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“Stop following me! Get away from me! Don’t try to talk to me!”
“Please! I didn’t do this! I swear I didn’t do this!”
“Liar! Foul swamp of corruption!”
“Please . . .”
“What is this new filth? Do you desecrate tombs as well, serpent?”
“No . . . please . . . I swear . . .”
“Don’t lie to me! I – I . . . Oh, Lord.”
“Oh. Oh.”
They sit, hesitantly. One touches the discarded wrappings carefully, the other looks at them hungrily, but doesn’t reach for them. They are silent.
Some time later they hear running feet. Two men jostle at the door. One looks in but doesn’t enter. The other pushes his way in, stands looking at the shroud. The other comes in, looks at his companion, and they leave together. Outside a woman is crying. She stoops down and looks in. It is clear that she can see the seated figures perfectly well. She looks at them, pleading.
“He is not here,” Aziraphale says, in awe.
“He is Risen,” Crowley says, soberly.
She tries to speak, crying uncontrollably.
“Where -,” she gulps.
They look over her shoulder, out into the garden. She turns in wonder, and as her cry of joy rings out, the sun shines full into the tomb. It is empty.