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Good Omens (2019–…): Season 1, Episode 2 - The Book - full transcript

Having followed the wrong boy for years, Aziraphale and Crowley must now try to locate the whereabouts of real Antichrist. Perhaps the story of Agnes Nutter and her famous prophecies will hold the answer?


Can I help you?

I would like to purchase
one of your material objects.

-Books.
-Books.

Let us discuss my purchase
in a private place,

because I am buying, uh...

Pornography?

Pornography.

Gabriel, come into
my back room.

We humans are extremely
easily embarrassed.

We must buy our pornography
secretively.

Human beings are so simple...

and so easily fooled.

Yes.

Ahem, good job.
You-- You fooled them all.

You remember Sandalphon?

Uh... Sodom and Gomorrah.

You were doing
a lot of smiting

and turning people
into salt.

Hard to forget.

Something smells...evil.

Oh, that'll be
the Jeffrey Archer books,
I'm afraid.

Well, we just wanted
to stop by

and check on the status
of the Antichrist.

Why? What's wrong?

I-- I mean, if there is
something wrong,

I could put
my people onto it.

Nothing's wrong.
Everything's going perfectly.

There's a lot happening.
All good.

All good?

Well, all going according
to the Divine Plan.

The Hell Hound
has been set loose,

and now the Four Horsemen
of the Apocalypse
are being summoned.

Death, Pollution,
Famine, War.

Right.

Who exactly summons them?

Not my department.

I believe we outsource
that sort of thing.

About time,
that's what I say.

You can't have a war
without War.

Sandalphon,
that is very good.

You can't have a war
without War.

I might use that. Huh?

Anyway...

no problems?
How was the Hell Hound?

I-- I didn't
stick around to see.

Thank you
for my pornography!

Excellent job.

"You can't have a war
without War."

Clever.

Welcome back.
Now, the government's
foreign affairs spokesman

will be here to comment
on the recent increase

in international tensions.

But first, do you know
what's in your fridge?

Morning, Crowley.

Just checking in.

Nice chair.

Hey, guys.

It's about
the Antichrist.

Yeah. Great kid.
Takes after his dad.

Our operatives
in the State Department

have arranged
for the child's family

to be flown
to the Middle East.

There, he and the Hell Hound

will be taken
to the Valley of Megiddo.

The Four Horsemen
will begin their final ride.

-Yay.
-Armageddon will begin.

The final combat.

It's what we've been working
towards since we rebelled.

We are the fallen.

Never forget that.

Well, it's not the sort
of thing you forget.

I don't
trust you, Crowley.

Everything's going just fine.

I didn't mean to fall.

I just hung around
the wrong people.

Somebody has to summon

the Four Horsemen
of the Apocalypse.

But they outsource
that sort of thing these days.

Meet the Summoner.

He has four items
to deliver in his van.

He works for
the International
Express Company.

And he's about to make
his first delivery
in a former war zone.

Sometimes, despite everything,
peace breaks out.

People get tired of fighting,
and pain, and death,

and are willing to start
all over again.

Excuse me,
who are you?

Carmine Zingiber.
National World Weekly.

War correspondent.

Well, this is good,
my friend.

It is good that a member
of the world press is here

to see us sign
the peace accord.

Right, well, if you'd like to
sign this first, Your Highness,

and then the Prime Minister,
then the Supreme Leader,

then we'll get a photograph
of all three of you together.

Wait. He signs first?

It is just a formality
who signs first.

A formality? You make me
a laughingstock in my country,

and you call that a formality?

Somebody has to sign
the peace agreement first.

They do, and it's me.

Oh, don't mind me,
ladies and gents.

Oh, what a day, eh?

Nearly didn't find the place.

Someone doesn't believe
in signposts, eh?

Package for you, miss.

You, uh...
you have to sign for it.

Well, it's a lovely place
you got here.

Yeah, I always wanted
to come here on my holidays.

-Finally.
-Put it down.

Oh, you sweet thing.

That's not gonna happen,
is it?

Sorry, folks.

I'd love to stay and get
to know you all better...

but duty calls.

She's the first of four.

And you can't have a war
without her.

She's been killing time
for so long now.

Time, and sometimes people.

And now, 60 centuries
of waiting are about to end.

This is also
the story of a witch,

a Witchfinder,
and a book.

And that story starts
about 360 years ago,

with the last witch burning
in England.

Witchfinder Major
Pulsifer, all is prepared.

Where is the hag?

In her cottage.
She suspects nothing.

I thought you'd tested her
with a pin.

We did. Regulation-issue
Witchfinder's pin.

-Pricked her all over.
-And what was the result?

She said it cured
her arthritis.

Hmm.

Of what else
is she accused?

Predicting the future,
mostly.

She told Mistress Bulcock

that Adultery
would be coming to town.

Such nonsense.

That's you, isn't it?

It's not me.

My given name,
Witchfinder Private Maggs,

is Thou Shalt Not
Commit Adultery.

But you can call me
"Witchfinder Major Pulsifer".

So they don't call you
"Adultery Pulsifer"?

They do not.

Good milkman...

bring no more milk,

not this day or ever,

for today I am to die
in flames.

Yours, Agnes Nutter.

P.S. My best wishes
to your wife.

Witch! Witch!

They're late.

She runs, I have heard tell,

with no one
pursuing her.

Aye. She says
running each morning

in an unladylike manner
around the village

doth improve her health.

Monstrous.

Perhaps invisible demons
pursue the witch as she runs.

No, she says
it's good for you.

She said we should get
more fibre in our diet.

I told her, I said, it's hard
enough picking out the gravel.

Aye, she is obviously mad.

But how can we be certain
she is a witch?

She cured me
of the howling pox.

And cured my son
of the bloody flux.

Obviously, a witch.

Witch.

Witch.

Witch.

Witch.

Adultery Pulsifer...

good people,

thou art tardy.

I should have been aflame
10 minutes since.

Right.

Mistress Nutter?

- Hey!
- Hey!

Oi!

This is most irregular,
Mistress Nutter.

Gather thee right close,
good people.

Come close until the fire
near scorch ye,

for I charge ye
that all must see

how the last true witch
in England dies.

And let my death
be a message to the world.

Come.

Come. Gather thee close, I say.

And mark well the fate
of those who meddle

with such as they
do not understand.

Oh, bugger.

Among the folk
from the next village,

there was much
subsequent debate

as to whether this disaster had
been sent by God or by Satan.

However, a note found
in Agnes' cottage

suggested that any divine
or devilish intervention

had been materially
helped by Agnes' petticoats,

in which she had concealed
50 pounds of gunpowder

and 30 pounds
of roofing nails.

Oh, bugger.

Agnes also left behind
a box and a book.

They were to be given to her
daughter and her son-in-law,

John and Virtue Device.

"Dear Mistress Nutter,

we take great pleasure
in enclosing

your author's copy
of your book.

We trust it will sell
in huge numbers,

yea, and be reprinted even
unto a second printing.

Yours, Bilton and Scaggs,
publishers."

The Nice and Accurate
Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.

"Reminiscent of Nostradamus
at his best."

Ursula Shipton.

What does this mean, John?

It means, Virtue,
that even though Agnes is dead,

we must study her book.

For your mother
knew the future.

"Prophecy 2,214.

In December 1980,

an Apple will arise
no man can eat.

Invest thy money
in Master Jobbes's machine,

and good fortune
will tend thy days."

Oh, I mean,
this is balderdash.

The book
Agnes left behind her

was the sole prophetic work
in all of human history

to consist entirely of
completely correct predictions

concerning the following
350-odd years.

Being a precise
and accurate description

of the events that would
culminate in Armageddon.

It was on the money
in every single detail.

On the night the Antichrist was
born, in a house in Malibu,

Agnes Nutter's
great-great-great-great-great
granddaughter

was drawing
on the title page.

And, metaphorically, the book
had just begun to tick.

Okay, Anathema.
Prophecy 2,214.

"In December 1980,

an Apple will arise
that no man can eat."

That one's stupid, Mom.
It doesn't mean anything.

My mom bought 5,000 shares
in Apple in 1980.

That's worth
$40 million today.

Okay, 2,213.

"Four shall ride, and three
shall ride the sky as two,

and one shall ride in flames,

and there shall be
no stopping them.

Not fish, nor rain,
neither devil or angel.

And ye shall be there also,
Anathema."

You see?

She's got special plans for you,
mi amor.

Agnes gave us
the easy job.

We just had to make sure
everything was good
for the family.

You're the one that's going
to have to save the world.

Meanwhile,
in Dorking, Surrey,

Thou Shalt Not
Commit Adultery Pulsifer's

great-great-great-great-great
grandson

should have been in bed
hours ago.

Newton?

It's after your bedtime,
dear.

Just a few more minutes, Mum.

I'm putting the old computer
back together.

You young scientists
and your experiments.

It's not really
an experiment, Mum.

I just changed the plug.

It'll work now.

I do hope the man from
the electric isn't going
to be upset again.

-It's not fair.
-Oh, don't worry, love.

It's not as if
it's the end of the world.

I just wanted to say, well,
good luck on the new job.

I hope it works out
this time.

-I'm sure it'll be fine, Mum.
-You've just been unlucky.

I made you sandwiches.

And you are?

Newton Pulsifer.
Wages clerk.

I'm new.

Excuse me,
I was just wondering,

is there a way that I could
do this without putting it
in the computer?

Is there a way of accessing
the wages database...

without using a computer?

Or maybe someone could
print it out for me,

and then I could do
the sums on paper.

Okay, who's excited
by the training initiative?

Let's see some hands.
Yeah?

Just so that you know, Norman,

I've registered
a complaint with HR

about this whole training
initiative nonsense.

It's a team-building exercise,
Janice.

And, um, just so as you know,

there's no "I" in "team", yeah?

But there's two "I's"
in "building", Nigel.

And an "I" in "exercise".

Yeah. Alright.

So, can I have everybody's
attention, please?

Sorry, I've just got to hit
return and I'll be with you.

- Oh!
- Uh-oh.

Sorry, just not very good
with computers.

Need a hand, Dick?

My name's not actually Dick.
It's the car's name.

You can ask me why,
if you like.

Hello.

"Athaneema Device"?

Anathema Device.
It's an old family name.

Purpose of your visit
to the United Kingdom?

Well, I'm commanded by
an ancient family prophecy.

I'm going to use all the wisdom
and witchcraft at my disposal

to hunt down
the heart of darkness,

and then do all that I can
to destroy it

before it brings about
the end of the world.

I'm sorry?

Vacation.

Hello, Mum.

The new job?

Yeah, it's going really well.

They're great.

- They love me.
- -Walk past them with your noses in the air.

Bye, Mum.

There's only one thing
we have to fear, you sissies,

and it's not global warming,
and it's not nuclear Armageddon.

Can anyone here
tell me what it is?

Ha! You don't answer.

You don't answer,
because you know it's true.

They are hidden
in our midst.

I'm the thin red line that
stands between humanity
and the darkness.

-Yea, I'm talking about--
-Witches?

Aye, witches.

They lurk behind a facade
of righteousness.

And there's naebody
can stop them...

but me.

In the old days,
Witchfinders were respected.

Matthew Hopkins,
Witchfinder General...

...he used to charge each town
and village ninepence

for every witch he found.

And they paid.

Are you, um,
Witchfinder General?

Oh, I am not.

There is no longer
a Witchfinder General.

Nor is there
a Witchfinder Colonel,

a Witchfinder Major,
not even a Witchfinder Captain.

There is, however,
a Witchfinder Sergeant.

And you're looking at him.

Well, pleased to meet you,
Mr Shadwell.

Um, cup of tea.
Nine sugars.

And a packet of cheese
and onion crisps.

Coming right up.

Get your wallet out,
laddie.

You never
want to appear tight-fisted

on first acquaintance.

- Thank you.
- And it's not "Mr Shadwell".

It's "Sergeant".
Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell.

What's your name, lad?

Newton.
Newton Pulsifer.

Pulsifer?

That's a familiar name,
now you mention it.

You have your own teeth?

Yes.

-How many nipples
have you got?
-What?

Nipples, laddie. How many?

Um, just the usual two.

Okay...

Be here at 11:00 tomorrow.

Bring scissors.

Just put it there.
Thanks so much.

What a gorgeous village, huh?

Thank you.

Hmm...

Right.

To work.

Easy job.

Deliver the Antichrist.
Keep an eye on him.

Nice, straightforward job, eh?

Not the kind of thing any demon
is going to screw up, right?

The only things in
the flat Crowley devotes
any personal attention to

are the houseplants.

He had heard about talking
to plants in the early '70s,

and thought it
an excellent idea.

Although "talking"
is perhaps the wrong word
for what Crowley does.

Is that a spot?

Is it?

Right, you know what I've told
you all about leaf spots.

I will not
stand for them!

You know what you've done.

You've disappointed me.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear.

Everyone!

Say goodbye
to your friend.

He just couldn't cut it.

Now, this is going
to hurt you so much more
than it will hurt me.

And you guys,
grow better!

What he does
is put the fear
of God into them.

More precisely,
the fear of Crowley.

The plants are the most
luxurious,

verdant and beautiful
in London.

Also, the most terrified.

The Nice and Accurate
Prophecies of Agnes Nutter?

I'm so sorry,
I can't help you.

Well, of course
I know who she was.

Born 1600, exploded 1656.

But there are no copies
of her book available.

No, I can't name my price.
I don't have it.

Nobody has--

Well, there really is no need
for that kind of language.

Um, hello.

I'm here about the advert
in the paper.

Well, Madame Tracy
draws aside the veil

every afternoon
except Thursdays.

I think there must
be another advert.

Oh, right.

Come in, dear. You're lucky.

One of my regulars
had to cancel.

Now, I don't do anything kinky
except by prior arrangement.

And my knees
aren't what they were.

Also, if it's strict discipline
you'll be wanting,

you'd better tell me now because
it can take me half an hour

to squeeze
into the leather pinny.

I'm sorry?

Are you not here for intimate
personal relaxation

and stress relief
for the discerning gentleman?

No.

I'm here to join
the Witchfinder Army.

Oh!

Mr Shadwell said
he was expecting a visitor.

It's just been him
for so long.

Aye.

It's your new recruit,
Mr Shadwell, look.

Away with you, harlot.

Scarlet woman.
Jezebel.

Oh, Mr Shadwell.

I'll bring you both tea.

Milk and sugar, dear?

He's in the army now, Jezebel.

He'll make his own tea.

Welcome to the Witchfinder Army,
new recruit.

You are, as of now,
Witchfinder Private Pulsifer.

We used to be powerful.

We used to be
important.

-Oh.
-Condensed milk, lad.

-And I take--
-Nine sugars.

Exactly.

We were the line of fire

between the darkness
and the poor unsuspecting folk

who don't believe
in witches.

-Hmm!
-But, Sergeant Shadwell,

don't the churches
do that these days?

Nay, laddie.

Against the darkness?

It's a war.

And you know
what our first weapon is?

Oh! The Thundergun of
Witchfinder Colonel "Get 'em
before they get you" Dalrymple?

Nay, laddie.

That'll never
be used again.

Not in this degenerate age.

Very good.

And you know
what we do with them?

No, lad.

We read.

And we cut.

Hey, this is Anthony Crowley.

You know what to do.
Do it with style.

No leads yet my end.

Anything at your end?

Listen, I have sort
of an idea.

What?

Ah, hello. When you did
the baby swap 11 years ago,

could something
have gone wrong?

What?

-You've lost the boy.
-"We've" lost him.

A child has been lost.

-But you still know his age--
-"We" know.

His birthday. He's 11.

-You make it sound easy.
-Well, it can't be that hard.

I just hope nothing's
happened to him.

Happened?
Nothing's happened to him.

He happens to everything.

So, we only have to find
his birth records.

Go through
the hospital files.

-And then what?
-And then we find the child.

And then what?

Watch out for that pedestrian.

She's on the street.
She knows the risk she's taking.

Just watch the--
Watch the road.

Wh-Where is this hospital,
anyway?

A village near Oxford,
Tadfield.

Crowley, you can't do 90 miles
per hour in Central London.

-Why not?
-You'll get us killed.

Well, inconveniently
discorporated.

Music. Why don't I put on
a little... music?

What's a Velvet Underground?

You wouldn't like it.

Oh. Bebop.

Yah!

I still can't believe
your dad let you keep him, Adam.

Actually, when I found a cat

we had to put up a notice
saying we found a lost cat,

and then we had
to give her back.

It's my birthday.
And he wasn't wearing a collar.

And we asked, and nobody's
reported a missing dog.

Our dog doesn't like me.
It pretends I'm not there.

Did you know that my cousin
Charlotte says that in America,

they have shops that sell 39
different flavours of ice cream.

Wensleydale's
first name is Jeremy,

but nobody's ever used it,

not even his parents,
who call him "Youngster".

All that stands between
Wensleydale

and chartered accountancy
is time.

There aren't 39 different
flavours of ice cream.

There aren't 39 flavours
of ice cream in the whole world.

Pepper's given first names
were Pippin Galadriel Moonchild.

She had been given them
in a naming ceremony

in a muddy valley field
that contained several sheep

and a number of leaky
polythene tents.

Six months later,
sick of the rain, the men,

the sheep who ate first
their marijuana crop
and then their tents,

Pepper's mother returned
to Tadfield

and enrolled
in a Sociology course.

There could be,
if you mixed them up.

You know, strawberry
and chocolate.

Every gang needs a Brian.

Always grimy, always
supportive of anything
Adam invents or needs.

Vanilla and chocolate.

Chocolate and vanilla.

Strawberry and vanilla
and chocolate.

Anyway, nobody's going
to take Dog away from me.

We're together to the end.
Aren't we, boy?

Eye of newt
and tongue of dog,

north by northwest.

There.

And it's southwest.

You must be here somewhere.

There's a witch
moved in to Jasmine Cottage.

- That's stupid.
- -It's not stupid, stupid.

Mrs Henderson told my mother
that the lady there gets
a witches' newspaper.

Excuse me. My father says
there's no such thing
as witches.

It makes sense that witches
would have their own newspaper.

My dad gets
the Angler's Times,

and I bet there's loads more
witches than anglers.

Shut up. I'm trying
to tell you things.

It's called
the Psychic News.

She's a witch.

Actually, there are
no more witches,
because we invented science

and all the vicars set fire to
the witches for their own good.

It was called
the Spanish Inquisition.

I don't reckon it's allowed,
going round setting fire
to people.

Otherwise people'd be
doing it all the time.

It's alright if you're a vicar
and it stops the witches
from going to hell.

So I expect they'd be quite
grateful if they understood
it properly.

We could be the new
Spanish Inquisition.

Actually, we can't
be the Spanish Inquisition,

because we're not
actually Spanish.

I've been to Barcelona.
I can teach you Spanish.

They say "olé" a lot.

We should practice
before we start burning witches.

We should start small
and work our way up.

Leave it to me.

This is the Tadfield area.
Does it look familiar yet?

You know, it does. I think
there's an air base around
here somewhere.

Air base?

Well, you don't think
American diplomats' wives

usually give birth
in little religious hospitals

in the middle of nowhere,
do you?

No, it all had to seem
to happen naturally,

so there's an air base
at Lower Tadfield.

Things started to happen,
base hospital isn't ready.

"Oh", our man there said.

"There's a birthing hospital
just down the road."

And there we were.

Rather good organisation.

Flawless.

It should have worked.

Ah, but evil always contains the
seeds of its own destruction.

No matter how well-planned,
how foolproof an evil plan,

no matter how apparently
successful it may seem
upon the way,

in the end it will founder
on the rocks of iniquity
and vanish.

For my money it was just
an ordinary cock-up.

-Hey, guys.
-Hi.

Nice hat.

Actually, we made it
out of cardboard.

It's for our game.

Stylish.
What are you guys playing?

The British Inquisition.
- Come on, Wensleydale.

Sounds like fun.
How does the game work?

I am chief inquisitor.
Brian is head torturer.

And we're trying
to find a witch.

Oh. Sounds very sensible.

- How do you do that?
- Watch.

Art thou a witch?

Olé?

Yes?

You can't say yes.
You've got to say no.

Then what?

Then we torture you
until you say yes.

Wait, you're going
to torture him?

We built a torturing machine.

It looks like a swing.

But, obviously,
in this situation,
I actually am a witch.

I have a big pointy hat,
and we have a cat at home, and--

and I borrowed
Mum's broom.

Look, no one's saying
you can't be a witch,

but you just have to say
you're not a witch.

There's no point
taking all this trouble

if you're going
to go round saying yes
the minute we ask you.

- Just say no.
- But--

Art thou a witch,
oh, evil crone?

Excuse me, Adam,
why must I do all the work?

I'm being tortured here.
Actually, this is very painful.

I am thinking of admitting
to being a witch.

I'm going to go home
if I can't have a go.

Don't see why evil witches
should have all the fun.

You have to keep pushing.

- Hey, kid.
- Yeah?

-Can I ask you something?
-Yeah.

Are there any great beasts
or strange things happening?

Well, there's Dog.
I mean, he's a beast.

Come on, Dog, say hello.

Not what I was
looking for.

Hold on.
I have to tell them what to do.

All right, evil witch
Wensleydale, don't do it again.

And now you get off
the torturing swing and let
someone else have a turn.

Right, well,
you kids are hilarious,

but I'm going to keep looking,
so, bye.

Um, are you sure
this is the right place?

This-- This doesn't
look like a hospital.

And...

...it feels loved.

No, it's definitely
the place.

What do you mean "loved"?

Well, I mean the opposite
of when you say,

"I don't like this place.
It feels spooky".

I don't ever say that.
I like spooky.

Big spooky fan, me.
Let's go talk to some nuns.

Ah! Oh!

Blue?

- Oh, it's paint.
- Hey!

You've both been hit!

I don't know what you think
you're playing at right--

Aah!

-Well, that was fun.
-Well, yes, fun for you.

Look at the state
of this coat.

I've kept this
in tip-top condition
for over 180 years now.

I'll never get this stain out.

-You could miracle it away.
-Hmm...

Yes, but...

well, I would always know
the stain was there.

Underneath, I mean.

Oh, thank you.

Impressive hardware.

I've looked at this gun.

It's not a proper one
at all.

It just shoots
paintballs.

Don't your lot
disapprove of guns?

Unless they're in
the right hands.

Then they give weight
to a moral argument.

I think.

A moral argument?
Really?

Come on.

This is definitely
the place.

Management training
no longer meant

watching half a dozen
unreliable PowerPoint
presentations.

Firms these days
expected more than that.

They wanted to establish
leadership potential,

group cooperation
and initiative,

which allowed their employees
to fire paintballs

at any colleagues
who irritated them.

Wonder where
the nuns went.

The brochure for Tadfield Manor
Crowley is inspecting

fails to contain any sentences
along the lines of,

"Until 11 years ago, the manor
was used as a hospital

by an order of Satanic nuns
who weren't actually
very good at it".

Oh, Millie from Accounts
caught me on the elbow.

-Who's winning?
-You're all going to lose.

What-- What the hell
did you just do?

Well, they wanted real guns,

so I gave them
what they wanted.

I always said you couldn't trust
those people from Purchasing.

The bastards.

There are people out there
shooting at each other.

Well, it lends weight
to their moral argument.

Everyone has free will,

including the right
to murder.

Just think of it as a microcosm
of the universe.

I wanted to be
a graphics designer,

design LPs
for the Rolling Stones,

but the careers teacher
said he hadn't heard of them.

- So I spent 36 years
double-checking form BF-18.

They couldn't just say,
"Oh, Norman, we're giving
you early retirement.

Have a watch, bugger off
and tend your marigolds".

Well, if they want war...

we're going to give them war.

Okay, guys,
let's get the bastards.

They're murdering
each other.

No, they aren't.
No one's killing anyone.

They're all having
miraculous escapes.

It wouldn't be any fun
otherwise.

You know, Crowley,

I've always said
that deep down,

you really are quite a nice--

Shut it!

I'm a demon.
I'm not nice.

I'm never nice.
Nice is a four-letter word.

- I will not have--
- Excuse me, gentlemen.

Sorry to break up an intimate
moment. Can I help you?

-You.
-Saints and demons preserve us,
it's Master Crowley.

You didn't have
to do that.

You could have just
asked her.

Oh...

of course, of course.
No. Yeah.

"Excuse me, ma'am, we're
two supernatural entities

just looking for the notorious
Son of Satan.

Wonder if you might help us
with our enquiries?"

Um, ahem, look... hello.

You weren't by any chance,
a nun here at this convent
11 years ago, were you?

I was.

Luck of the devil.

What happened to the baby
I gave you?

I swapped him with the son
of the American ambassador.

Such a nice man.

He used to be ambassador
to Swindon.

Then Sister Theresa
Garrulous came and took
the other baby away.

This American ambassador,
what was his name?

Where did he come from and what
did he do with the baby?

I don't know.

Records. There must have
been records.

Yes. There were lots
of records.

We were very good
at keeping records.

Well, where are they?

Burned in the fire.

Hastur!

Well, is there anything
you remember about the baby?

He had lovely little
toesie-woesies.

Let's go.

You will wake, having had
a lovely dream about
whatever you like best.

Oi.

You'd think he'd show up,
wouldn't you?

You'd think we could
detect him in some way.

He won't show up. Not to us.
Protective camouflage.

He won't even know it, but his
powers will keep him hidden

from prying occult forces.

Occult forces?

You and me.

-I'm not occult.
-Oh...

Angels aren't occult.
We're ethereal.

Is there some other way
of locating him?

How the heaven
should I know?

Armageddon only happens once,
you know.

You don't get to go round again
until you get it right.

But I know one thing,
if we don't find him,

it won't be the war
to end all wars.

It'll be the war
to end everything.

Most books on witchcraft

will tell you
that witches work naked.

This is because most books on
witchcraft are written by men.

"Darksome night
and shining moon..."

Come on.

There's a very peculiar feeling
to this whole area.

I'm astonished
you can't feel it.

I don't feel anything
out of the ordinary.

But it's everywhere.
All over here.

Love.

Flashes of love.

You're being ridiculous.

Last thing we need
right now is--

You hit someone.

I didn't.

Someone hit me.

Let there be light.

How the hell
did you do that?

I think I hit my head.

That's it.
No bones broken.

My bike.

Oh.

Amazingly resilient,
these old machines.

Where do you need to get to?

No, no, we're not
giving her a lift.

Out of the question.
There's nowhere to put the bike.

Except for the bike rack.

Do get in, my dear.

So, where are we
taking you?

Back to the village.
I'll give you directions.

Listen, my bike,
it didn't have gears.

I know my bike
didn't have gears.

Make a left.

Oh, Lord,
heal this bike.

I got carried away.

Oh, you can drop me off here.

Oh, look, no gears.

-Just a perfectly
normal velocipede.
-Bicycle.

Can we get on?

Get in, angel.

Hola, mi amor. How is it going?

Lousy.

Any progress
in finding the--?

The young beast
and the lesser beast?

It must be at the north end
of the village.

I'm certain of it.
I just can't figure out where.

Have you used
your pendulum?

Mom, I'm not a kid.

If I get too close,
the signal swamps me.

Further away, I can't get
an accurate fix.

Mi amor, the answers
are always in the book.

It's just sometimes you don't
see them till afterwards.

The book.

Holy shit, Mom. I'm going
to have to call you back.

Mm.

You know, we might get
another human to find him.

-What?
-Humans are good
at finding other humans.

They've been doing it
for thousands of years.

And the child
is partly human.

Other humans might
be able to sense him.

He's the Antichrist.

He's got an automatic
defence thingy.

Suspicion slides off him like...

whatever it is water
slides off.

Got any better ideas?

Or one single, better idea?

I still don't know
why you let him keep that dog.

It was his birthday.
And, oh, I don't know,

the way that he was looking
at the dog and the dog was
looking at him.

As if they were made
for each other.

Arthur, you are
a softy sometimes.

I resent that remark.

-Where's the dog now?
-Tied up outside.

Adam asked if he could
have him in his room,

but I said absolutely not.

"Absolutely not", I said.

Come on, Dog.

What was that about?

Oh, just checking
on Adam.

He's quite sweet,
you know...

when he's asleep.

When he's asleep, yeah.

Look, there's something
I should tell you.

I have a... "network"

of highly trained
human agents

spread across the country.

Now, I could set them
searching for the boy.

You do? I actually--I actually
have something similar.

Human operatives.

Gosh, do you think
they ought to work together?

I don't think
that's a very good idea.

My lot are not very
sophisticated,

politically speaking.

No, no, neither are mine.

So we tell our respective
operatives to look for the boy?

Unless you have
a better idea?

-Ducks!
-What about ducks?

They're what water
slides off.

Just drive the car,
please.

You know, if you lined up
everyone in the whole world

and asked them to describe
the Velvet Underground,

nobody at all
would say "bebop".

Oh, there's a book
back there.

Well, it's not mine.
I don't read books.

It has to belong to the young
lady you hit with your car.

I'm in enough trouble
as it is.

I'm not going to start
returning lost property.

That's what your lot do.

Why don't you just send it
to the Tadfield post office,

addressed to "the mad American
woman with the bicycle"?

Oh, uh...jolly good, yes.
Rather.

Right, so we'll both
contact our respective
human operatives, then?

All right.

-Are you alright?
-Perfectly, yes.

Uh, tip-top.

-Absolutely tickety-boo.
-Tickety-boo?

Mind how you go.

Right.

Well, that was a thing.

Aziraphale was
particularly proud of
his books of prophecy.

First editions, usually.

And every one was signed.

He had Martha the Gypsy
and Ignatius Sybilla

and Ottwell Binns.

Nostradamus had signed,

"To myne olde friend Azerafel,
with beste wishes".

Mother Shipton had spilled
drink on his copy of her book.

He even owned an original
scroll in the handwriting of
St John the Divine of Patmos,

whose "Revelation" had been
the all-time best seller.

But there was one book
he didn't have.

One book he had only
heard of.

The Nice and Accurate
Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.

When that the angel readeth
these words of mine,

in his shop
of other men's books,

then the final days
are certes upon us.

Open thine eyes
to understand.

Open thine eyes and read,
I do say,

foolish principalitee,

for thy cocoa
doth grow... cold".

"Thy cocoa doth grow cold"?

What cocoa-- Oh!

Any news? Found the missing
Antichrist yet?

No. No news.
Nothing. Nothing at all.

If I had anything,
I would tell you, obviously.

Immediately. We're friends.
Why would you even ask?

Oh, there's no news here either.

Call me if you find anything.

Absolutely. Why would you think
I wouldn't?

Hang on.

"Let him that hath understanding
count the number of the beast,

for it is the number
of a man.

And his number is six hundred
threescore and six."

It can't be that simple,
can it?

I'd have to put the Tadfield
area code first, of course.

Tadfield, 0-4-6-triple-6.
Arthur Young here.

Dad, look, I got Dog to walk
on his hind legs!

Sorry, right number!