Chapter Text
Crowley would certainly be here any minute now. Almost certainly. Sandalphon and Gabriel had taken themselves off an hour ago – Aziraphale was still trying to work out what that little pantomime had been about, first making a fuss about recalling him to Heaven, then rescinding the entire plan (but leaving him with that absurd medallion). The demon, of course, would want to be sure they were well away, but –
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Not the chime he’d hung at the street door; perhaps a tentative rap at one of the (high, miraculously untaxed) windows. Aziraphale glanced from side to side, but no tall, top-hatted silhouette appeared against the afternoon light of Soho. Someone embarking on repairs in the shop next door? So far as he’d seen today, it was closed -–
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
There was a door into the mews – locked and barred, with wards set on it to boot. He’d have to tinker with that, if Crowley had decided that entering through the back was safer, though Heaven knew (actually, Aziraphale hoped they didn’t) that was hardly less obvious from a Celestial perspective than coming in at the front. Sidling through the still half-empty packing boxes, laden with literary treasures reclaimed from storerooms all over Britain and the Continent, he slipped the bar and turned the ornate key in the latch. “Dear – I’ve had the most dreadful time, but it’s quite all right now –”
The man standing in the doorway was not tall, not thin, and definitely not Crowley. Deep wrinkles carved gullies in a long-nosed face; a stocking cap half-concealed a shock of white hair. A short cloak, open at the front, exposed a collar that flared out like a pair of wings rather than the currently fashionable stocks, cinched in place by a cravat whose floppy bow featured a woven stripe. The hand raised before him sported a worn, fingerless glove.
“Er… we’re not exactly open yet,” said Aziraphale. “Well, we are, but there’s been a bit of a – oh, never mind – come in.”
The man stepped in off the cobbles. “Ah, a bookshop,” he said. “So you’re certain to be well informed. I need to get my bearings. I was en route to the planet Dido, but the instrument panel’s had something of a blink. I’m afraid I was distracted – I've lost my granddaughter's company rather suddenly, it’s been a shock –”
“Well, I fear we haven’t any young ladies here. Have you alerted the constabulary?”
“Oh, she’s a grown woman, I told her it was time. I don’t suppose this is Dido, is it? And have you a spanner anywhere about?”
“Um – there’s a mallet, and a crowbar, the workmen were opening cases earlier, but no spanners – there’s a carriage yard in Oxford Street, I’d expect they’d have some –”
“Mallet will do. Be quick about it.”
“I say, that’s a bit short, isn’t it? Who might you be?”
The man straightened, gripping the lappets of the cloak (Aziraphale, who’d developed a habit of tugging at his waistcoat, recognised a nervous tic). “You may call me the Doctor,” he said.
“Well, you may call me the bookseller.”
“The mallet, if you don’t mind. Is this Earth, then?”
“It certainly was the last time I looked.” Aziraphale cast about for the workmen’s tools. Humouring the man seemed the best policy. Possibly he’d escaped from Bedlam, or was fated to end up there. “London, to be precise.”
“Ah! And when? Date? The chronometer’s hopeless.”
“The fourteenth of February, eighteen-hundred. Sharp,” Aziraphale added. There it was, a wooden mallet with green paint flaking off the handle, lying next to a short crowbar. He extended them both.
“These ought to do it. I’ll have them back quick as a wink, I’m sure we can do something.”
“We?”
“No need to wait about, I’ll leave these on the doorstep,” said the man, exiting into the mews.
“Wait –”
Aziraphale stopped short in the doorway. A little distance away, against the back wall of the stationers’, stood an unexpected structure: a little cabinet or booth, something like an outdoor privy, with small glazed windows at the top of the doors. A short projection on the roof glowed with unaccountable light. The paintwork was a battered azure, and as he took in the sight the man disappeared inside, whence there issued moments later a series of loud, repeated percussions.
“That’s got it –-”
Not “the Doctor’s” voice. Another man’s, and was that a woman’s as well –? However many people were in there? A step towards the odd little shed was interrupted by the sound of the front door chimes. Aziraphale jumped and turned, with a stifled yelp.
“Angel?”
“Ah! – Crowley – oh bother –”
“Everything all right, angel?”
“Oh, I could absolutely weep to see you – Gabriel and Sandalphon were perfectly horrid –"
“I know, I’ll tell you –-”
“ – only now this – this box has turned up – “
“Lots’ve ’em, seems.”
“ – with the oddest person – it’s more of a, a glowing privy in the mews, and he wanted a hammer, I’ll show you –”
A loud, penetrating sound came from behind the shop, something between a Latour siren and a reed organ, rising and falling several times before fading out. Aziraphale flung out through the open door.
“There, that –”
But the mews was empty. A clank at his feet revealed the position of the crowbar; Aziraphale bent to pick it up. There was no sign of the mallet.
“Well,” he said, “this has been a day.”