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All of This is Completely Normal Here
Lonnie Clarke was talking to a lunatic.
To be fair, that wasn’t really unusual. It was a standard part of police work.
This particular lunatic was a special sort of insane, though. Crazy like a fox, this Mr. Fell. Or, just absurdly lucky. Either way, it was enough to distract Clarke from the nasty sunburn he’d managed to get on his nose and cheeks from an hour of searching for his wife’s earring in the garden.1
The man before him was an older gentleman — very much a gentleman, not too much older than Clarke — perhaps a bit on the heavy side. Clarke couldn’t quite tell if he had gone grey — white, rather — or if his hair had always been that pale. His posture was so far beyond perfect that it should not have been physically possible, and he was dressed like he had just walked out of a Charles Dickens novel.
None of those things made Mr. Fell a lunatic. Eccentric, maybe, but no more eccentric than Clarke’s late father-in-law had been. But Mr. Fell had gone out for a stroll “to clear his mind a bit” around one in the morning and walked halfway across London, and had somehow spotted a burglar trying to get into a high-end jewellery shop. Rather than immediately calling the police from a safe distance like a sensible person,2 or even yelling to try to scare the burglar off from across the street like a slightly less sensible person, Mr. Fell had walked right up and engaged the attempted burglar in polite conversation, all while getting “the distinct impression that he was quite dangerous.” So, definitely a lunatic.
Mr. Fell had now spent the entire morning giving an extraordinarily detailed account of their conversation about the burglar’s motives and life choices and dear boy, surely you’d be happier pursuing an honest living. And somehow, this had all led to both Mr. Fell and the burglar walking away without injury. To make that even more remarkable, all of the details pointed towards this being the same person to have burglarised three other jewellery shops, two electronic shops, and an art gallery, and the last person to have interrupted one of those burglaries was still in intensive care with stab wounds.
It would be tempting to think that Mr. Fell had just had a very vivid dream, full of details he might have seen in a news report, or that Mr. Fell himself was the burglar and had come in as a “witness” as part of some sort of joke. But surveillance footage from the jewellery shop confirmed the whole thing, and — poor video quality aside — had even added the detail that the suspect appeared to be utterly terrified of the harmless-looking Mr. Fell.
Mr. Fell himself dismissed that detail with a simple, “I do believe I might have startled him. And he must have been nervous of getting caught to begin with, of course.” He seemed entirely unfazed at the implication that he’d been in a great deal of danger while talking to this criminal, he remembered more details than the human brain was meant to be capable of remembering, and he discussed every bit of what should have been a stressful encounter with the sort of mild demeanour one would use to discuss the weather. He had been fascinated to see that the “sketch artist” used a computer these days, and had marvelled over the computer program while providing an incredibly specific description of the suspect’s face. After several hours of being shuffled around from desk to desk, from one uncomfortable chair to another, giving his account again and again, Mr. Fell had yet to give even the slightest hint of discomfort or impatience. Saying that he had “the patience of a saint” seemed like an understatement. Even a saint would at least start to look bored by now.
Mr. Fell was definitely a very special brand of lunatic.
Clarke was just finishing up with him — confirming his contact information, thanking him for his time, and so on — when an entirely different and more familiar lunatic came swaggering in with their hands cuffed in front of them. “OI! Who sent a rookie to pick me up all by herself? That’s hazing, ‘s what that is. Thought you lot were above all that.”
Ladies and gentlemen, A.J. Crowley was in the building.
Mr. Fell had whipped around in his chair at the first sound of the newcomer’s voice, and was now staring with exactly the sort of scandalised expression one would expect a proper gentleman like Mr. Fell to use to regard anyone wearing jeans that tight. “What is he doing here?” he said quietly.
Clarke felt his eyebrows go up, because that sounded like recognition. “Friend of yours?” he asked mildly.
“Oh no he’s not my friend,” Mr. Fell said hastily, snapping forward to face Clarke again, looking far more bothered than he had been about anything related to his encounter with a dangerous criminal. “He’s a, uh…” He glanced very briefly at A.J. “An acquaintance,” he said testily.
Clarke smirked. Frankly, it was hard to imagine anyone admitting to being friends with A.J. Crowley, even without seeing them led into a police station wearing handcuffs. “Yeah, they’re3 a character,” he said. Given what he knew of Mr. Fell, it wasn’t hard to imagine that at some point he’d had an encounter with A.J. similar to the one with the burglar last night, except without the part about notifying the authorities. In fact, Clarke wouldn’t have been surprised if Mr. Fell knew a whole slew of criminals he expected to miraculously reform just because he’d given them a stern talking-to.4 The man had no idea how lucky he was to be alive. “Thank you again for your help, Mr. Fell,” he said, standing and offering a weathered hand to shake. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else. And — please be careful, sir. If you see any other suspicious activity, do call us first.”
Mr. Fell stood and accepted the handshake with a polite smile and nod that probably translated roughly to I’ll keep doing exactly as I like, thank you very much. Clarke excused himself and made his way over to the group that was gathering around A.J. and Officer Amara Nwadike, the poor rookie who was fresh out of Henden and had somehow been tasked to bring A.J. Crowley in without backup.
Word had got around that Nwadike had radioed in about some sort of issue on their way to the station, and for once, it sounded like it wasn’t A.J.’s fault. Everyone wanted details. Nwadike had already been at her wit’s end before they walked in, and she was in no mood to be bombarded or to repeat herself ten times. The full detailed version of events would have to go in her report. Everyone else would have to make do with the truncated version: “A lorry driver damn near killed us5.”
“She made him cry!” A.J. added helpfully. “It was truly beautiful. You all should have seen it.”
Nwadike had had her fill of him, too.6 “You — just — move,” she ordered, prodding him deeper into the station.
He raised his eyebrows and smirked at her, lifting his cuffed hands in some cheeky imitation of surrender. “I’m just letting them know—”
“Go. Move. Go.” Nwadike kept moving forward, forcing A.J. to retreat—and as absurdly exaggerated as his swagger was, how the hell did he manage to do it backwards?
But manage it he did, looking profoundly amused as Nwadike — all five feet of her — rather effectively herded him back towards the interrogation rooms. “You haven’t said where I need to go!” he said, feigning both the defensiveness and the protest.
“This one.” Nwadike pushed open a door.
A.J. promptly slanted himself against the doorjamb. “You ever do the good cop/bad cop thing?” he asked her mildly. “You’d make a brilliant bad cop.”
Nwadike sternly pointed to the table and chairs in the middle of the room. “Go. Sit. Down.”
He scowled at her — though, it wasn’t much of a scowl, for him. “You could at least say please,” he chided.
“NOW!”
He cocked an eyebrow at her, smirked, and then shrugged. “Close enough,” he decided, and he swung himself into the room.
Nwadike loudly closed the door and took a very deep breath as she took the few steps to the dimly-lit hallway where the crowd of officers — and the gentleman Clarke had been talking to, for some reason — was already re-assembling around the one-way mirror to watch.
Clarke leaned in close to her. “You alright, Nwadike?” he asked softly.
“Peachy,” she muttered, folding her arms across her chest.
He gave her a sympathetic smile. “Well, look at the bright side,” he said, nodding towards the glass — and the person on the other side of it. “We’ll finally get a break in the Penner case.”
She groaned. “Hope so. He’d better tell us something good.”
“He/him pronouns?” Clarke noted. He nodded and looked at the glass. “Actually, no. He won’t tell us anything. This will feel like a complete waste of time.”
Nwadike dropped her arms and turned to give him a blank stare, tinged with hot frustration.
Clarke adopted the demeanour of someone who knew exactly how crazy he was about to sound. “Look… Call it — superstition, or something, but it works. It happens two or three times a year,” he said. “We get a case that we absolutely can not crack, and it will somehow connect to A.J. Crowley — Anthony, if it’s a he/him day — and we bring him in for questioning. He won’t tell us anything — or at least, not anything useful. He’s a raving lunatic, but right after we question him, we get a break in the case.”
Sanders rolled his eyes. “It’s not that mental,” he said. “There’s a completely logical explanation. He just always says things that are completely absurd, and something he says always reminds someone of a small detail that’s been overlooked—”
“Bingo cards!” Patterson announced as she breezed into the hallway, waving a stack of small papers in her hand. “Everyone take one! Make sure you have a pen!”
Nwadike slowly blinked a few times as she looked around, wondering if this was all some elaborate prank or if she had, in fact, somehow entered The Twilight Zone.
“You actually made bingo cards?” Gupta said as he took one.
“I said I would last time, didn’t I?” Patterson said. “Here, who still needs one? Nwadike? I made more than enough…” She handed the slips of paper out to everyone, including Nwadike and Mr. Fell.
Oh. Mr. Fell was back here? Odd. He wasn’t supposed to be here, was he? Oh, well, it was probably fine.
Aziraphale quietly looked over the little “bingo card” he was now holding. It was a simple computer-printed piece of paper, about a quarter of a sheet, labelled “A.J.C. Bingo.” Under the title was a five-by-five grid of squares that all said things like “Antichrist,” “Blatant Misuse of Furniture,” “Evil Boss(es),” “Dramatic Nonsense Sounds,” and “Ducks.” Really, just the basic ingredients of an average conversation with Crowley, although “Escapes Handcuffs” was a bit… situation-specific. The “free space” at the centre square was, naturally, a picture of a pair of sunglasses.
Nwadike looked around at the crowd, all patting their pockets and scrambling for pens to mark their bingo cards with. “So — who is going to do the questioning?” she asked.
“McCreery will, as soon as he gets off the phone,” Patterson said.
“When do we start the game?” Sanders eagerly asked.
Patterson shrugged. “I suppose, as soon as we see him do something on the card. Oh, like that!”
Everyone immediately looked through the one-way mirror and started studying their cards to find and mark the square for “Exaggerated Sniffing.” It was always hard to tell with those sunglasses,7 but Anthony Crowley seemed to be very intently looking around as he very obviously sniffed the air in the interrogation room… which could not possibly have had a pleasant aroma. His gaze seemed to settle briefly on the door before shifting over to the one-way mirror. With his hands still cuffed in front of him, he slid out of his chair and — well, really, he was on his feet, but he still seemed to slither over to stand much too close to the one-way mirror.
Even with the sunglasses, and even with the glass in between them, the intensity of his gaze made the assembled group all take a step back. He was definitely staring, but there was no way he could see anything other than his own reflection. “…What are you doing here…” they heard and saw him say, his voice low.
No one noticed Mr. Fell’s smirk, and no one saw his discreet yet cheeky little wave.8
That was when Detective Oscar McCreery rounded the corner. “Nwadike. I apologise. You were not supposed to be on your own for that,” he said, and the no-nonsense tone managed to convey his sincerity. “I heard what happened. Are you okay?”
Sometimes, just being asked if you are okay can help you to be okay, and that was what happened for Nwadike. She breathed again, and she nodded. “Yes. I am.”
“Take it easy a bit, before you head out again,” McCreery told her. “And next time we’re both off-duty, I owe you a drink. No, two drinks — one for A.J., one for the lorry.”
“And what would Mrs. McCreery think of that?” Sanders teased.
McCreery rolled his eyes. “Same as she thinks when I buy any of you a drink. Grow up, Sanders,” he said, acknowledging the rest of the group for the first time. “And what are those things?”
“Bingo cards,” Clarke said as McCreery studied the paper Nwadike was now showing him. “Want us to do one for you?”
McCreery frowned. “Patterson,” he chided, looking at her, “What did I tell you about the bingo cards?”
Patterson slid her eyes off to one side and then back to McCreery. “That… there should be bonus points if he calls the Antichrist a good kid?”
Gupta sniggered.
McCreery squeezed his eyes shut. “I did say that, didn’t I,” he muttered.
“You did say that,” Hussain cheerfully agreed.
“I put it on there,” Patterson said, pointing to the small print at the bottom. “But it only counts if the Antichrist square is part of your bingo.”
McCreery shook his head and made eye contact with Clarke, hoping for one sympathetic face, but he should have known better. His old friend was too busy smirking at him. “Nwadike,” McCreery said, turning to the rookie officer again. “What are A.J.’s pronouns today?”
“He/him,” Nwadike said.
“Thank you.” And with that, McCreery walked back around the corner.
Clarke reached over to Patterson. “Give me a card for the old stick in the mud,” he said.
“I heard that!” McCreery called, and then he opened the door and entered the interrogation room. “Hey Anthony.”
Anthony Crowley was standing right in front of the one-way mirror, staring at it like he expected to see through it9 if he tried hard enough. “Who y’got out there, Detective?” he said mildly.
McCreery ignored the question. “Thanks for coming in,” he said.
Anthony turned to scowl at him then. “Not like I had a choice! She put me in handcuffs!” he complained.
McCreery lowered his gaze to Anthony’s wrists. “And… you got out of them,” he said flatly.
Anthony grinned as he held the cuffs up, casually twirling them around on his index finger. “Course I got out. Takes more’n a little metal to lock me up. You know that, Detective.”
~ ~ ~
On the other side of the mirror, Nwadike’s jaw dropped. “But — but I locked the cuffs!” she said. “I swear I locked those cuffs.”
“We know you did,” Clarke assured her, and he pointed to the appropriate square on her bingo card. “Mark it off. Winner gets — what’d we say winner gets? Pie?”
“Pie,” Hussain confirmed, and he leaned forward to assure Nwadike. “He would tell you if you forgot to lock the cuffs,” he said.
“Speaking from experience, Hussain?” Gupta teased, knowing full well that he was.
Sanders frowned. “Wait,” he said, and he turned to Nwadike. “You mean he kept his handcuffs on the whole way here?”
All eyes were on Nwadike, and she hesitantly stared back at everyone. “…Yes?...” she said warily. That was how handcuffs were supposed to work. Why did everyone look so impressed?
“He must really like you,” Clarke said.
“He won’t even let me put my cuffs on him!” Patterson complained. “I can’t even get close to him with my cuffs. He keeps saying they’re holy.”
Gupta cocked an eyebrow at her. “...This have something to do with that cousin of yours being a vicar?”
Patterson sighed. “Once, he blessed my cuffs as a joke, years ago. But, like — how would he know that?” she said, gesturing to the other side of the glass.
If Mr. Fell was suddenly standing much more stiffly than he had been, nobody noticed it.
~ ~ ~
Meanwhile, Anthony was talking about the lorry driver while McCreery guided him back towards the table. “He really coulda killed your new girl. That’d be a shame. ‘M not sure how it works with traffic charges. Does he go to court for that? I’d be happy to testify,” Anthony said as he slid back into his seat, sticking his chin up to give McCreery a cocky look. “I could even pretend to be sane,” he said airily.
“That’s, uh… that’s kind of you, thank you,” McCreery said as he sat down across from the man.
Anthony scowled. “I’m not kind,” he snapped. “Just want him off the road. I’m selfish. ‘S no fun scaring people with my driving if someone else is a bigger menace.”
~ ~ ~
The bingo players studied their cards. “Does that count for ‘driving at absurd speeds’?” Gupta asked.
“I vote it does,” Hussain said.
“‘Offended by a compliment,’ too,” Patterson murmured.
~ ~ ~
McCreery was all business. “I would love to discuss your driving habits, Anthony, but that’s actually not what we brought you in for,” he said.
“Nah, didn’t figure it was,” Anthony said, shifting in his chair. “Brilliant timing, though. Got me out of a call with my boss. Can’t complain about that.”
“Are you ever going to tell us who your boss is?” McCreery asked mildly. No one had been able to figure out what A.J. Crowley did for a living yet, but no one suspected him of having an honest job.
“Lord Beelzebub,” Anthony said. Then he furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Nrrng, or, well… more of a supervisor, I guess. That’s who called. Real boss is — y’know.” He tilted his head more, in sort of a sideways nod towards the floor. “Obvious.”
~ ~ ~
“Evil bosses,” Patterson whispered, and the bingo players marked their cards.
~ ~ ~
“…Isn’t Beelzebub a demon or something?” McCreery asked.
“Yes,” Anthony said, drawing the word out slowly. “Grand Duke of Hell, specifically. Not pleasant. Don’t worry, though. You’re not likely to meet any of my bosses.” He flapped a hand to gesture towards the detective. “You’re — all — y’know. You pay your taxes and all that.”
McCreery wondered what paying his taxes had to do with not meeting a Grand Duke of Hell. “…Appreciate the vote of confidence…”
“Sanders, though. Sanders may need to worry about my boss,” Anthony mused, and he looked at the one-way mirror. “You may wanna have a chat with him.”
~ ~ ~
Sanders was looking at his card. “I’m one away from bingo!” he said.
Patterson raised an eyebrow at him. “Did you notice that he just insulted you?” she said.
“What?” Sanders glanced at her and looked at the one-way mirror. “I just need him to sing Queen,” he said.
Nwadike had finally pushed herself past the absurdity of all of this, and now she pointed with her pen as Anthony put his snakeskin boots on the table. “Would that be the — blatant misuse of furniture?” she asked, and she was promptly answered with a chorus of “no’s.”
“Not for Anthony J. Crowley,” Gupta said.
“Anyone can put their feet on a table,” Hussain agreed.
Nwadike hesitated. “…So… what does constitute… blatant misuse of furniture?”
They all paused to consider it.
Clarke was the first to speak. “When you’re thinking of calling in paramedics, because the spine isn’t meant to bend that way,” he suggested.
“Or he’s upside-down,” Patterson said.
“Or you’re sure he’s about to fall any second,” Sanders said. “Although he never has.”
“Yet,” Hussain scoffed.
~ ~ ~
McCreery had spent this time convincing Anthony to put his feet back down. Anthony reluctantly complied, but not without grumbling. “You need more comfortable furniture in here, Detective. At least some cushions, or something.”
“I’ll put in a request for a throw pillow,” McCreery said dryly.
“Oh, I invented those,” Anthony said, perking up. “Well, I mean, the decorative ones. Pillows that aren’t comfortable. Make sure you don’t get that kind,” he said with a grin, and then he looked around and added, “Although I suppose you could use the colour.”
~ ~ ~
Sanders nudged Patterson. “Do we have a square for—”
“‘I invented that,’ yup,” Patterson said, marking her card.
“I can’t find it on mine,” he said.
“Well it’s no fun if all of them are on every card,” Patterson said. “Besides, we had too many ideas for that.”
~ ~ ~
“I’m sure we could use the colour,” McCreery said. “This place wasn’t exactly designed for aesthetics.”
“Myern, well… still looks better’n my office,” Anthony said, still looking around at the walls. “A lot less grime, for one thing.”
~ ~ ~
“Wait, that noise! Are we counting that for ‘dramatic nonsense sounds’?” Sanders asked.
“No, we are not counting that,” Patterson said sternly. “That was one sound, and it wasn’t even dramatic.”
“So… minimum of two syllables for the nonsense sounds?” Sanders asked.
“Let’s call it three,” Clarke suggested, and the group agreed to this.
~ ~ ~
“You have an office?” McCreery asked.
“Well… er, place I report to, anyway. I spend as little time there as possible,” Anthony said.
“Oh, yeah?” McCreery said casually. “Where is it?”
Anthony slowly raised one eyebrow well above his sunglasses.
~ ~ ~
“There’s The Eyebrow,” Clarke said, and he marked the corresponding spot on both his card and McCreery’s.
“Aww, how come I don’t have The Eyebrow?” Gupta pouted.
“I don’t have it, either,” Hussain sulked.
Nwadike hushed them, and Clarke grinned like a proud father.
~ ~ ~
“We literally just went over this, didn’t we?” Anthony said smugly. “My supervisor is Lord Beelzebub, my real boss is The Great Adversary…” He pointedly tilted his head towards the floor again. “C’mon now, McCreery. Use those detective skills.” He smirked as he twisted enough to drape his arm over the back of his chair.
McCreery sighed. “You’re telling me that you work for Hell,” he said resignedly.
“And I have told you that, many times now,” Anthony said. “You may want to think about actually believing me, at some point. Not that I blame you, really. You’re hardly the first human to not trust a demon.”
~ ~ ~
“That is definitely ‘claim to be a demon,’” Patterson said, and the others agreed.
Nwadike was staring. “He’s… he’s being serious,” she said worriedly.
“Yeah, we know,” Hussain said, and he nodded to her card. “You’ve got that one. Mark it off. Don’t you want pie?”
~ ~ ~
“Of course, if you don’t trust me, I’m not sure why you keep bringing me in here,” Anthony said. “Seems a bit strange, don’t you think?”
McCreery sighed and spread his hands out. “I guess it’s one of the mysteries of life, Anthony,” he said. “And speaking of mysteries…” He set a file folder on the table between them.
Anthony perked up. “Ooh! Do I get to look at pictures this time?”
“Yeah, you get to look at pictures,” McCreery said, and he took out a picture of Penner. “Do you recognise this person?”
Anthony studied it. “Mmm… nah,” he said, and he shrugged. “That’s a human.”
~ ~ ~
“That counts as ‘humans’ instead of ‘people,’ right?” Gupta asked.
“Yeah, probably,” Sanders said. “C’mon, c’mon, sing Queen already…!”
~ ~ ~
McCreery slid out the photo of Penner’s body next.
Anthony winced and sucked in a breath. “Ooh… That’s a dead human,” he said. He shifted in his seat and leaned forward to take the picture and examine it more closely. “Aww, yeah, that’s a lousy way to go. Blunt force trauma, right?”
McCreery tilted his head. “How do you know that?”
Anthony looked at him. Then he rolled his eyes, and the rest of his head, too.
~ ~ ~
“Obvious eye roll,” Patterson sing-songed as she marked her card. “I’m one away from bingo. Ooh, in two different spots!”
“Yeah, and I’m one away from double bingo if he would just sing Queen,” Sanders complained.
~ ~ ~
“There’s a big dent in his skull, McCreery. Of course it’s blunt force trauma,” Anthony said, showing him the picture. “I’m a demon who’s been on Earth for six thousand years. You think I’ve never seen someone who died of blunt force trauma? I literally witnessed the first murder. What’d y’think Cain used? A guillotine? He had a rock.”
~ ~ ~
Nwadike pointed her pen at the glass again. “So… is that ‘historical events’ or ‘name-dropping dead people’?”
“Oh…” said Patterson. “I should’ve put something for Biblical references.”
“Could add that for next time,” Clarke suggested.
“So we’re not counting that today?” Gupta asked.
“Guess not,” Hussain shrugged.
~ ~ ~
“...Okay. But, this human. This murder,” McCreery said, taking the picture back from Anthony. “You’ve never seen this man? Alive or dead?”
“Nah… don’t think so, really,” Anthony said. “He looked a lot better alive, though.”
“Most people do,” McCreery agreed. “What about any of these people?” He pulled out pictures of several of Penner’s associates.
“Ooh, there’s more pictures! Let’s see,” Anthony said, leaning forward again to study them. He wrinkled his nose and recoiled. “Ogf — ymmv — blergh. That one needs some fashion tips.”
~ ~ ~
“That’s three syllables,” Clarke announced.
“Yep. That is ‘dramatic nonsense sounds,’” Patterson agreed, and they marked their cards.
~ ~ ~
“You’ve seen him before?” McCreery asked.
“I’m seeing him now!” Anthony complained. “He’s wearing a bowler hat with polka dots on it. Why would anyone even make a bowler hat with polka dots on it? Bad enough having polka dots at all. Have polka dots ever looked good?” He seemed to address this question to the one-way mirror.
~ ~ ~
“Is he asking us?” Nwadike whispered.
“Might be. He doesn’t usually talk to the mirror,” Patterson said, frowning.
Mr. Fell was trying very hard to keep his chuckle silent.
~ ~ ~
“Polka dots are bad enough on their own, anywhere,” Anthony groused. “But who puts them on a hat, for Hell’s sake? Why does that hat even exist?”
~ ~ ~
“‘For Hell’s sake.’ That’s a square,” Patterson said, and they all checked their cards. “Still no bingos yet?”
“McCreery and I are both one away from one,” Clarke said.
“Me too,” Nwadike added.
“I would have bingo if he would just sing Queen already!”
“We know, Sanders. We know,” Patterson said.
~ ~ ~
“I would like to speak with whoever made that hat,” Anthony went on. “And who wears a bowler hat these days? Come on. At least make it a fedora or something… y’know… cool. Or something that was cool at some point. Bowler hats are just ridiculous. Meant for head protection, y’know. Pity that dead human didn’t have one.”
“Maybe that’s why he wears it,” McCreery said, and he shrugged. “I’m partial to the newsboy style, myself.”
Anthony leaned back and tilted his head to one side as he gave McCreery a long, thoughtful look. “...Yeah, you’d look alright in a newsboy,” he decided. “Clarke — I mean, it’s the wrong century for it now, but Clarke would’ve looked very good with a tophat. I miss tophats,” he mused, twisting to sit sideways in the chair now. “Tophats were a lot of fun. Especially when they got really tall. Very easy to knock them off. Convenient little breeze…” He waved his hand. “Fwoosh, and everybody went running trying to chase their hats. Lots of fun. And you could hide things in them!” He draped his arm over the back of his chair. “I once hid five ducklings inside my tophat. Now that… was a very fun night,” he said with a grin.
~ ~ ~
Mr. Fell rolled his eyes and let out a quiet sigh that nobody noticed.
“Ducks!” Gupta said, marking his card. “Now I will also have bingo if he sings Queen, Sanders.”
Sanders grumbled.
~ ~ ~
“...Five… ducklings,” McCreery echoed.
“Well, the sixth one10 didn’t fit,” Anthony said. “They had a grand ol’ time in that punch bowl, though.”
“That… can’t have been good for them,” McCreery said.
“Oh, they were fine. All got back to their mum, safe and sound. Wouldn’t be fun otherwise,” Anthony said dismissively, looking around at some of the corners of the room. He leaned back, which of course was actually sideways from the rest of the chair.
~ ~ ~
Nwadike pointed with her pen. “So is that the ‘misuse of furniture’ thing?”
“Almost,” Hussain said. “Almost. He is so close.”
~ ~ ~
“...What about these other pictures,” McCreery said, pushing some of them forward. “Anything about any of these people?”
“Hmmm…” Anthony twisted to lean his elbow on the table while still holding the back of his chair with his other hand and leaning far enough to one side that his centre of gravity couldn’t possibly have still been over the chair. One knee came into view as he presumably put his foot on the seat of the chair.
~ ~ ~
“Okay, Nwadike,” Sanders said, “That is blatant misuse of fur—”
“Bingo,” Nwadike said cheerfully.
Sanders stared at her with his jaw dropped while their other colleagues all congratulated her. “...But…”
“Nwadike gets pie!” Patterson said. “But can we keep playing just for fun? I’m one away from bingo in three different places.”
“Why not?” Clarke said with a shrug.
~ ~ ~
“This one,” Anthony said, pushing one of the photos a little closer to McCreery. “By far the worst barman I’ve had to deal with since… blrf… augh… that miserable pub Ian Fleming dragged me out to. That was a right mess.”
~ ~ ~
“Bingo!” Clarke, Patterson, and Hussain all said in unison as they marked the spot on their cards for ‘name-dropping dead people.’
Sanders groaned.
~ ~ ~
“This one is a barman?” McCreery asked, tapping the photo.
“Lousy barman. Might’ve been sacked by now,” Anthony said. “Or demoted, or trained, or something.”
“Where?” McCreery asked.
Anthony furrowed his brow. “...urpf… I… don’t remember. Shouldn’t you know that bit?”
McCreery moved on. “Do you remember when you saw him as a barman?”
“Uhhhmmm… hrym.” Anthony cocked his head to one side and looked at the one-way mirror like he thought it would give him an answer.
~ ~ ~
“Wait, is he…” Gupta leaned closer. “Is he actually giving us real information?”
“Shh, you’ll jinx it!” Hussain whispered.
Still conveniently unnoticed, Mr. Fell stared back at Anthony, unable to give him the information he was trying to remember.
~ ~ ~
Anthony snapped his fingers and straightened up to occupy the chair in a relatively normal fashion. “Last week Wednesday! Eight P.M. sharp,” he said firmly. “...I think. Either that, or it was seven o’clock on a Tuesday three years ago.”
McCreery dropped his forehead to his palm. “Anthony…” he muttered.
Anthony shrugged.
~ ~ ~
Hussain gave Gupta a hard poke in the arm. “See what you did?”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Boys,” Clarke chided, and they both cast him a guilty look and quieted down.
~ ~ ~
“Is there anything else you can tell me about this guy?” McCreery asked, tapping the picture again.
Anthony peered at the picture. “...Eh… he’s got better fashion sense than the bowler hat guy,” he said. “Which isn’t saying much.”
“What about any of these other people,” McCreery asked, gesturing to the rest of the photos.
Anthony looked them over. “...Mm…” He pointed. “That one either needs to get lessons or to hire a better makeup artist.”
“...Anything that we can’t tell from the pictures, Anthony,” McCreery said patiently.
“...Ohhhhh,” Anthony said, like this was a new revelation, and he studied the pictures one more time before he (presumably) looked McCreery in the eyes. “...They are not… robots,” he said with a perfectly straight face.
And McCreery looked right back at him with an equally straight face (which was more than any of his colleagues on the other side of the mirror could say) and he said, “...Okay.”
“Do you know who told me that?” Anthony asked, continuing to give (at least the impression of) a rather unnerving stare.
“Who?” McCreery asked.
And Anthony continued to keep his face entirely emotionless as he leaned closer and whispered, “The aliens.”
McCreery slowly took a deep breath in through his nose. “...I think we’re done here,” he said calmly, and he started putting the photographs back into the folder.
“Ohh, are we?” Anthony asked, looking vaguely disappointed.
“Yes. Yes, we are,” McCreery said. “You’re free to go, Anthony.”
“Huh.” Anthony shrugged. “If you say so,” he said, and he gave McCreery a surprisingly coy look. “Was I any help?”
McCreery sighed and looked at him. “...You were as much help as you ever are, Anthony,” he said resignedly.
“Oh.” Anthony gave him a smug grin. “Sorry,” he said cheerfully.
“Eh… Not the end of the world,” McCreery said.
“No, not yet. You’ve still got, like… mm, two and half months, for that,” Anthony said. “I mean… hopefully, nothing will happen, but you didn’t hear that from me,” he added. “But. Y’know. Y’might wanna check off your bucket list, just in case.” He gave such an exaggerated wink that it was visible despite the sunglasses.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” McCreery said.
~ ~ ~
“Does that count for Armageddon?” Sanders asked glumly.
“Will you get a bingo if it does?” Patterson asked.
“...No,” Sanders grumbled. “Why won’t he sing Queen? He always sings Queen.”
~ ~ ~
“Well, I guess that’s my cue to leave, then!” Anthony said. He cheerfully swung himself to his feet and started sauntering towards the door.
“Anthony,” McCreery said, and that was enough to stop him. McCreery didn’t even get out of his chair as he held out his hand. “The cuffs?”
Anthony groaned and dropped his head back. “Oh, you’re no fun,” he sulked. He pulled the handcuffs out of his back pocket and started to bring them over, but stopped short of handing them to McCreery. “Wait, they’re not even yours! These are the new girl’s cuffs. I’m giving ‘em to the new girl,” he said, and he spun on his heel and sauntered much more purposefully out the door.
McCreery kept his back to the mirror so no one could see him roll his eyes.
“Oi, new girl!” Anthony said as he rounded the corner, and he tossed the handcuffs to Nwadike as everyone hastily tucked their bingo cards away. “Nice work today,” he told her, and he winked at her and addressed her colleagues. “You lot, take care of this one. She’ll probably save all your arses one day,” he said, and he smugly folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the corner as he turned to Mr. Fell. “Hello, angel. What are you doing here?” he asked.
Mr. Fell looked equally amused and exasperated as he straightened his coat. “I was reporting an attempted burglary,” he said evenly.
Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Really,” he said.
“Yes, really,” Mr. Fell said crisply, and he turned to McCreery, who had emerged behind Anthony and was watching this interaction with the same fascinated confusion as everyone else. “The dreadful publican was last week Wednesday at eight P.M., at a pub in South Kensington called The Red Lion.”
Anthony scowled at him. “You’re taking all the fun out of i—”
“Say thank you to the nice police officers, Crowley,” Mr. Fell interrupted.
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “What am I thanking them for?”
“For entertaining you,” Mr. Fell said sternly.
“THANK YOU, nice police officers!” Anthony announced, grinning and cheerfully waving at everyone. He pushed himself off the wall and turned to Mr. Fell. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing to the exit.
“After you,” Mr. Fell said with a tiny bow. When Anthony had gone ahead of him, he gave the police officers a rather apologetic look before he turned to follow.
The two polar opposite lunatics departed together, leaving a station full of speechless police officers in their wake.
Sanders was the one who pointed after them and stated the obvious. “They know each other.”
“When Anthony got here, Mr. Fell referred to him as an acquaintance,” Clarke supplied.
“That is not an acquaintanceship,” Hussain said.
“What, don’t you call all your acquaintances angel?” Gupta teased.
“Apparently they went to a pub together,” McCreery said, and he wrote the information about the pub down. “Let’s hope there’s only one Red Lion in South Kensington. Might be the most informative A.J.C. interrogation ever, not that he was the informative one,” he mused, and he looked up. “...Do I want to know how the bingo game went?”
“Nwadike won!” Patterson said proudly.
“Ah. Congrats, Nwadike,” McCreery said.
But Nwadike didn’t seem to notice. “...The bowler hat,” she said, and she looked at her colleagues. “...Why does he wear the bowler hat?”
“Because he has no fashion sense, like Anthony said,” Sanders said with a chuckle.
“Or for head protection, apparently,” Patterson added.
“No,” Nwadike said firmly. She was deep in thought. “...Anthony hid ducks inside a tophat. How much can you hide in a bowler?”
The others all gave her an impressed look.
“...Probably more than just early balding,” Hussain said.
“You’re on a roll today, Nwadike!” Gupta said.
McCreery nodded. “I think you might be onto something, Nwadike,” he said. “Let’s look into that.”
~ ~ ~
There was no reason the Bentley should have been parked outside, but Crowley and Aziraphale both expected it to be there, and so there it was.
“How do you report that in your memos?” Aziraphale asked as they approached the car.
“Wasting police resources,” Crowley said cheerfully. “Have to switch police stations now and then, or they start to notice I’m not ageing. Or at least put a break in between, so they think I’m the next generation.”
“Mmm.”
They reached the Bentley and climbed in.
Crowley tilted his head back. “What were those… slips of paper they all had?” he asked.
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Bingo cards,” he said, and he pulled his out of his pocket to hand it to him. “Apparently their first time using them.”
Crowley looked it over and raised his eyebrow, smirking at the angel. “And did you tell them you had a triple bingo?”
“I was trying to be inconspicuous,” Aziraphale said primly, and he took his bingo card back.
Crowley chuckled. “Lunch?” he offered.
“Oh, please. The refreshments were awful there,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley laughed as they drove away.
[1] It was in her jewellery box the whole time. She’d put on one earring, got distracted, and forgotten to put the other one on.
[2] Normally, Aziraphale didn’t bother to inform the authorities at all in these situations. As long as no crime was committed, the police surely had other things to be focused on, after all. However, with this individual, the subtle miraculous nudges towards Goodness hadn’t seemed to take, and some of the comments he’d made about his past actions had prompted the angel to be particularly thorough and do things the human way.
[3] Clarke didn’t know yet what pronouns A.J. Crowley was using today—or which name, hence the initials—and preferred to hedge his bets with “they/them” until he heard otherwise. They had assured him once that they would never be offended by they/them pronouns. Of course, they had then gone on to threaten Clarke with bodily harm if he ever referred to them with zie/zir pronouns, for reasons having something to do with their boss and a horde of flies. Or something.
[4] A spot-on assessment, really.
[5] In fact, it was truly miraculous that the lorry had been able to stop before hitting the police car. Crowley had never been discorporated in 6,000 years, and that wasn’t the sort of record you went and messed with.
[6] She did know his pronouns for today.
[7] Anthony J. Crowley absolutely always wore sunglasses, due to a medical condition. Absolutely everyone in the station knew better than to ask him to remove them. Oddly enough, it never occurred to anyone to wonder what the medical condition was.
[8] Really, no one did. Not even Crowley, who was staring straight at him but really only could see his own reflection in the one-way mirror. Demons do not have x-ray vision.
[9] He did. Despite his best efforts, it wasn’t working.
[10] Since there hadn’t been room in his hat, he’d kept the sixth duckling in his pocket, at least until he’d been able to pass it off to Aziraphale, who hadn’t known he was getting roped into demonic mischief that night until he’d had a duckling in his hands.