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Crowley plotted his revenge in an all-night frenzy. When inspiration struck, he needed to get it out of his system right away, otherwise he’d lose his creative energy. The last time he’d been anywhere close to this manic was the planning phase of the M25 Orbital.
His vengeance plot had flared up after he and Aziraphale had eaten at a lovely little lunch spot in Budapest, then strolled hand in hand through leafy public gardens towards the Heroes’ Square, past the Millennium Monument. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, Aziraphale’s hand was warm and sure in his, and all was right with the world.
‘Oh,’ Aziraphale said, with his smallest, most nervous laugh, ‘it’s that statue. I’d forgotten. How silly of me.’
Crowley’s gaze caught on a massive white column and followed its length up to a statue of an angel, wings spread, raising a golden crown in one hand, a golden sword in the other. Crowley knew immediately, from Aziraphale’s tone, that the angel was Gabriel.
Something sparked deep in Crowley’s lizard brain, setting off a chain reaction that fired his synapses until the idea exploded into his consciousness. So that’s how I’ll get the prat.
Of course, Crowley didn’t let his inner turmoil show. Good thing he had six thousand years of concealing his emotions under his belt. He gave Aziraphale’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Don’t let him take up another second of your time, angel,’ he said softly.
A pink tinge spread across Aziraphale’s cheeks, and he squeezed back with a small, grateful smile.
They strolled to a nearby gelateria, where Crowley took immense pleasure in watching Aziraphale relish scoops flavoured with honey, fig and vanilla. He almost pitied Gabriel, who would never be able to enjoy gelato or the sight of a beloved’s tongue curling around its soft, creamy mounds. Almost pitied him. Gabriel didn’t even deserve that.
*
For centuries Crowley had wanted Gabriel to get his comeuppance. It wasn’t about the archangel’s role in Crowley’s Fall—that had been during wartime with all the angels involved and the Almighty responsible for the outcome. No, this was personal.
Whenever Aziraphale had spoken of Gabriel, Crowley had fantasised about ripping off the archangel’s wings and stuffing them in a giant garbage disposal. He’d dreamt of twining his serpent form around Gabriel’s neck, tighter and tighter, until his head snapped off. He’d felt an almost sexual excitement at the thought of shoving Gabriel into Hell and watching him burn, screaming in agony, until he transformed into a demon even smellier than Hastur.
Later, in Heaven’s execution chamber, when Crowley had stood engulfed in a pillar of hellfire, he’d wanted to reach out, grab Gabriel and pull him in, then gather up the ashes, turn them into a large, gaudy diamond and wear it on a gold ring, the flashier the better. ‘Oh, this little trinket? Used to be the Archangel Gabriel. Stupid tosser tried to murder my husband.’ But instead Crowley had just breathed out a wrathful burst of flames, the equivalent of giving the finger to an incompetent driver who’d tried to cut off the Bentley.
No sense putting a target on Aziraphale’s back for all eternity. Crowley had needed to find a more subtle approach.
Just shut your stupid mouth and die already. Those words alone would have been enough to whet his appetite for vengeance. But then. Well.
Aziraphale had been cuddled to his side one night while they marathoned The Good Place and fed each other chocolate-coated strawberries between kisses. Crowley had lost track of time since the Almostgeddon, but something in the vicinity of a few weeks might have passed. They’d spent every moment together, mostly in the flat above the bookshop. That night they’d dined out in Mayfair near Crowley’s flat, so they’d walked there through the warm starlit evening and ended up on a comfortable but very ugly brown couch—where had that sprung from?—watching his flat-screen telly.
‘I don’t understand why you enjoy this vulgar American picture show,’ Aziraphale had muttered snootily when Crowley switched it on. But he didn’t complain after that.
During the fifth episode, Aziraphale pushed away a strawberry when Crowley held it to his lips. ‘What?’ Crowley asked. ‘Is that one slimy?’ It couldn’t be, though—he’d made it clear to the strawberries that they would measure up or face severe consequences.
‘Oh.’ Aziraphale gave his little nervous laugh. ‘No, my dear, I just … Lately I’ve been quite a bit more gluttonous than usual, you see, and I’m afraid I’ve grown rather soft.’
It didn’t take much prompting for the whole sorry tale to pour out. It then took a lot of effort on Aziraphale’s part to keep Crowley from storming up to Heaven, tearing Gabriel into pieces and feeding him to the Kraken. ‘But the poor thing must be famissshed down there at the bottom of the ocean,’ Crowley whined a few hours and a bottle of scotch into this discussion. ‘I’d be doing so much good, angel, can’t you see that? Gabriel’s unsssssullied pure temple of a body would make such a sssscrumptious meal. Fresh free-range organic archangel.’ He smacked his lips.
They eventually agreed that Aziraphale would try to move on from Gabriel’s hurtful remarks while eating whatever took his fancy, if Crowley wouldn’t mention any more of his supposedly fanciful plans for what Aziraphale described as ‘excessive, brutal and uncalled-for bloodshed’ and Crowley insisted would be ‘absolutely fair, just and reasonable’.
Of course, Aziraphale didn’t know all the details of his lack of a trial and near-execution. Crowley had managed to keep mum on that. Why did Aziraphale need to know about it, anyway? It would cut him to the quick. Might even make him Fall.
But they both knew that Gabriel was a bully. They’d known for millennia. They were well aware he would continue to be a bully. He would delight in psychologically tormenting his underlings, along with any humans who happened to cross his path, and he would get away with it forever. Unless someone stopped him.
And so, a couple of weeks—or months?—later when Crowley was smacked over the head by his big idea while staring at that statue of Gabriel in Budapest, he didn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt when he instantly decided to plan it out.
*
The night after he and Aziraphale returned from Budapest, they dined at the Ritz as was their habit now, then Crowley said he needed to tend to his plants and get some work done.
Aziraphale’s face fell. ‘Alone?’
‘Just for the night.’ Crowley gave him a peck on the lips. ‘Just a loose end, angel. Won’t take long to sort out. You can still sleep at mine if you like?’
Aziraphale nodded, his big blue eyes widening in that obnoxiously irresistible way that could persuade Crowley to stop time, and so off they zapped to the flat.
‘I was under the impression,’ said Aziraphale, as he switched his new peach-hued evening wear for flannel pyjamas printed with rubber ducks, ‘that we were on an extended holiday. One that might extend until the end of time and, if possible, beyond that.’
‘Look, if you must know, if you absolutely can’t let it go, it’s this bloody prime minister debacle the country’s got itself into. I can’t abide it.’ And in a way, this was true: the half-formed plan taking root in Crowley’s mind could potentially kill several birds with one stone—or at least maim them. ‘That bloated git is begging to be booted out. And if I can, I’ll crush that great pustule of an American president with him.’
Aziraphale beamed his approval, his eyes sparkling. Why did he have to be so bloody sweet and adorable while Crowley was threatening to take down political leaders? Well, not that he really minded. Actually it gave him a warm tingle all along his spine.
‘Oh, darling, that sounds spiffing. But before you get to work, be a dear and bring me a hot cocoa in my favourite mug? Two marshmallows, if you please.’
‘A pink one and a white one,’ said Crowley with an answering smile, and kissed him.
*
A month later, the American president was forced to travel to the UK for some abruptly urgent trade talks with the British prime minister. Neither of them saw this as a big imposition, because they got along like a house on fire. And it wasn’t as though they needed to pay much attention to boring political chitchat anyway—they had underlings who did that for them, and they’d have plenty of time to discuss golf, women and luxury goods.
On the second night of the president’s trip, the two of them accompanied the British royal family, along with the American ambassador, his wife and son, to the swanky opening ceremony of London’s latest tourist-attraction monstrosity: a giant golden statue of the Archangel Gabriel, right near the heart of the city, in the middle of what had once been a lovely suburb brimming with culture and was now a glossy mausoleum to its glory days.
Everyone at the ceremony was simply amazed by the speed at which this statue had been planned out and built. Apparently the genius sculptor and genius architect—both of them wealthy, white, straight, cisgender men who’d attended Eton, and who had been appointed heads of their companies on the retirement of near-identical men purely due to merit, of course—had been inspired by oddly similar dreams of the archangel after a night drinking together at the Club. In fact, they humbly boasted to their companies’ nearest and dearest Insta followers that perhaps divine intervention had been involved—perhaps Gabriel himself had visited them that night! And apparently he was a ginger.
All the red tape had been snipped the very next week, due to some sudden financial and political pressure from every religion that venerated Gabriel, along with several other organisations that took an unusual interest in this venture. Within a couple of weeks, a devout group of tradespeople had constructed the statue while a devout group of PR people got the word out on a global scale and organised the star-studded launch.
Of the statue itself, the less said the better. Somehow it managed to be the shiniest, tallest, most vulgar, most expensive and most phallic sculpture of an angel ever built.
At least the opening ceremony was fabulous, held in the vast penthouse of a brand-new hotel with windows overlooking the statue. Everyone who was everyone had turned up. The room was packed with celebrities, politicians, royals, aristocrats, business elites, media moguls and tech entrepreneurs, all clad in designer labels and dripping with obscenely expensive jewels.
Warlock Dowling, the young son of the American ambassador, was bored stiff. As usual his parents were too busy to pay him much mind, and he’d been seated at the kids table. Glued to his phone, he wandered around the plush indigo-and-gold carpet, his dark fringe in his eyes, until a waitress nearly smashed her tray of canapes right into his face. She steadied him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He was about to scowl up at her, but then she said, ‘Sorry, love,’ in a warm Scottish brogue. She was extremely tall and thin, and for a second he thought—but no. Nanny would never have cut her hair that short, or been seen dead in such a tight black shirt. And were those green contact lenses? Wicked. But she stalked off before he could compliment her.
A few seconds later, his shoulder still oddly warm from the touch of that gentle hand, Warlock just happened to bump into his favourite YouTube star, a young genderfluid person who, after chatting with him for a while, asked to see some of his work when it was ready. Within a few years, Warlock’s channel had taken the internet by storm, and they’d become a popular activist. By their early twenties they were appearing in a Netflix series and had fallen in love with a co-star. Their father cut them off, but that was okay because their mother cut off their father and within a few months married her closest friend from university, Pamela.
But back to the night of the opening ceremony.
The American ambassador, the American president and the British prime minister, empty champagne glasses in hand, were all having a laugh at the expense of a prominent woman in US politics. ‘Don’t know how she leaves the house with a face like that,’ chortled the prime minister. ‘She’d look better with a bag over her head.’
‘Yeah, then I’d cut a hole in it so she could suck me off,’ said the president, and they had a long raucous laugh at that cheeky thought. What loveable boyish rascals they were.
None of them really noticed the waiter who brought them fiddly salmon-mousse parfaits and topped up their glasses with the finest champagne. If asked later to describe this man, they would all have said something like, ‘Thin, tall, dressed in black, very ordinary.’
However, by the next day the American president had entirely lost his voice: a medical mystery, which the world’s best doctors eventually put down to nerves. This plunged him into a crisis of confidence, and he spent weeks moping around the White House, neglecting his duties even more than usual. Then he remembered he’d never wanted to be president anyway, so he quit in a spectacular online rant that blamed everyone but himself, and he and his latest wife moved to their favourite resort. That night, he found his voice again. The resort collapsed into a sinkhole a few years later, and the former president was the only casualty. In death he soon rose through the ranks of Hell to replace Ligur at Hastur’s side.
The British prime minister, meanwhile, could not be reached for comment. The morning after the statue’s launch he woke up, still dressed in his best tux, on the beach of an unpopulated tropical island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. He was alone and totally isolated. But there was a comfortable cave and an abundance of fish and coconuts, so he survived there for ten years before he was sighted by an Amazon delivery drone that had lost its way in a storm. By then he was a changed man who devoted the rest of his life to fighting climate change, supporting feminism, punching Nazis and helping refugees.
Nothing that drastic happened to the American ambassador. He was just never again able to eat meat or other animal products without being violently ill, and so he was forced to become a strict vegan. He found this deeply humiliating because he had always derided those bleeding-heart hippies. Years later, after his wife left him for a woman, he started going on vegan Reddit boards, at first as a troll but then, gradually, as a convert to animal-rights activism. He met his partner Crystal online, and soon they were running a vegetarian health retreat in Big Sur. Over the next few years Crystal helped him to reconcile with Warlock, and they cried in each other’s arms on the morning of Warlock’s wedding day.
But again, we must turn our attention back to the night of the opening ceremony.
Far in the corner of the room stood an entity in a dove-grey suit. He had broad shoulders, thin lips, a thick head of brown hair and a square jaw, and he radiated confidence and success. His self-satisfied grin showed off pearly-white, perfectly straight teeth that could have been used in an advert for dental floss. He also had the most glorious lilac eyes. Almost like Elizabeth Taylor’s.
The tall, thin, black-clad waiter tapped another waiter on the shoulder, who a few seconds later tapped a waitress, who made a beeline for the purple-eyed fellow.
Then the whole room froze.
Except for the tall, thin waiter, who glanced around, at first bewildered, then enraged and sneering in a way poorly designed to conceal abject terror. ‘What the bloody hell is—?’ he shouted, before finding himself somewhere completely different.
The party went on without him. As for the waitress who’d been on her way to the gentleman in the corner, she turned in the opposite direction and chastised herself for zoning out. She needed to stop writing fanfic till the wee small hours of the morning.
*
Crowley was sitting at the kitchen table of a pleasant little cottage somewhere in the—it took him a moment to get his bearings—in the Swiss Alps. Through the window above the sink he stared at a hilly expanse of emerald meadow, all golden in the crisp autumnal sunlight, with dramatic snow-covered peaks as the backdrop. Wait a minute … sunlight! How much time had passed? Aziraphale might be a bit concerned.
Frolicking in the meadow were three well-nourished animals: a sleek jet-black goat, a white fluffy lamb and a pearlescent unicorn that for safekeeping Crowley had given to—
‘Your unicorn’s been in good health, keeping me on my toes as usual,’ said the middle-aged-looking woman with long dark hair who sat opposite Crowley. ‘The lamb’s named Lucifer. And the goat is—well, take a guess.’
‘Michael?’
Mary smiled wryly. ‘It’s “Mikey”, actually. But you deserve a slice of carrot cake for that.’ She gestured between them to the large rectangular cake coated with browned-butter icing. ‘Go on. I know you’ve started eating again lately.’
How the Heaven did she know that? Best to get the lay of the land before he asked any questions. He picked up the embossed silver cake-server, cut himself a slice and slid it onto a delicate plate of mint-green china bordered with white lilies, then scooped up a bite on a dainty pastry fork and put it in his mouth. Scrummy, as Aziraphale would say.
The kettle began to boil on the gas stovetop, so Mary stood up and made a pot of tea, then rested it beside the cake on a ceramic trivet in the shape of a rose. ‘Milk or sugar?’
‘Nah, black as a sackcloth of hair, bitter as gall,’ Crowley said with a smirk, and she rolled her eyes at him as she set out cups on saucers.
Aziraphale would have loved the décor, from the floral curtains to the round Scandinavian-designed wooden table; he’d have found it all quite charming. He’d also have admired Mary’s plain but stylishly cut dress of navy-blue linen. Crowley would never have admitted aloud that he shared these views—he’d sooner have scratched the Bentley. Fortunately Mary didn’t ask.
‘So,’ she said, ‘it’s been a while. I heard you and your angel averted the Apocalypse and finally shacked up.’
What, had Mary been spying on him and Aziraphale? How? Why?
He swallowed a mouthful of cake and willed himself not to blush. ‘Yeah.’ Why couldn’t he have been wearing his bloody sunglasses? He reached into a pocket that now happened to be at the front of his black shirt, and pulled out a pair that happened to be in there. Sliding them on, he felt a tiny bit more relaxed.
‘I also hear you’re not going by Ishtar at all anymore.’
‘Not for now,’ said Crowley, ‘though I did a stint recently.’
‘Completely back to male pronouns, then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m still using female. Think I always will.’
‘Fair enough.’
Mary poured the tea through a silver strainer. ‘And you and your angel survived holy water and hellfire respectively?’
Crowley tried to look like this was all very dull to him, when really he wanted to turn into a snake and hide under the table. ‘Yeah. S’pose that’s just how it works when—’
‘When an angel and a demon rub off on each other?’
Crowley nearly choked on a sliver of walnut, a difficult feat for a demon. Mary had to give him a hearty thump on the back.
‘Have you heard from Eve lately?’ she asked, when he’d recovered. ‘She hasn’t been getting back to my texts. Have she and Adam eloped to renew their vows again? Honestly, how many times—’
‘Nope, haven’t spoken to her in a few centuries. And, uh, thing is, um … Look, Mary, lovely to see you, but can you get to the bleeding point?’
There was a pause in which the temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees.
‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you, my boy.’
‘Oh?’ He sipped the tea, delightfully scalding. ‘This have something to do with you nabbing me right out of my intricately plotted revenge fantasy?’
She nodded, stirring two lumps of sugar into her tea, then a dash of milk.
‘Come on, Mary, I thought you of all people would understand!’
‘What were you going to do? Hold a flaming sword to his throat and say, “My name is Anthony J Crowley, you hurt my angel, prepare to discorporate”?’
‘No, I was—’
‘I’m sure it was a very tidy plan.’ Mary leaned forward, her palms flat on the table, eyes narrowed, and lowered her voice. ‘But I’ve got news for you, Snack of Eden. This goes far beyond you and your precious Principality. I’ve been plotting my vengeance since before you two idiots were flirting at my son’s crucifixion. So get on board or get out of my way.’
Crowley’s teacup rattled the saucer as he set it down. He stared at her, aghast. ‘Do you mean to tell me, that all these years, that you … you’ve been …?’
‘You heard me.’
‘But, Mary—’
‘Don’t “But, Mary” me. I get enough of that from my son. Who has been absolutely no help since the Crusades, let me tell you. Practically abdicated. Last I heard from him, he was surfing along the south coast of Australia. Told me he’d learned to play some musical instrument called a Hang. Said I should look him up on YouTube. Cheeky blighter.’
‘YouTube has its perks, though,’ said a voice with a New Yorker accent.
Crowley’s jaw dropped slightly. Stay calm, stay calm, be cool. He turned to see an entity sitting on the bench beside the sink. ‘Salome, still using female pronouns,’ she said, and winked at him. She wore a slinky red silk dress and black-lacquered stilettos with crimson soles. Crowley instantly coveted the whole outfit.
‘Oh, Salome, hi there. It’s been, er … well, a few thousand years, at least? What have you been up to? Still dancing?’
‘Nah, I don’t dance now, I make money moves.’
He wasn’t sure how to interpret that, so he just said, ‘Good for you.’
‘Thanks. And damn, that snake belt is on point.’
He nodded, a tad out of his depth. ‘Right. Yeah. Pointy. Just what I was going for.’
‘Sal helped me to extract you yesterday evening,’ Mary explained, helpfully letting him know that not too much time had passed—Aziraphale wouldn’t be worried yet. ‘She’s a very skilled demon.’
‘Aw, thanks, Mare,’ said Salome, her proud grin seeming a little shy.
Crowley’s jaw dropped again, and Mary scoffed at him. ‘Don’t look so shocked, darling. Did you really think you and your angel were the only ones living in the grey area? How narrow-minded of you.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘And so the two of you have been working together on this plot against Gabriel, then?’
‘Us and a few others,’ said Mary. ‘A lovely little group. Meet once a month on a Tuesday. Everyone bakes something. We do some knitting and crochet, and occasionally a spot of embroidery. Drink tea. Share some juicy gossip. Plan our bloodless coup.’
‘We make a terrific squad,’ said Salome, and the women smiled at each other. ‘You’ll meet us all soon enough. Since you’re joining us now.’
Crowley was taken aback. ‘And your little squad didn’t think to help me and Aziraphale with the whole End Times thing? You were all just going to shove off to bloody Alpha Centauri, weren’t you? So long, and thanks for all the fish?’
Mary rolled her eyes at him again. ‘As though I had any idea that was going on until it was much too late to meddle. No one tells me anything. I’m just expected to float about performing miracles and appearing on tortillas. Whenever I try to attend an AGM, Gabe switches the time without telling me.’
‘Y’know,’ said Crowley, ‘he hates being called Gabe. Aziraphale told me one of the cupids said it once, got too familiar, and Gabriel picked on them for the next few centuries until they Fell.’
‘Well, Gabe might just have to get used to his nickname. Move with the times.’
That didn’t sound likely. ‘Alright, yeah, tickety-boo. So what’s your big bad plan?’
‘Something we couldn’t pull off until now,’ said Mary. ‘Conditions on earth had to be just right.’
‘Great work with that statue, by the way,’ Salome added. ‘When we heard about it, we knew this would be the best time to strike.’
‘Sal, no need to inflate his ego!’ Mary scolded. ‘He’s got a big enough head as it is.’
Crowley made it through four cups of tea—the pot seemed limitless, and it didn’t cool down—before the two women had explained the whole shebang. He couldn’t help being impressed. This was much better than the plan he’d made with Aziraphale to avert the Apocalypse. This was even better than the M25 Orbital—and that was no small feat. Even without a slide show they were knocking his socks off. Salome deserved a promotion in Hell.
‘And what exactly do you want out of all this?’ he asked Mary.
‘Oh, darling, I just want Gabe to pay. I want him to pay and pay until he has nothing.’ Mary sipped her tea, swallowed and then smiled, her eyes hard and cold as the pristine Carrara marble of Michelangelo’s Pietà. ‘Then I want him to beg for mercy at my feet.’
*
Tonight, BBC News investigates the controversial document dubbed ‘The Complaint of Mary’. Discovered last week in an Israeli archaeological dig site, this unique artefact has been baffling experts around the world. Professor Hugo Quincy-Foxworth, Head of Theological Studies at Oxbridge University, says that he has never seen anything like it.
Quincy-Foxworth: ‘This is the genuine article. There is no doubt, absolutely no doubt, that this ancient text was written by Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ. But how do we know?’ [Sweating and shaking, he rolls up the sleeves of his mustard-coloured cardigan with leather elbow patches.] ‘That’s what I can’t explain—what no one has been able to ascertain.’
Interviewer: ‘But how do we know?’ [Her eyes are a little wild and her suit is rumpled.]
Quincy-Foxworth: ‘I don’t know!’ [He rubs his grey curly beard, laughs, rubs his eyes, runs a hand over his combover.] ‘We simply possess this knowledge. You know it too, don’t you? Just as everyone knows. Even the Pope has confirmed that the document is genuine, although did you see the poor fellow’s face? White as his robes!’
When the BBC spoke to translators in a variety of randomly selected countries – New Zealand, Iceland, Egypt, Argentina, Kenya, Mongolia and Japan – they all told us the same thing: that every translation is virtually identical, easily completed within an hour and readily understood by modern audiences, and that all of this should be impossible.
Quincy-Foxworth: ‘It’s a miracle. It has to be a miracle!’
But other experts dispute this claim. Professors Delilah Smith and Magdalene Jones from the University of Gomorrah say they’re trying to get the word out that this phenomenon isn’t as strange as it might appear.
Smith: ‘This is all perfectly normal, and I think everyone will soon understand that.’
Interviewer: ‘Oh, yes, all right. I see what you mean.’ [She nods and looks pleased.]
Jones: ‘It really is just Mary having a gripe and making a complaint to head office, as it were, and she happens—er, happened—to be a decent writer, so it’s easy enough for anyone to translate and understand. She co-wrote and edited a lot of her son’s most famous speeches, you know. Really she deserves more credit for that.’
Smith: ‘We’d just like all you morta—’ [Jones gently elbows her in the side and gives her a pointed look.] ‘I mean, it’s important that we all know the truth about history. Like how in the story of Samson and Delilah—what a coincidence, my namesake!—it was actually Samson who cut off Delilah’s hair, which was her great strength. He told her that other men were giving her too much attention because she looked like a slut.’ [Smith scowls, then giggles.] ‘She did get him killed by the Philistines after that, though. That part’s true!’
Jones: ‘Delilah, really!’ [She turns to smile broadly at the camera.] ‘Anyway, yes, please carry on as usual. This isn’t a miracle. It’s just, you know, a bit ineffable.’
*
‘The Complaint of Mary’
At four in the morning, the Archangel Gabriel appeared before me as I was milking a goat beside the shed. His light was so blinding that my eyes watered. I screamed. In a panic, I stood up and tried to run away, but he froze me in place. ‘Hello there, Mary. Aren’t you a lovely girl?’ He smiled and gripped me by the chin as he peered down at me. His eyes looked like those of a huge bird about to tear me apart.
Inside I was shaking, but my body couldn’t move under the force of his Heavenly power.
‘Congratulations,’ he told me, ‘you’re going to have a baby boy and call him Jesus.’
I had no idea what he was talking about. I was terrified.
The archangel took me by the shoulders. ‘God has chosen you, little girl, to bear this son. Don’t worry, it’s all taken care of—from this moment, you’re pregnant.’
I felt sick.
‘And,’ he said, squeezing my shoulders, rubbing them with his thumbs, ‘you have got so much to look forward to. Jesus will do great things and rule in Heaven forever. You’ll always bask in the glorious love of the Almighty.’ He leaned closer, gripping me so tightly that it hurt. ‘This will all be worth it, you’ll see. You’re a lucky girl, Mary. Sure, you’ll have to convince Joseph of the truth, but he’ll believe anything you say—a sweet, pretty girl like you. I’ll have a quick chat with him, just in case. People will gossip, and maybe your family will be upset, but that’s life, isn’t it?’
Now tears of humiliation and anger were streaming down my face.
‘Well, hasn’t this been a great chat? Just remember, Mary, we’re all on the same team fighting the forces of Hell, and there’s no “I” in “teamwork”.’
He smirked and disappeared, and I slumped to my knees in the mud beside the goat, who had soiled herself and was looking quite distressed. But I didn’t even have the strength to stroke her ears, only to untie her rope and release her into the paddock.
I threw up, then clutched my aching belly. I couldn’t move for the next few hours, just lying there in the dirt, reminding myself that I’d never really had any control over what was done to my body.
Since that meeting with Gabriel, I haven’t been able to go out by myself early in the morning without freezing up and bursting into tears. Sometimes I wake from nightmares of not being able to move or speak. Even though I love my beautiful son Jesus, and I’ve come to understand how special he is, I wish that Heaven had handled it differently.
*
Cried so much reading the Complaint of Mary. We’ve all been there in the dirt. Time to get up, brush ourselves off and take down these f*ckers. #metoomary
best week ever: worst president, prime minister and archangel all cancelled. who’s next? #metoomary
Can we replace the Archangel Gabriel with the one from Supernatural? #metoomary
Wow, and I thought my ex-boss was bad. #metoomary
I’d rather go to hell than spend a minute in heaven with that prick. #metoomary #donewithreligion
That Complaint of Mary is the straw that broke the camel’s back. #donewithreligion #metoomary
F*ck it all, f*ck it all, don’t give a sh*t anymore. F*ck it all, f*ck it all, flip the table, screw you all. #donewithreligion #metoomary
Keep calm, carry on and smite Gabriel. #donewithreligion #metoomary #smitegabriel
In light of the public outcry following the release of ‘The Complaint of Mary’, the City of London will officially change the name of the recently constructed statue ‘Archangel Gabriel’ to ‘Archangel Michael’.
Rename? Re-bloody-name?! Remove that giant golden dildo from what used to be my favourite park. If you please. #smitegabriel
Time to tear the wings off that so-called archangel and kick him straight down to hell. #smitegabriel
Rise up, people! Six tonight. Bring your flaming swords. #smitegabriel
Breaking news: In London more than fifty thousand people converged on a new statue of the Archangel Gabriel and tore it down while chanting ‘Smite Gabriel! Make him Fall!’ #archangelriots #metoomary
In light of the public demolition of the statue of Gabriel, its remaining pieces will be auctioned by the City of London with all proceeds going towards a new wing at Star of the Sea Children’s Hospital.
How about a statue of Lucifer next? #donewithreligion
The City of London would also like to clarify that the demolished statue of Gabriel will not be replaced by one of Lucifer in the foreseeable future, although the City of London is monitoring the petition.
A hundred thousand signatures, baby! #riseofthedarklord #wesmotegabriel
Mary’s strength gives me hope. That’s why I still believe. #notdonewithreligion
Build a statue of Mary, not Lucifer! Sign our most holy of petitions. Do it for Our Lady. #notdonewithreligion #maryqueenoftheangels
*
Crowley still wasn’t sure which one he hated more, Heaven or Hell. At least the air up here was easier to breathe—although it had that underlying sourness of a hospital or even a morgue. Gabriel’s office was particularly rank, like a swimming pool that hadn’t been cleaned out in a few thousand years but had a lot of chlorine to mask the stench.
Mary was sitting in Gabriel’s ergonomic beige leather office chair behind his glass-topped desk. There was no other furniture, so everyone else was on their feet. Crowley, who had come as Ashtoreth, also known as Ishtar—not exactly a disguise, but not currently how he felt most comfortable—was leaning against one of the eggshell-white walls. Del and Maggie were nearby, in the corner beside the floor-to-ceiling window, conversing in harsh whispers about the appropriateness of certain comments Del had made during a recently televised interview. Jude had given up on trying to be the peacemaker, not a role that had ever suited them, and was gazing out at the sunlit city. Jez paced in a tight circle as he read a dog-eared paperback of Roxane Gay’s Bad Feminist and nodded thoughtfully. Sal, perched on the desk next to Mary, was painting her long, sharp nails bright pink and joking around—Crowley heard something about a ‘giant golden dildo’ before they dissolved into giggles.
On the other side of the room, standing stiffly with perfect posture as close to the wall as possible, were Michael, Uriel and Sandalphon. They weren’t saying anything to each other and studiously didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Occasionally Michael gave a little cough.
The tinted-glass door flew open, and everyone fell silent, tensing up. But it was only Eve and Adam, followed by a small person in a full suit of silver medieval armour, its pointed visor drawn down over their face. A suit of armour that Crowley hadn’t seen since his days as the Black Knight. He tried not to be fearful, tried to just roll his eyes and shrug it off. This plan would definitely work out. It would be fine. And if it wasn’t—well, if anyone laid so much as a finger on that ridiculous shiny head, then Crowley would incinerate them.
‘So sorry we’re late!’ Eve gasped. She was wearing a hibiscus-print cotton sundress, no make-up, her hair cropped short. She looked radiant as ever.
Adam added, ‘We were playing frisbee on the beach and totally lost track of the time.’ He brushed some sand off his faded Golden State Warriors t-shirt, which hung loose over baggy grey gym shorts that made Crowley regret the entire Serpent of Eden debacle—if he’d known that covering nakedness would involve clothes like that, he wouldn’t have bothered.
‘And who’s this?’ Mary asked, raising her eyebrows at the small person in armour.
‘Jeanne d’Arc,’ came a muffled voice.
‘Yes,’ said Eve, with an extra-bright smile. ‘Good old Jeanne.’
‘Right,’ said Mary, her eyes flickering to Crowley for a second. ‘Hello, Jeanne.’
‘Lovely to see you, Saint Jeanne,’ said Michael with a smile that almost seemed genuine. ‘But I thought you’d gone to live in a remote nunnery in the Scottish Highlands?’
‘Oh,’ said the muffled voice. ‘Yes. But I … well, you see, the Mother Superior informed me of the discovery of Mary’s letter, and …’
‘Jeanne, why don’t you go say hello to Ishtar?’ Eve, her smile turning slightly manic, gestured enthusiastically at Crowley. ‘Long time since you two caught up!’
‘How in Heaven’s name do you even know each other?’ Uriel asked, deadpan as always, glancing between them.
‘One wild night in Orléans,’ Crowley murmured with a wistful sigh, gazing at ‘Jeanne’.
The three angels gave him a look of disgust, curiosity and deeply repressed arousal. And was that a flash of envy in Michael’s eyes? Aha. Very interesting indeed.
‘Jeanne’ clanked over to Crowley and slumped, with a clatter and a rusty creak, against the wall beside him.
‘Hello, angel,’ Crowley whispered, with the strong intention that whatever the two of them said would be inaudible to everyone else.
‘It’s Jeanne,’ said Aziraphale huffily. ‘Really, my dear, they might be able to lip-read.’
Crowley angled his chin down, adjusting his veil of gold-trimmed onyx silk so it concealed his mouth from the room. ‘Are you cross with me, darling?’
‘You vanished, Crowley! I was simply frantic.’
‘I sent you a message!’
‘A full day later, and you didn’t tell me where you’d gone or what you were doing. And it’s been a week since then. I called absolutely everyone—I even called Shadwell, that odious man! I was forced to discuss my nipples again. Finally I reached Adam and Eve, apparently the only ones in our circle of mutual acquaintances you didn’t manage to threaten with certain doom if they filled me in on your plans.’
In all honesty, Crowley hadn’t thought Aziraphale would be all that fussed. He’d imagined his angel going about life as usual, sipping his cocoa and fondling his first editions, not paying his demon lover much mind. The thought that Aziraphale had actually been worried about him made him all warm and squishy inside, revoltingly wonderful. He itched with the desire to shove Aziraphale against the wall, push up his visor and kiss him tenderly.
‘I was trying to protect you, you idiot,’ he snapped. ‘You sssshhouldn’t be here.’
‘Oh, don’t be stupid! I’m perfectly safe. We’re surrounded by friends, and Michael loves Jeanne. Perhaps it was once in a manner unsavoury and predatory for an incredibly powerful eternal being to feel for an adolescent girl, and admittedly in a way that led to that girl being tortured then burned at the stake, but they’ve become bosom chums over the years, and Michael would never allow anything to—’
‘Bosom chums, Aziraphale? Do you ever stop to listen to yourself?’
The tinted-glass door opened, and everyone fell silent again as a tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, purple-eyed archangel strode briskly into the room.
Gabriel stopped to glance around at his uninvited guests as the door gently clicked shut behind him. He was grinning, but it didn’t reach his eyes—not that it usually did. ‘Well! Hi, all. What an honour, what a privilege.’
‘Hello, Gabe,’ said Mary, in a low, quiet voice, from behind his desk. ‘How lovely to see you again. It’s so unfortunate that I couldn’t attend the last five hundred and forty-seven AGMs. Today I decided to hold my own meeting and set my own agenda.’
The corners of Gabriel’s mouth twitched slightly, but his grin remained frozen in place. Like that of a corpse. ‘Hi, Mary. Oh, and Salome! I was so sorry to hear that you became a demon. Love your nails.’
Sal just kept painting them, totally ignoring him.
‘Yes, hello, Gabriel,’ said Michael, stepping further into the room flanked by Uriel and Sandalphon, who nodded respectfully.
‘Well,’ said Gabriel, his grin finally fading, ‘what can I do for you all today?’
‘You can probably guess what this is about,’ said Michael, with a kind of treacly pity. ‘There’s been an incident on earth. We’ve been losing … well, quite a few human souls, and—’
‘Fact is,’ Uriel cut in, and Michael gave a wincing smile, ‘we’ve lost several hundred thousand souls and change. It’s a complete cock-up.’
Sandalphon chuckled, cheeks turning apple-red. ‘It’s a bit of a PR nightmare, is what I’m sure Uriel means. Right, Uriel?’
‘Yes, well,’ said Gabriel, straightening his suit jacket, ‘I had nothing to do with it. And I think we all know who’s responsible.’ He gave Mary a look of self-righteous indignation.
‘You had nothing to do with it?’ Mary asked. Crowley realised that her whole squad had come to stand behind her, and they were all glaring daggers at Gabriel. ‘That’s funny, Gabe. I distinctly remember you playing a major role in that letter of complaint. You know, the one your HR department refused to acknowledge for two thousand years.’
‘Oh, grow up, Mary!’ Gabriel snapped. His violet eyes were bright and sharp and lacking empathy. He’d always reminded Crowley, in demeanour and appearance, of a white peacock. ‘It’s such a shame you haven’t been able to move on, after all these years, from such a minor incident. Very disappointing. I always believed you were a sweet girl, Mary. And now I really feel for all those humans who pray to you believing that you’re a merciful and forgiving woman. If only they knew the truth.’
‘I have grown up, Gabe.’ Mary got to her feet, palms flat on the desk, and stared him dead in the eye. ‘I’m the Madonna, the Star of the Sea, Mary the Mother, Mary the Rose, Mary the Supreme Queen of Heaven. And it’s time for the Queen’s reign to begin. So bow before me, Archangel, on your knees. Or get the fuck out of my office.’
It was as though she’d thrown a bucket of ice-water over the room. Crowley nearly dropped to his knees himself. He shifted his hand so it would brush the back of Aziraphale’s armoured glove, then gasped softly when he found bare skin instead, the glove zapped away somewhere. They held hands, fingers entwined, palms pressed together. It would have been perfect if only they’d had a tub of buttered popcorn to share.
‘Mary, if you don’t mind,’ said Michael shakily, ‘please keep this civil.’
‘I do mind,’ said Mary.
‘You want to start another civil war, is that it?’ snarled Gabriel, now more closely resembling a great white shark. ‘Is that what this is about? You think you can take me on?’
‘Oh, this isn’t a war, Gabe,’ said Mary, sinking back into her chair with a smile. ‘This is a coup. Congratulations, you’ve been deposed. But I’m sure you’ll bounce back in no time. When one door closes, another one opens. Speaking of—Metatron told me that he was looking for a new Principality to pop down and take up a position on earth, among the humans, so I put in a good word for you. It sounds like a really great opportunity for you to be out in the field, getting your hands dirty. Of course, you’ll need to change your name so the humans will deign to tolerate you.’
Gabriel shuddered and gaped in horror. Crowley couldn’t help smiling with pure joy; he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, and smiled more when he felt an answering squeeze.
‘And you’ll need to give those eyes back to their rightful owner,’ Mary added. ‘Can’t go gallivanting around earth with Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes. Besides, Liz has been missing them dreadfully. That wasn’t very nice of you, Gabe. But then I’ve heard lots of stories about you not being very nice. Seen lots of emails. Listened to lots of recorded messages. The fact is, you’re a bully, and everyone in this room is aware of that. It’s time for you to re-examine your priorities. And be grateful I’ve given you another chance.’
‘But—but—’ Gabriel swallowed and tried to pull himself together. ‘You’re totally out of line, Mary. Michael, you’ll back me up, won’t you?’
‘I’m afraid not, Gabriel,’ said Michael, again with that sickly sympathy. ‘You’ve been officially reassigned, and Mary has been appointed to your former position.’
‘No, you can’t do this to me!’ Gabriel shouted. ‘I’m the Archangel Fucking—’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Uriel, taking Gabriel’s arm as Sandalphon took the other one. They began to haul him out. ‘Put it in your media release to the Celestial Observer.’
*
‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Aziraphale, when they were dining at their usual table and toasting their success. He straightened his bow tie, tilted his chin and gave a tiny smirk.
Crowley just stared at him.
‘What is it, dear boy?’ Aziraphale asked, his eyes limpid pools of angelic innocence. He sampled the ballotine of duck liver with a hum of satisfaction, then dabbed at the corner of his lips with a damask serviette.
Crowley knew that if he opened his mouth, he would fall over his words until he caused himself a serious injury.
‘Oh, really, Crowley, come now,’ said Aziraphale, with a small, pleased smile. ‘You must have known, my dearest. Deep down.’
‘You—you took me to that statue in B-Budapessshht,’ Crowley stuttered. ‘And, and, even before that, the … the f-fucking ssstrawberriessss.’
Aziraphale just inclined his head with a thoughtful pout, before daintily sipping the last of his champagne.
Crowley had believed that after those gruelling six thousand years, he’d experienced every form and quantity of lust. But he’d been wrong. He had never been this turned on.