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The last thing Aziraphale expected – so much so that for a moment, he was certain he’d imagined it – was for the door of the gloomy, echoing bookshop, full of blank volumes and memories now laced with pain, to open with its familiar chime and admit a young, brown-skinned man clad in a chunky cardigan. His posture was tentative, his eyes large and dark. Outlined against the utter void beyond the doorway, he glanced from the smirking face of Satan to God’s manifestation, to the angel and demon facing them.
“Make it stop,” he said.
God stared fixedly, for a long beat. “How did you get here?” She said. “Existence has ceased. This bookshop is all that is left of My universe.”
“I don’t know,” said the boy. “Something – the same thing’s happened before. I’m gone. And then I come back.”
“Habits are hard to break,” remarked Crowley. “I should know. Stock in trade.”
“You,” said the boy. “You taught me. How to see past what people pretend to be, to who they are. How to be gentle as doves and wise as serpents. How to turn anger into love.” He took a deep breath. “I’m angry now.”
“Who are you?” said God, low and threatening.
“Oh, Lord,” chuckled Satan, “don’t You know Your own son?” He smiled oilily. “So pleased to meet you. After Crowley’s reports, I feel as if I know you.”
“Put it back,” said the boy. “You know you can.”
“You dare to give me orders?” said God. “You’re a part of me.”
“I’m the part of you that cared,” said Joshua. “Have you forgotten?”
“For God so loved the world,” murmured Aziraphale, “that She gave Her only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth should not perish, but have everlasting life.”
“Well, well,” Satan dropped into the silence that followed. “How does it feel to have a rebellious son?”
“It can’t be done,” said God. “The Book of Life is burnt. The world is unmade. It can’t be restored.”
“Then how am I here?” said Joshua.
“Probably the same way I am,” came a voice from the recesses of the shop.
Heads turned. The youth who’d spoken was blond, sturdy, dressed in jeans and trainers, bent over to hold the collar of a little dog. He was taller, his voice deeper, but unmistakable.
“Oh, dear, I hope it’s housebroken,” whispered Aziraphale.
“I was taking Dog for a walk, and then everything went a bit wobbly, and then I was here,” said Adam. “This is yours, isn’t it? This shop?” He nodded towards Aziraphale. “I remember… I remember fixing it. Everything was ashes, and I put it back. I put the world back like it was before. I put back the people, and the cars, and the animals, and I put myself back, just the way I’d always been. Or thought I’d been. Was glad to be. A Human boy, with friends and a real Dad.” He reached out to a shelf where a row of colourful books stood in a rank, under a hand-lettered sign reading Not For Sale At Any Price.
“But I’ve still got a job to do, don’t I? Talking sense to you older folk. You and me, together,” he said, glancing at Joshua; the dog ran over, attempting futilely to scale his shin, in the way of small dogs. “Books burnt before, came back, even better, bit of value added.” He took down one of the books from the shelf, and now a title showed up on the cover, William Again; opened it, stroking his hand down the blank page, then riffled all the pages, now filled with large, children’s-book type.
“Like riding a bicycle,” he said. “Once you’ve got the hang of it, you don’t really forget.” He looked up, candid blue eyes travelling from God to Joshua, from Satan to the angel and demon. “You two. You helped me. Showed me how. How caring fixes things. How loving the world is enough. Even if sometimes it doesn’t seem like much.” He extended his hand towards Joshua. “And you love it, don’t you? And the people in it?”
Joshua stepped forward and took the offered hand.
“I did,” he said. “I do. I told them stories, to make their lives better.”
“Let’s tell one, then,” said Adam. “I used to write stories. With pirates, and spaceships, and Indians. What about... Once upon a time, God made everything. And She gave people the power to make their own choices. And lots of them muck it up awfully. They have wars and build fission reactors and burn fossil fuels and the lot of it. That’s why I’m going to business school, by the way,” he added. “I was taking a break from studying for my A-levels when everything went funny, and I’d really like to get back to it, ‘cause I want to learn how to do my little part to move the world the right way.”
“Maybe I could do that, too,” said Joshua.
“We’ll talk about it,” said Adam. “And then God sort of forgot Her job. When She didn’t like the choices people made, She sent floods and things. Like a little kid. Only little kids kick over the game board when they don’t like the way the game is going.
“And finally there was supposed to be a big War, like a footie match to see who got to run things, and it was all meant to be wiped out and started over again, only not everyone wanted to play. I thought I did, at first, but I didn’t. You didn’t.” He looked at Aziraphale and Crowley.
“And I don’t,” said Joshua.
“So when it started up again, they all came together, like the Board of a corporation. I’m studying how those are composed right now. And they voted, and they decided that God wasn’t doing Her job very well. You can vote out the Chief Executive Officer, you know. You can have an employee owned corporation. And what do you suppose the Board said to that idea?”
“I think it’s spiffing,” said Aziraphale with dawning excitement. “Are you saying that – “
“Sounds like a bit of nepotism backfiring to me,” said Crowley. “All for it, of course.” He stepped across the faded rug and took Adam’s hand. Joshua extended his to Aziraphale.
“I like that story,” he said.
“So,” said Adam. “There it is. We’re what’s left right now, and it’s unanimous. Grandmother, you’re made redundant. There will be a favorable severance package. And we’ll fix this mess. Put things back and leave ’em for humans to sort out the Human way.”
“Do you think we can?” said Aziraphale.
“Angel,” said Crowley. “You and I did a twenty-five Lazarii miracle, just on our own. Look who we’ve got here now. Doddle, I’d say.”
He raised the hand that clasped Adam’s.
“Ready?” said Adam.
“Go for it,” said Crowley.
There was nothing at first; then a distant hum, like an orchestra warming up in another part of the building. Aziraphale thought of the ramparts of Eden; of the scent of the first grasses and fruits, of Crowley’s amber eyes smiling at him atop the Wall. Of dates and figs in Uz, of concerts in the drawing rooms of Europe, of the first wine (they’d tasted it together, sweet as raisins and strong as a mule kick), of the headache the next morning. Of the fountain in St. James’ park and the view from Beachy Head and the feel of old parchment, and of the moment in the ruins of St. Dunstan’s when he knew that he loved Crowley and dared to imagine that Crowley loved him.
The sound was deeper now, under their feet, outside where the street should have been. “Mum’s pear tart,” said Adam, and the memory of that flavor burst over Aziraphale’s tongue too. “The tire swing in the wood, my first bicycle that’s still in the shed.”
“The sea of Galilee,” said Joshua (the smell of fish and salt), “the wedding where the wine never stopped flowing, the carpenter’s tools my father gave me before I was grown. The tomato and cheese – thingy that tasted so good.”
“All of it,” said Crowley. “The stupid, bloody world, just like it is, only no one yanking us about, and you there, angel, always you –”
Crowley’s love hit Aziraphale like a gale. Light exploded into the windows; a car horn blared, someone shouted. A force billowed away from them in all directions, like the flush of adrenaline when you’re startled or alarmed; galaxies flung themselves against the darkness behind closed eyelids, in a dance that lasted what seemed like years and was over in a moment, a thrum of energy slowly fading, to be replaced by a shaking relief.
Hands parted, arms going around shoulders instead, holding one another up.
God’s chair was empty. Satan was gone.
“I think that’s got It,” said Adam. “Hrrm. One more thing.”
He held out his closed hand, turned it palm down over Crowley’s. There was a soft jingle as a keyring fell from his grasp into the demon’s.
“Saw what you were thinkin’ of,” he said, glancing towards Aziraphale. “View over the Channel, down south. There’s a cottage Mum and Dad and I stayed in last summer, one of those Air B and B things. Only it’s yours now. And his. Present, for helpin’ me through it last time.”
“I, uh – “said Crowley.
“Reckon you could use a place that belonged to you both,” Adam went on. “I mean, I’m not eleven any more. ‘N I could see in your heads, ’fraid. “
“Erk,” managed Crowley. “Ngk –”
“What a kind gesture,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure we’ll love it. And I hope you’ll both be our guests, sometime.”
“You know where to find me,” said Adam. “I mean, you managed before.” He looked around him in a slow survey, over the jumble of ribbon-tied papers and antiques and books, books, books, their pages overflowing with the thoughts of humans and the memories of centuries.
“I’ll need to get back,” he said, pulling a mobile phone out of his pocket. “Railway timetable –” he flicked his finger along the screen. “Got to finish revising, I sit exams tomorrow. I’ll want a leash for Dog to ride on the train – “
Joshua extended one. “Is this right?” he said. Adam grinned.
“Careful how you do that sort’ve thing nowadays,” he said.
“Can I come with you?” said Joshua. “I’d love to ride on a – train.”
“‘Course,” said Adam. “You’ll like Mum and Dad. And my friends.”
The bell chimed as they let themselves out.
“Do you really?” said Crowley presently, examining the keyring, which had a battered cardboard tag with an address handwritten in pen.
“Do I really what?” Aziraphale arched an eyebrow.
“Want to live with me. In a house by the sea. And all that, uh, romantic bollocks.”
“I can’t think of anything I’d like more,” said Aziraphale.
“What about this bookshop?”
“I’m sure I can find a locum,” said the angel. “It is a Soho landmark, after all. And I’ve employed at least one assistant bookseller. We’ll work it out as we go along. Like Humans do.”
“Like Humans do,” echoed Crowley. “Like the sound of that.”
“Very good, then,” said Aziraphale. “Just give me a moment to lock up, and we’ll go for a drive.”
“First – “ said Crowley, then swallowed hard.
“Yes?”
“Come here, angel.”
His arms were wiry and strong, and fit around Aziraphale as if they’d been made to hold him.
“I have a story, too,” he said next to the angel’s ear. “Already written the last line.”
“What is it?” said Aziraphale.
Instead of answering straight away, Crowley drew back a little; gazed at the angel’s face for a long moment, then leaned in to place a soft, feather-light kiss on the cupid’s bow of his mouth. Aziraphale lifted two fingers to his lips as the kiss broke, as if to seal it there. His lower lashes were damp, and the demon stroked one cheek, brushing the tear away.
“And they lived happily ever after,” said Crowley. “Good last line, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Aziraphale. “And we shall.”