now?

-Tied up outside.

Adam asked if he could have him in his room, but I said absolutely not.

"Absolutely not", I said.

Come on, Dog.

What was that about?

Oh, just checking on Adam.

He's quite sweet, you know...

when he's asleep.

When he's asleep, yeah.

Look, there's something I should tell you.

I have a...

"network" of highly trained human agents spread across the country.

Now, I could set them searching for the boy.

You do?

I actually--I actually have something similar.

Human operatives.

Gosh, do you think they ought to work together?

I don't think that's a very good idea.

My lot are not very sophisticated, politically speaking.

No, no, neither are mine.

So we tell our respective operatives to look for the boy?

Unless you have a better idea?


-What about ducks?

They're what water slides off.

Just drive the car, please.

You know, if you lined up everyone in the whole world and asked them to describe the Velvet Underground, nobody at all would say "bebop".

Oh, there's a book back there.

Well, it's not mine.

I don't read books.

It has to belong to the young lady you hit with your car.

I'm in enough trouble as it is.

I'm not going to start returning lost property.

That's what your lot do.

Why don't you just send it to the Tadfield post office, addressed to "the mad American woman with the bicycle"?

Oh, uh...jolly good, yes.


Right, so we'll both contact our respective human operatives, then?

All right.

-Are you alright?

-Perfectly, yes.

Uh, tip-top.

-Absolutely tickety-boo.


Mind how you go.


Well, that was a thing.

Aziraphale was particularly proud of his books of prophecy.

First editions, usually.

And every one was signed.

He had Martha the Gypsy and Ignatius Sybilla and Ottwell Binns.

Nostradamus had signed, "To myne olde friend Azerafel, with beste wishes".

Mother Shipton had spilled drink on his copy of her book.

He even owned an original scroll in the handwriting of St John the Divine of Patmos, whose "Revelation" had been the all-time best seller.

But there was one book he didn't have.

One book he had only heard of.

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.

When that the angel readeth these words of mine, in his shop of other men's books, then the final days are certes upon us.

Open thine eyes to understand.

Open thine eyes and read, I do say, foolish principalitee, for thy cocoa doth grow...


"Thy cocoa doth grow cold"?

What cocoa-- Oh!

Any news?

Found the missing Antichrist yet?


No news.


Nothing at all.

If I had anything, I would tell you, obviously.


We're friends.

Why would you even ask?

Oh, there's no news here either.

Call me if you find anything.


Why would you think I wouldn't?

Hang on.

"Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man.

And his number is six hundred threescore and six." It can't be that simple, can it?

I'd have to put the Tadfield area code first, of course.

Tadfield, 0-4-6-triple-6.

Arthur Young here.

Dad, look, I got Dog to walk on his hind legs!

Sorry, right number!
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