Good Omens
“I don’t reckon it’s allowed, going round setting fire to people,” said Adam. “Otherwise peopled be doin’ it all the time.”
“It’s all right if you’re religious,” said Brian reassuringly. “And it stops the witches from goin’ to Hell, so I expect they’d be quite grateful if they understood it properly.”
“Can’t see Picky setting fire to anyone,” said Pepper.
“Oh, I dunno,” said Brian, meaningfully.
“Not actually setting them on actual fire,” sniffed Pepper. “He’s more likely to tell their parents, and leave it up to them if anyone’s goin’ to be set on fire or not.”
The Them shook their heads in disgust at the current low standards of ecclesiastical responsibility. Then the other three looked expectantly at Adam.
They always looked expectantly at Adam. He was the one that had the ideas.
“P’raps we ought to do it ourselves,” he said. “Someone ought to be doing something if there’s all these witches about. It’s.. it’s like that Neighborhood Watch scheme.”
“Neighborhood Witch,” said Pepper.
“No,” said Adam coldly.
“But we can’t be the Spanish Inquisition,” said Wensleydale. “We’re not Spanish.”
“I bet you don’t have to be Spanish to be the Spanish Inquisition,” said Adam. “I bet it’s like Scottish eggs or American hamburgers. It just has to look Spanish. We’ve just got to make it look Spanish. Then everyone would know it’s the Spanish Inquisition.”
There was silence.
It was broken by the crackling of one of the empty crisp packets that accumulated wherever Brian was sitting. They looked at him.
“I’ve got a bullfight poster with my name on it,” said Brian, slowly.
* * *
Lunchtime came and went. The new Spanish Inquisition reconvened.
The Head Inquisitor inspected it critically.
“What’re those?” he demanded.
“You click them together when you dance,” said Wensleydale, a shade defensively. “My aunt brought them back from Spain years ago. They’re called maracas, I think. They’ve got a picture of a Spanish dancer on them, look.”
“What’s she dancing with a bull for?” said Adam.
“That’s to show it’s Spanish,” said Wensleydale. Adam let it pass.
The bullfight poster was everything Brian had promised.
Pepper had something rather like a gravy boat made out of raffia.
“It’s for putting wine in,” she said defiantly. “My mother brought it back from Spain.”
“It hasn’t got a bull on it,” said Adam severely.
“It doesn’t have to,” Pepper countered, moving just ever so slightly into a fighting stance.
Adam hesitated. His sister Sarah and her boyfriend had also been to Spain. Sarah had returned with a very large purple toy donkey which, while definitely Spanish, did not come up to what Adam instinctively felt should be the tone of the Spanish Inquisition. The boyfriend, on the other hand, had brought back a very ornate sword which, despite its tendency to bend when picked up and go blunt when asked to cut paper, proclaimed itself to be made of Toledo steel. Adam had spent an instructive half.. hour with the encyclopedia and felt that this was just what the Inquisition needed. Subtle hints had not worked, however.
In the end Adam had taken a bunch of onions from the kitchen. They might well have been Spanish. But even Adam had to concede that, as decor for the Inquisitorial premises, they lacked that certain something. He was in no position to argue too vehemently about raffia wine holders.
“Very good,” he said.
“You certain they’re Spanish onions?” said Pepper, relaxing.
“’Course,” said Adam. “Spanish onions. Everyone knows that.”
“They could be French,” said Pepper doggedly. “France is famous for onions.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Adam, who was getting fed up with onions. “France is nearly Spanish, an’ I don’t expect witches know the difference, what with spendin’ all their time flyin’ around at night. It all looks like the Continong to witches. Anyway, if you don’t like it you can jolly well go and start your own Inquisition, anyway.”
For once, Pepper didn’t push it. She’d been promised the post of Head Torturer. No one doubted who was going to be Chief Inquisitor.
Wensleydale and Brian were less enthralled with their roles of Inquisitorial Guards.
“Well, you don’t know any Spanish,” said Adam, whose lunch hour had included ten minutes with a phrase book Sarah had bought in a haze of romanticism in Alicant6.
“That doesn’t matter, because actually you have to talk in Latin,” said Wensleydale, who had also been doing some slightly more accurate lunchtime reading.
“And Spanish,” said Adam firmly. “That’s why it’s the Spanish Inquisition.”
“I don’t see why it shouldn’t be a British Inquisition,” said Brian. “Don’t see why we should of fought the Armada and everything, just to have their smelly Inquisition.”
This had been slightly bothering Adam’s patriotic sensibilities as well.
“I reckon,” he said, “that we should sort of start Spanish, and then make it the British Inquisition when we’ve got the hang of it. And now,” he added, “the Inquisitorial Guard will go and fetch the first witch, por favor. ”
The new inhabitant of Jasmine Cottage would have to wait, they’d decided. What they needed to do was start small and work their way up.
* * *
“Art thou a witch, oh lay?” said the Chief Inquisitor.
“Yes,” said Pepper’s little sister, who was six and built like a small golden.. haired football.
“You mustn’t say yes, you’ve got to say no,” hissed the Head Torturer, nudging the suspect.
“And then what?” demanded the suspect.
“And then we torture you to make you say yes,” said the Head Torturer. “I told you. It’s good fun, the torturin’. It doesn’t hurt. Hastar lar visa,”she added quickly.
The little suspect gave the decor of the Inquisitorial headquarters a disparaging look. There was a decided odor of onions.
“Huh,” she said. “I want to be a witch, wiv a warty nose an’ a green skin an’ a lovely cat an’ I’d call it Blackie, an’ lots of potions an’.. ”
The Head Torturer nodded to the Chief Inquisitor.
“Look,” said Pepper, desperately, “no one’s saying you can’t be a witch, you jus’ have to say you’re not a witch. No point in us taking all this trouble,” she added severely, “if you’re going to go round saying yes the minute we ask you.”