I have been deliberating, recently, over publishing more entries from my diaries over the years. Crowley was cautious at first, but supportive. We agreed that I would choose the entries and he would look through them and let me know if any seemed too risky, risqué or revealing.
I expect to have something ready in time to send to those nice people at The Ineffable Con later in the summer, but for now, here is the final entry I plan to include:
“It has been an unusually long time since I last wrote, but I have been rather busy.
The Agency is thriving. Escrael and his fellow angels are doing excellent work, and there’s an enthusiasm in Heaven that I haven’t seen in millennia. After the old engines of Salvation and Damnation, full of arbitrary rules and pitfalls, ground to a halt, I was worried that the Host might turn on each other. Instead, they seem excited to tread this new path with us. Some of the demons have been showing an interest in joining, which might have surprised me if I hadn’t spent so much of my existence learning from Crowley. The Erics, recently unionised, have offered their services — negotiations are ongoing. Demons really are just angels who rejected Her plan for them, not knowing that even their rebellion was fundamental to the scheme. Some are more approachable than others, just like the rest of us. (One could feel rather cynical and disillusioned by the whole matter, but living well, as the proverb goes, is the better vengeance.)
It’s not perfect, but it’s better. We’re still learning to live with the absence of both God and Satan. When he’s in one of his philosophical moods (or after a night of a particularly alcoholic nature), Crowley has been known to advance his favourite theory that they were one and the same, that the angel Lucifer never Fell, because they were only a projection of God, placed among us to seed dissent. I’m still not sure how to feel about that, but Crowley does have a talent for seeing the line at the bottom long before the rest of us.
Some of the demons have forgone their more extreme appearances — the Amnesty removed any restrictions — but others have chosen to keep them as a badge of honour. In the end, the important thing is that they finally have the choice. Freedom is frightening, and it’s going to take time to adjust, particularly as the Hierarchy loses influence. The higher spheres and deeper circles have found their power much depleted, leaving little more than fairly minor miracles to most of us. That’s for the best, really. We need to stop ‘messing the world around’ as someone once said.
There are, of course, other worlds. Alpha Centauri is becoming quite popular; I heard from Gabriel last month, and he and Beelzebub have Opinions about their neighbours. Still, it’s a big universe. I’m sure they’ll all learn to rub along quite nicely and, if they don’t, Barnard’s Star has plenty of room and some lovely views.
Hell looks very different since the Restoration. There are windows and working lights, for one thing, and new facilities. Crowley always did fancy the latest gewgaws — sleek black portable computers that look as if they were primarily designed for their aerodynamic properties, clever watches, fact machines &c — and I think he had a little too much fun sending technological brochures to the demons who took charge of the refit. Initially there was talk of using them to design more efficient tortures for the Damned, but naturally Crowley was prepared for that. When it comes to a choice between patrolling the offal pits and sitting in front of a screen gleefully manipulating hapless beings, the latter has much greater appeal. Apparently it’s called ‘The Sins’, and it seems to be keeping the more… intense demons very entertained.
The cinematograph has also been popular, despite my initial scepticism. There’s talk of erecting further theatres in the Lower Circles and, currently, a great appetite for ‘buddy comedies’ and musicals from the latter half of the twentieth century. No one, thus far, has requested The Sound of Music.
Not all the changes in Hell have been instigated by my clever, imaginative demon. For example, Hell now has a library. The Head Librarian is something of a Tartar, but library penalties are mostly reserved to a scathing comment instead of flaying, so it’s slightly more lenient than the British Library. I meet with the librarians once a month, and try not to look approving when they wistfully talk about what they’d like to do to the demons who mishandle the books.
Heaven is changing, too. A little more slowly, but that’s only to be expected. Obedience is a hard habit to break. Heralds, like Escrael, are helping show the way — they’re naturally curious and gregarious, and eager to learn about humanity rather than just observing them. I’ve yet to find a single one who can resist a cosy chat over a choux bun with Maggie, and Christmas promises to be an interesting time if the Herald angels take a liking to be-bop.
While Escrael oversees the training of research angels, Uriel is in charge of the team that sets up angels and demons in their own little preserves of humanity, all over the world. Not to tempt or judge, but to be something humanity actually needs — an oasis instead of a flood. You might think that a Hell-hardened demon would be repulsed at the idea of protecting the world instead of corrupting it. It all comes down to motivation. Shax and Furfur, for example, are causing all manner of difficulties for something called ‘data centres’.
Dagon had little appetite for technological advancement or a less combative Hell, but neither was she keen on leaving with God or relocating to another star. I’ve heard that she was last seen heading for the Amazon basin, possibly to set herself up as a river god for any lost tribes she encounters. I suspect we’ll be seeing a headline before long about missing missionaries and piranha-gnawed canoes. Religion can be a dangerous pursuit.
Hastur left to rejoin the war, which continues in another space God set aside for the purpose. A few thousand angels and demons went with him. I wonder if they’ll ever grow tired of fighting? I can’t imagine it brings them any satisfaction, but I was never much of a soldier.
You’d be forgiven for assuming that we’d both have had our fill of anything to do with Heaven or Hell. And that was true, for a little while. Crowley wanted to escape the system; I wanted to fix things. In a way, we’ve both got what we wanted. Our own side, the two of us working together without having to hide ourselves or each other. We’re what you might call ‘freelance consultants’. We advise Escrael and Uriel at the Agency. We’re the ‘go-to’ human experts for Joshua’s Reclamation project — teams of demons and angels working together to scour Hell for souls that were judged too severely. ‘Thou Shalt Not Steal’ looks very good on a stone tablet, but hunger and deprivation care nothing for consequences.
On the subject of souls, we were recently visited by a certain individual who TALKS LIKE THIS. He arrived at the cottage with absolutely no warning, as is his wont, with an expression that could be described as one of ‘terminal annoyance’, if it weren’t for the whole skull business. Neither department has been taking deliveries. Crowley and I are discussing the issue with Joshua and Adam, who is growing up into a very sensible young man. Perhaps it’s time for humanity to have a say in the afterlife, including whether they actually want one.
Not today, though. Today, we have nowhere to be but here in the cottage — the first home that has been just ours. I bought the shop on Whickber Street to indulge my love of books, and it became a refuge. A place for us to avoid the scrutiny of Heaven and Hell. To hide from the consequences of who we are. It will remain a place of safety for those who seek it and under Muriel’s direction it will probably sell far too many books, but I find myself unconcerned. The important ones are here, while the books that other people value will continue to sustain that little corner of Soho. If Muriel needs us, there’s an innocuous ornament on the mantel that will take us there in an instant, meaning that Crowley can save his speed-demon instincts for recreational purposes. The cottage doesn’t have to masquerade as anything. Not a cover for a diligent operative, or a hiding place. Just a home for the two of us, rather more complicated on the inside than it appears from the garden. There are rooms inside that look out onto places very far from these green, rolling downs. There are doors that remain locked to guests, because the human brain struggles with such incongruities as a prosaic wooden portal that leads into empty space. Crowley’s studio is far enough from Earth that the light of his new nebulae won’t reach here for another thousand years. He takes great delight in explaining each new blueprint to me, and my own pleasure is a mirror, anticipating once again folding his hand in mine so that our miracles are perfectly entwined.
I can see him through the window. He’s tending a rose, vivid sunset orange, which clashes joyfully with his hair. Every so often, he glances my way to see if he can get away with a whispered threat or two, and I pretend not to notice, engrossed as I am in my diary. I’ll keep his secrets safe, just as I’ll keep these records of our history safe. They may be full of inconsequential things, but they’re a testament to the choices that have led us here, to an end that’s also a beginning. They start with an angel and a soon-to-be-demon who didn’t change the world so much as witness it and realise we could change ourselves.
I once said that nothing lasts forever, but perhaps I was wrong. If we’re lucky, love can endure all things.
Crowley has waved at me. An invitation that I am loth to turn down after so many years of saying ‘no’. I close with this:
If you want to imagine the future, imagine a bird, flying across the vast and unmapped universe towards a mountain. Imagine a journey that could be depicted by an unwavering line through emptiness, but instead takes the scenic route, which visits sights beautiful beyond description. Imagine occasional peril but more frequent hope, and lazy pauses to enjoy the sheer wonder of existing at all.
Better still, imagine two birds. Taking turns to shelter the other with their wing, making their way unhurriedly towards the end of the universe to see what all the fuss is about. Together.
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