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The world hasn’t ended. Or it did, but not quite.
Saturday night, and everything is…thin. Uncertain. As if the universe might realize what had happened and change its mind. All around the world, people feel it, the hesitation, the uncertainty. Humanity can’t quite comprehend what it is, but it’s undeniable.
On a bus rolling slowly towards London, an angel takes a demon’s hand. No words are spoken, but a few kilometers later, the demon’s head falls onto the angel’s shoulder.
And a young boy sits on his bed in Tadfield and worries.
At Jasmine Cottage, a battered car rolls to a hesitant stop.
“Well,” Newt begins slowly. “This is it. It was…well, it really wasn’t nice at all. Parts of it were good.”
Anathema says nothing, her eyes still on the charred-black book in her lap.
“You’re not…not planning to live in my passenger seat, are you?” He asks with an awkward smile. It probably isn’t the right time for a joke, but Newt never really notices these things until too late. “Don’t think there’s, you know, space. I put my, uh, my groceries there and…”
Definitely not the time for a joke.
“Do you…” Anathema slowly looks up from the book. Her eyes land on Newt, but her mind is worlds away. “Do you want…to come in?”
He swallows, desperately wishing for a reason to say no, because saying yes is too terrifying. But a good terrifying. “Why?” he finally manages.
“I’m…I’ve never really…decided anything for myself before.” She turns the pages of the book, looking for one that doesn’t crumble to ash. “I don’t know what I want, or…or where I’m supposed to go. But I think…I think…” She looks up again, and this time her eyes hold Newt’s like an official Witchfinder pin. “I think I’d like for you to come in. If…you know…”
He gulps, at a loss for what to say. So he takes her hand.
It makes getting out of the car awkward, but they manage.
On the other side of Tadfield, Pepper drops her boots on the porch and heads to her room. She’s never felt this exhausted in her life, and she can’t quite remember why. The whole day is a blur, with some pieces missing - and others in stark, terrifying focus.
When she opens her bedroom door, she finds a mess – and not the mess she’d left this morning. Her comic books are spilled all over, pages wrinkled and ripped out as if struck by a tornado, and her sister sits in the middle of it all.
“I didn’t do it! It was an accident!” She’s been bracing for the argument, but her eyes aren’t defiant, just terrified and full of tears.
Pepper looks around the room. The two sisters have fought every day this summer, name-calling and arguments turning to stolen toys and pulled hair and screams for their mother. They don’t play anymore, or talk, or anything else. The five-year age difference felt insurmountable.
But tonight...Pepper can’t seem to muster her anger. None of it feels important. She simply pushes the torn comics off her bed and crawls under the duvet.
“Are…are you mad?”
“Too tired.” Tired isn’t the word for it, but Pepper is eleven. She knows a lot of terms, but she doesn’t know how to describe the complete, draining emotional fatigue that comes from meeting a witch, fighting with your best friend, and stopping an apocalypse all between lunch and bedtime. She doesn’t have the energy for another emotion. “We can fight tomorrow. Promise.”
“Alright.” Her sister rests her head on the side of the bed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“I miss you.”
Pepper shuts her eyes, not even sure what to say to that. “Just go to bed. It’s way too late for you.”
“Can I sleep with you?”
“No! What’s wrong with your room?”
“It’s too scary.”
“How can it be scary? It’s your room…” Pepper opens her eyes and meets the tear-filled gaze of her baby sister.
They don’t get along. They have nothing in common. Pepper doesn’t even remember what it feels like to be five-and-a-half. But tonight, she feels very young, and alone, and a little frightened, and perhaps that’s close enough.
“You know what? Fine.” She moves over and folds back the duvet. “Just don’t kick.”
The bus rumbles down the road towards London, passing a slow-moving scooter. The scooter has rolled along for hours, and as it crests another hill the speedometer creeps towards 10 mph.
“Can ye not be more careful, ye daft woman?” Shadwell’s arms are wrapped around her waist, holding tight, as if he is afraid to fall.
He isn’t afraid, or at least, not of falling. Parts of the strange day keep drifting back across his mind. He wishes he had a strong cup of tea. He wishes he had something a good deal stronger.
But one thought keeps coming to the fore. He’s spent nearly the whole of his adult life hunting witches, and now that he’s found one, he’s not letting her go.
He hasn’t yet worked out what that means.
“Ah! Look out! Did ye not see that branch in the road? Yer gonna get both of us killed!”
Madame Tracy pats his hand. She’s been listening to him grumble for over three decades, and has learned which words to listen to. “Just hold tight, Mr. S. We’ll get you home safe in no time.”
Back in Tadfield, Brian dumps his bike in the grass and comes inside. He was supposed to be home hours ago. Instead, he’s been making circles through the village, trying to think.
His parents are still on the sofa, his father nearly asleep, his mother switching between three different shows. Waiting for him. When his mother looks up, she isn’t angry, just making a point. We’re up late because you didn’t follow the rules.
Normally, he’d apologize and go to bed.
Tonight, he slides onto the sofa between his parents. It’s a tight fit – Brian is big for his age – but he manages it, his father stirring enough to make room.
Brian leans his head on his mother’s shoulder. “Is this alright?”
“I…yes, it’s fine.” Brian doesn’t cuddle anymore. He outgrew that ages ago. “Did you have a bad day?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Did you fight with your friends?”
He bites his lip. “Yeah. But. It’s better now. Just don’t want to talk about it.”
“Alright then.” She leans closer and kisses his forehead. His father rubs Brian’s hair, as if he was still a little kid. Brian doesn’t mind.
They sit like that a long time, silently together.
In London, an International Delivery Man returns home after the longest day of his life.
He hangs his hat and jacket, moves quietly into the bedroom. Maud is exactly where he left her, lying in bed, hair rumpled. Feeling a sudden urgency, he sits beside her, shakes her awake.
“Mmmh…are you finally home?” She blinks her eyes open. “What time is it? I waited all day.” He can hear the concern in her voice. “Thought something happened. You never even called.”
“I know, I’m sorry. Had an extra pickup to make, and…”
The deliveries, the final message, the strange gap in time and the half-memories that filled it.
“Lesley?” She sits up fully now, putting an arm around him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He wants to tell her, but he wouldn’t know where to begin. He feels like everything should be different. Certain things you’re not supposed to live through, you’re not supposed to come back from unchanged. But he doesn’t feel different. Should he?
“Nothing. Sorry I woke you, love. Go back to sleep.”
But Maud knows that look. Knows his brain is still running, that it will be for hours yet. Lesley isn’t usually what you would call a deep thinker, but when he finally catches on something, he has a hard time letting it go.
So she takes his hand. “Do you want to know about my day?”
“Of course.”
Maud settles against him, with the familiar comfort of many decades of marriage, and explains all about the sales at the shop, and the unexpected weather, and her hunt for an umbrella.
The bus finally arrives in London, dropping off its last two passengers. They lean against each other as they walk, arms around waists, holding each other upright.
A few minutes later, the driver - dazed and uncertain why he drove all this way - finds the reservation confirmation for one night at one of the city’s finest luxury hotels, and a rather large meal voucher.
He barely uses the room.
Many of the guests have gathered in the hotel bar, long past the time it usually empties. It’s a subdued affair, fewer drinks than one might expect, quiet conversation. Just little groups of strangers, sharing their stories.
The other guests have paid more on this trip to London than the bus driver earns in a month.
He sits at the bar, glass in hand, trying to decide who to approach and how. The bartender sees him hesitating, and moves closer. “Strange night,” she says, restacking glasses behind the counter.
“Should have stayed in my room,” the driver says sourly. “But, dunno. It was too quiet.”
“Not the only one who feels that way.” She nods to a nearby group. “Normally would have kicked them all out by now but...just doesn’t feel right.”
“Hope they pay you enough for this.” The driver hasn’t even checked the fuel in the bus, but no doubt the difference will come out of his paycheck.[1]
“Well enough,” the bartender says, then lowers her voice. “But I might be taking some sick time next week. Head up to Kingham to see my folks.”
The driver blinks. “You’re from Kingham? Out by Chipping Norton?”
“Yeah. Heard of it?”
“Heard of it? I’m from Churchill.”
The bartender laughs, leaning on the counter. “What are the odds of that? What brings you down to London?”
“I haven’t the first idea.” The driver takes a drink, smiling. It feels nice to meet someone from his part of the world, a glimmer of familiarity amidst all this strangeness. “How about you?”
“Bit of a long story.”
The driver glances at the milling crowd, no sign of breaking up any time soon. “We’ve got time.”
In the Wensleydale household, the parents have long since gone to bed. But their son sits in the kitchen with the telephone and a list of names and phone numbers. He’s been working his way through it all night.
Most of the numbers are unfamiliar. Family and friends you see at Christmas, talk with, exchange sweaters and fruitcakes, and never really think of again for another year. People you have known your whole life, but never really speak to.
He listens to the phone ring, until someone picks up.
“Hello? Aunt Ethel?” He pauses. “It’s Wensley – Jeremy Wensleydale.” Odd. He’s used his full name more times tonight than he has in a year. It occurs to him that he might not like it.
He’s not quite sure what to make of that, what it might mean. But it isn’t important just yet.
“Yes, it has been a while,” he agrees. “I’m sorry to call so late, but I wanted to tell you, I really did like that book you got me for Christmas. It’s not the kind I usually read,” he adds, scrupulously honest, “but father said I should give it a try, and it really was quite interesting.”
Another pause.
“You’re welcome. How have you been?” His smile falls. “Oh. I’m sorry. How long were you in hospital?” He listens a little while longer. “That sounds serious.”
Wensley doesn’t know much about medicine. He likes science well enough, but his interests don’t lie that way. He is, however, more astute than most people think. He knows when someone’s upset, even when they try to hide it. He knows when someone wants to keep talking, but doesn't want to be a bother.
He’s felt these things himself.
“Actually, I’d quite like to hear more about the table tennis. I’ve only ever seen it on television, but it seems interesting. Did everyone at the hospital play?”
He sets down his pencil and puts the list aside. He knows if he stops to talk to everyone like this, it will take all night. But he doesn’t mind. Sometimes it feels good just to talk.
In a hotel near the airport, Harriet Dowling pauses on the way to bed, hearing the distinctive sound of a young boy trying not to cry.
She hesitates outside his door for a long time. It’s easier to get a nanny for these things. Nannies are trained, they know what to say. No one ever taught Harriet how to be a mother.
But, finally, she pushes the door open. “Warlock? Are you…do you need anything?”
“Shut up,” he snaps, sniffling in the dark. “Go away. I’m fine.”
Should she do what he says? Should she push back? “Honey…I know you aren’t fine. You can tell me. What’s wrong?”
“What do you think is wrong? I don’t want to go to – to stupid America. I want to go back to London, I want to see my friends again!”
“Warlock—”
“I want my Nanny!”
Silence fills the room.
“Warlock. Nanny is gone.” She hears him flump down angrily in the bed. Cautiously, Harriet steps forward, closing the distance. “I wish she wasn’t. She was a model employee, but she had to…” Her brain scrambles for a moment, unable to remember the circumstances of Nanny Ashtoreth’s departure. “She had to go home.” That seemed right.
“Why does everyone have to leave? Why does everything have to change?”
“I…that’s just how life is, Warlock.” No, that tone is all wrong. She tries again, softer. “Things never stop changing. We just…we do the best we can. We make mistakes, we adapt, we keep going.” She sinks onto the edge of the bed. “I know you miss Nanny. I miss her, too. She…she took good care of you, and I’m so grateful for that.”
“She cared about me,” Warlock snaps, accusing.
“I care about you, I’m your mother—” She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I love you, Warlock, and…if you don’t know that, it’s my fault.” Harriet turns away, trying to hide her tears. “I wish she was here, too, but, well…it’s just me. But I’ll do my best.”
She doesn’t know what to say next, but Warlock grabs her, clings to her, cries into her shoulder like he hasn’t in years. Harriet feels the familiar wave of panic, and the ache, the need to find someone who can help her child.
But there isn’t anyone left but her.
So, uncertain, she puts her arms around her son. “It’s ok, Warlock. We’ll get through this. We’ll…we’ll find a way.”
The angel and demon don’t speak as they walk through the apartment, settle into bed. After six thousand years, some things don’t need to be said.
They reach out in the darkness, drawn together, warmth seeking warmth. Every touch of skin on skin is a comfort, a sign that nothing has ended yet, that the world continues to turn. They hold each other silently, pulling close, closer, as if trying to become one being.
The world around them trembles, and they feel every aftershock.
“Do you think they’ll be alright?” Aziraphale wonders, lifting his face from where it rests on Crowley’s shoulder.
“Who?” Crowley clings to Aziraphale, as if to absorb his strength, as if the angel were the last solid object in the world.
“Everyone. The humans. Earth.” When he sighs, the breath is hot on Crowley’s cheek. “If something happens to us, will they be alright?”
“Dunno. Not really up to us anymore, is it? You do your best, take care of them, send them out to live their lives, and just hope it all works out.”
Aziraphale nods, but he doesn’t feel any better. “They aren’t bad, you know. The humans. Yes they can be cruel and - and cold, and they’ve made mistakes but every one of them is capable of so much kindness. So much love. They just – they need—”
“I know.” Crowley runs a hand across his cheek. “If anyone knows, it’s me. And...yeah. I think they’re going to be fine.”
The angel pulls closer, burrowing against Crowley’s chest until he can hear his heartbeat, feel the rise and fall of every breath.
“But nothing’s going to happen to us, right?” The demon’s voice is as enthusiastic as he can make it, his fingers gently stroking through silver curls. “We’ll get out of this. We’ll be back. And then we’ll be able to do whatever the Heaven we want.”
“Ah.” Aziraphale watches his fingers curl along Crowley’s bicep. “Together?”
After six thousand years, it’s good to hear certain things out loud.
“Yeah. Together.”
Adam sits alone in bed, except for Dog, crouched by his feet and watching attentively. The boy moves now and then, reaching out a hand to scratch Dog’s head, but never opens his eyes.
At the airbase he could see it. Could feel it. The world had gone wrong, very wrong; all day, all week. Some of the wrongness went all the way back to when he was born.
There’s no way to fix it all, no way to find every thread and put it back in place. That just disturbed other strands, and others, and others. And every one of those threads is a life.
Still, he keeps reaching.
A delivery man, safely home with his wife.
A telemarketer, waking confused from a terrible dream full of maggots and screaming, and a young child’s voice telling her she really ought to find another job. Tricking people into buying stuff is no good.
An ex-nun who didn’t deserve to have her business taken away over a misunderstanding with some guns.
A thousand people who’d been blasted with demonic power when they’d simply wanted to go for a drive.
One very loyal car.
Adam can’t put everything right. It’s too big a job, even for an Antichrist, and in any case who’s he to say what right is?
But he will fix what he can fix, and trust humanity to figure out the rest.
So, all through the night, Adam works; and all around the world, people hold each other a little closer, feeling afraid, feeling hopeful. Feeling loved.
[1]It won’t. The bus’s tank is full, and will remain so on the drive back. A miracle, but the sort that usually goes unnoticed.