Whisperland: Part Three Bitter Ends
Hellblazer #3 March, Year One	by Michael Franzoni

The first touched him from the left, dropping to her knees and tracing a trail of kisses down the side of his chest. The touch of her lips was electric, each kiss a static shock against his naked skin. He let the sensations come, let each register separately with his body, enjoying every ecstasy in its own right. This was Valerie, a pale-skinned beauty with dark hair and a fire in her blood. She provided a challenge in the first few months, before rolling over and pandering to his every desire. She was his first choice for the evening, and somehow, it still wasn't enough to satisfy him.

The second touched him from behind, pressing herself against the slope of his back. Her breasts flattened against his muscularity, splaying to the side, as she ran her hands over his shoulders and down the top of his chest. Her shadow danced against the far wall as he stared ahead, trying to lose himself in the sensation of her touch. This was Monika, a young girl from the outskirts of town. She had grown-up in the apartment projects and when her family had fallen under his debt, they had paid with her blossoming body. Her cocoa skin was warm to the touch, and she was becoming quite the woman. And still, it wasn't enough.

Roughly, he grabbed Monika by the wrist and swung her around his body, depositing her in his lap. His eyes devoured the beauty of her body, taking in every developing morsel that was presented before him. She was a fine specimen, and after her initial resistance, he knew she was ready to satisfy his craving desires. And yet, the sight turned his stomach, making him wonder what he was trying to replace.

Bolting up from the chair, he stalked away from the chair, and the black girl tumbled from his lap, spilling to the floor with a crash. With the curtain-filtered daylight as his backdrop, he turned back toward the girls and said, "I'm tired of your paltry attempts. Pleasure one another and maybe I'll take interest then."

After a few tentative seconds, the pair began to entwine with one another, and he watched, trying to find a reason to keep his attentions on their ministrations. There was something missing, and it couldn't be the boy. He had always trained himself to keep a distance from his subjects, to train them and be done with them. Attachment was not possible. But now, he needed him back, and he'd be damned if anyone stood in his way.

The boy sat nervously at the edge of the bed, his arms draped down between his legs as he leaned forward. Nervously, he rocked back and forth, raising a squeak from the worn bedsprings each time. His eyes rotated from the stains on the carpet to John, obviously too scared or too ashamed to remain focused on any spot for too long a duration. Tears brimmed in the child's eyes, asking a depressed, unvoiced question, and he appeared ready to burst into a crying fit at any second.

John had seen a thousand more just like the boy, mostly selling themselves in the back alleys of London's seedier neighborhoods - places frequented only the dealers, pimps, and those who weren't above taking a piece in the rear in order to escape the dregs, even if it meant pandering to the uppers of society who treated them like shit. Stretching his foot forward, John tapped the floor twice and asked, "Fag?"

The kid recoiled at the question, his face flushing red as he attempted to hide himself from John's gaze. Laughing, John got out of his chair and sat on the bed next to the child, throwing an arm over the boy's shoulder and saying, "Look, lighten-up some. I don't care if you're a poof or not. I'm offering you a smoke. Seemed like you could use one."

John flipped the lid on the hard pack, tilting the opening toward the boy. His fingers shaking, David waved-off John's offer and said, "Thank anyway."

"Suit yourself," Constantine replied, tapping a lone cigarette from the box and poising it between his lips. An orange flame sparked as John snapped a match from a nearly empty book, and soon a chain of smoke was twisting into the air. With a long inhalation, John released his own cloud and added, "You got a name, right?"

"David," the boy responded. His shaking had slowed somewhat, but it was clear that he was never going to be completely comfortable. Gathering his strength, the boy squeaked out, "What are you going to do with me?"

"What you want me to do?" John asked in response, rising from the bed and wandering across the room. The smoke trailed behind him as he treaded toward the window and peered between the slats, looking for any sign of the resistance he was sure would be forthcoming. For the moment, he was alone with the boy, and that gave him time to work.

The boy kicked nervously at the base of the bed and answered, "I don't know. It's never been my choice."

"Course you do. Trust me, I'm probably the biggest prink you'll ever meet, but I ain't a right bastard like the one that had you last. And I definitely ain't looking for a piece of your arse. No worries there."

"He wasn't bad to me."

"He ever fuck you?"

The boy glared back at Constantine, a look of shock and denial drawn across his young face. David stuttered for a moment, trying to find the words to refute John's question, but in the end, he fell silent, returning his gaze to the worn carpet.

"That's what I thought. And hey, I don't care if you're a knob-shiner; I know blokes like that back home. And how old's that dick that's been poking you?" John inquired, sliding a second cigarette from the pack and light it from the remains of the first. The burnt-down cancer stick tumbled to the ground, only to be crushed beneath his heel.

Once again, the boy remained silent. New tears hung in the corners of his eyes, poised on an invisible precipice for a scant few seconds before releasing and rolling down his parched, white cheeks. A sniffle followed but David made no motion to wipe away the tears. Nearly inaudible, he whispered, "But he loved me. He told me so."

John tried not to laugh at the boy's innocence and naiveté, instead responding, "Bloody thick lot you Americans are. Easiest way to use someone is to tell 'em what they want to hear. Easiest mark is someone who's opening their pocket for you."
"But it wasn't like that."

"Who's lying now, eh? Way I see it, one doesn't put it to a nipper unless he's looking to get pinched or he's wearing the white collar," Constantine interrupted, alternating his sentences with drags from his cigarette. "But what do I know? I'm just a piss artist trying to get back across the pond. You want to go back? I'll run you back to the manor. No questions asked."

"Yeah?"

"Ain't my choice to make, mate. Your life and it's up to you how you wanna live it. You and me come from different walks - s'true - but believe me when I say that I'd be the first the cut that fucker's pills off if he tried the same with me. Life's about choices, and I'd be damned before someone took mine from me," Constantine responded, offering his own opinion and then threw the latch away from the door. Gesturing toward the newly offered freedom, John added, "Right then, off we go."

The child stood from the bed, tentatively crossing the room as John opened the door. David's footsteps halted and a look of worry crossed his face, causing John to follow the child's gaze. Framed in the door, a pair of police officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and the one on the right offered, "Mr. Constantine, by order of the State of Washington, I am hereby placing you under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will…"

"Ah give it a rest. Don't you see I'm here with me son? Not very good manners to arrest me in front of the boy, now is it? " Constantine asked, cracking a wry smile as he responded to the cops. American police were shifty, a lot more incompetent than the standard British issue, and he looked forward to working his charms on them. "Let's go get that ice cream cone, Spanky. But really now, what have you got to charge me with?"

"Mr. Constantine we know that this isn't your son…" The first officer began, stepping forward and trying to enter the room.

"Well, you've got it fucking figured out then, don't you?" Constantine countered, interrupting both the man's speech and his motion.

"We're here to bring you in under the charges of kidnapping. This is a warrant for your arrest. Now you can come along peacefully, or you can make us do this the hard way. It's your choice," the second officer said, piping up from an invisible vantage point behind his larger partner. The larger man scowled, clearly not wanting his partner to do any of the talking.

Removing the pack of matches once more, Constantine motioned to light a cigarette, only to have it batted from his hands. His smile melted into a scowl, something he was more accustomed to wearing. "Piss on this. That was a perfectly good cigarette. Least you could do is let a bloke smoke them while he's got 'em. Last time I did a stint in the prison house, I nearly ended-up married to some fat bitch who wanted my pretty, English arse. What proof do you have of my guilt?"

"We don't need proof, Mr. Constantine," the first responded again, moving to answer the question before his smaller partner could. "Our job is to serve the warrant and haul you in. Due process will be served, and a judge and jury will decide the merits of your case. Please place your hands behind your head and face the nearest wall. Wyatt, please note that the perp has waived his right to the Miranda warnings."

"Is it too late to claim diplomatic immunity?" John quipped, backing further into the room and moving to place himself on the other side of the child. His movement was halted as a hand wrapped around his upper arm, and John warned, "As I said, I'm not going anywhere without the boy. Come Hell or high water, he's coming with me."

"Is that a threat, sir?"

"Did you get that belly munching on the fried cakes? I suppose one answer is as the same as the other. Don't you agree?"

The first punch glanced across John's jaw, causing him to split blood against the far wall. Beneath him, the boy shrieked in terror and went to hide beneath the desk. Steadying himself, John turned to face the cops just in time for a follow-up blow to crash into his stomach. He crumbled to his knees, gasping for breath as the cop grabbed the shoulder of his shirt and dragged him toward the door, saying, "I fucking gave you the choice of doing it the easy or hard way. Everyone's got to be a fucking smart-ass, though. So we'll take this outside, and do this my way now."

John stumbled out onto the sidewalk, half pushed and half dragged. The daylight was a harsh contrast against the light that had filtered through the stale curtains, and it stung at his eyes. Moving to straighten himself, he was immediately swept from his feet by a kick to the midsection, and the breath exited his lungs. Chuckling softly, the shorter of the two cops stepped back and joked, "You saw that, right, Merv? Stupid bastard tried to resist me."

"Kick him again to make sure he doesn't try it again, Wyatt," his partner responded, rounding the other side of John and casting a heavy shadow across the sidewalk. The second kick elicited a laugh from the larger cop who was obviously enjoying watching John get the piss beaten from him. Wrapping his fingers in John's blond locks, Officer Wyatt leaned down and asked, "So, Mr. Constantine, still got some fight left in you?"

Coughing, John spit some blood down upon the sidewalk, a remainder of the crimson phlegm hanging from his distended lower lip. A look of craziness danced in his eyes, and John choked out, "Been awhile since I've had the piss beaten out of me when I wasn't in a pub or trolling the wrong side of a demon. You mind asking your mother to help you out? It'd make me feel a fucking good bit better about myself."

"You son of a bitch," Officer Merv responded, and the fingers tightened within Constantine's hair, thrusting John's head toward the pavement in a violent thrust. Flesh struck cement and bounced harshly, sending a cascade of pain through John's skull and spilling more blood upon the bleached sidewalk. The large officer grunted and laughed, licking the ends of his three middle fingers and wetting his hair back from where it had fallen loose. "You know, I take a lot of shit in my business - most of it from mother fuckers like you who think they're king shit because they aren't one of the local boys - but no one brings my family into the equation. That's just begging for an ass whooping."

This time, John didn't move. The world swam around him, twisting in vision and scope and playing nightmares on his sense of balance. He felt the blood flow freely beneath his head, its stickiness forming a glue-like layer between his cheek and the sidewalk.

Behind him, there was a scuffle of feet and Wyatt emerged with the child in tow, a hand placed protectively and possessively on each of the boy's shoulders. He looked at his commanding officer and asked, "We got what we came her for. Shouldn't we just skip out now?"

"And leave him here? No, I don't think that's wise," the larger officer responded, moving around to the other side of John. He knelt down briefly and placed two fingers against the side of John's neck. "Fucking prick still has a pulse. We leave him here and we could get into some heavy shit. Better to end it now and toss the body in the junkyard. Personally, I can't think of a better ending for this motherfucker. You go ahead, run the kid back to his owner, and I'll be along later this afternoon."

Wyatt stepped away, ushering the boy into a patrol car that was parked around the corner. The crunch of their footsteps died away, only to be replaced by the sound of a revving engine. Alone, Merv glared down at Constantine, unbuckling his revolver from his waist, and said, "So, now that we're done playing good cop…"

David entered the house, a home he had known for several years, but now, everything felt alien. Shadows lurked in the corners, draping even the brightest rooms in sheen of darkness that had not been there before. A dust had settled behind the pane of glass that covered the face on the grandfather clock, and he could swear that he had never noticed an inch of dust in the entire house.

"Never in my life would I have believed that it would fill my heart with such joy to see a familiar face once again. It's good to have you home, David," Clive said, making his way down the sweeping staircase to the landing below. He was clad only in a robe that was tied loosely around his waist. A wave of genuine concern washed over his face, and he asked, "Tell me, were you hurt in any way?"

The boy shook his head, not quite knowing what to say. He looked toward Clive, meeting the man's gaze and wondering why the angles in Clive's face were suddenly sharper and more severe when they had only seemed soft before. "No sir, nothing at all like that. He was very kind to me and left me alone."

"Did he touch you?" Clive asked, and a tone of jealousy tinged on the edges of his voice. He reached the floor of the foyer and immediately made way to the boy. Moving the child's face gently with his fingers, he checked for marks and scratches, anything that would give him reason to hate Constantine further. "Come now, speak up."

"No sir, he didn't touch me in any way. He didn't seem interested in touching me in the way that you do, only in making me feel better. He didn't seem like a bad person," David replied, shaking his head once again. He tried not to make eye contact with Clive, not sure what to see in the man he thought had loved him, what to think of a man who was no longer seen in the same light. It was an unsettling moment.

Clive looked at the boy curiously, and David could not help but feel small beneath the older man's gaze. It was both inquisitive and demanding, seeking answers for questions Clive had already asked, but somehow doubted the response to. Raising the boy's chin, Clive directed the boy's eyes to his own and noted, "There's something you're not telling me. Something has changed with you, and I want to know what it is."

"Not as cocky now are you, mother fucker?" Merv asked, clicking the hammer back on his service revolver and pressing the muzzle against John's temple. The cold of the metal dug into the flesh on Constantine's forehead, and Merv smiled. "Yeah, shit like this kinda makes you look at life with a new perspective - one of those blink and you'll miss it type things. So, why don't you tell me what you're seeing?"

John lay curled against the pavement, his own blood providing a sticky layer between himself and the sun-parched concrete. His ribs ached, cracked and tightened around his lungs and making each breath an exhausting and burning sensation. Fighting against the urge to vomit, John kept his eyes clenched shut and responded, "You don't really wanna know. Just get it over with."

"Enlighten me, wise guy," Merv replied, kneeling closer and filling John's airspace with an exhalation of raw onions and sauerkraut. "Tell me what you see."

Constantine smiled, revealed a line of teeth soaked in crimson. "I've seen it plenty of times, officer. Blokes like you get a gun and a badge, and suddenly, you're all ready to play goods guys and bad guys. Trouble is the gits with the badges ain't always the good guys; sometimes, they're really hiding something behind that shiny metal, aren't they?"

"You're a bit smug for an asshole with a gun to his head. Shouldn't you be pissing yourself right now?"

"I've been in the companies of angels and devils, and few things nastier than that. Death doesn't hold the scare it once did," Constantine replied, running through a thousand thoughts in his head. A simple man demanded a simple con. "Grant a dying man one last question?"

Merv chuckled, pulling back a bit and keeping his aim on Constantine's head. He wasn't prepared to let the Brit go that easily, but he was willing to humor him. "It's your breath."

"Good to see you're keeping your sense of fun mate. Wouldn't want you to lose that. So tell me - since we're chums and such - how long you been living under your mum's roof since she died?"

The color flushed from the policeman's face, melting quickly into an ashen hue as he stared of John astonished. His voice surfaced as a stutter, a couple of loose consonants strung together without any semblance of direction. Within a few short seconds, he managed to say, "How do you know about my mother?"

"Must be a bit of a challenge cashing them government checks without her around to sign them first. Do you just pretend she's still around and let the bank sort things out later on, or did you get your mum to hand over the keys to her kingdom before you put her under?" John asked, peeling his swollen face away from the pavement but keeping his gaze focused on the cop. A malicious smile crept across his face, and he added, "Yes, that's the one. She signed her life over to you, and you took that to the letter, eh?"

"Shut your fucking mouth. You don't know what you're talking about. She was a controlling bitch. It had to be done, so just you shut up," Merv shouted back, waving the gun around nervously and taking a few more steps backward. His eyes were shifting, moving from John to the area around them, suddenly concerned that there were no witnesses about.

"It was pretty easy, I suppose; ain't like putting the lead to me at all. What? Sneak-up on her in the middle of the night, walk on her deaf side so she doesn't hear, and then hold the pillow down till she stopped thrashing about? How many minutes did it take? Five? Ten? Or you just hold it down for longer just in case she took longer than you thought?" Constantine pressed onward, hoisting himself to his knees and wishing her could choke up the blood that was swimming in his stomach. His left arm wrapped around his waist, trying to hold his ribs together, or at least numb the pain.

The gun was waving freely through the air now, no longer focusing its aim on John or any particular target. Merv swayed with it, needlessly balancing himself from one foot to the other, appearing to be in a drunken state. "I just couldn't live with her, man. Every day, the nagging and bitching…it was just too much to take after awhile."

"When you going to report her? Maybe the wounds are too much? She probably tore her throat up something wicked trying to scream through that pillow. Too late to say it was natural causes, I bet." The climb too his feet nearly buckled his knees, a sense of vertigo trying its damnedest to bring him back to the ground. Staring down the cop, Constantine concentrated on his words and his target, using them as focus to avoid passing out. "Seems to me that I'm not the one that's pissing into the wind."

"I could kill you here, and no one would be none the wiser," Merv countered, bringing the gun back to center and aiming the muzzle toward John's chest. He was still shaky on his feet, nervous and jittery like he couldn't focus.

"You could do that, sure. Can't say that there ain't been others who have thought the same. But think about it. If I knew about it, being a stranger in your town, don't you think that someone else might know? You going to plug them too?" John asked, pressing his issue further. He knew where he was going, and he wasn't going to let loose of the reins until his point was made. "Seems like you got another choice needs to be made. Which way is the easier way out?"

Merv glanced around warily, his eyes wide and wild. A car backfired in the distance and his head snapped in the direction of the noise, as if he were expecting something to appear out of nowhere. The shadows had begun to creep toward him, inching along the crap-encrusted pavement and sneaking-up on him. His hand suddenly steadied, and he whispered, "You're right. What if someone else knows? I can't keep living with things this way."

"Make the right choice, then. Better now, then with more blood on your hands, eh?" Constantine responded, holding back a cold laugh. "So what's it gonna be? You or me, chum?"

The answer came unspoken as Merv stepped back and turned to face away from Constantine. The gun reported with a loud bang, and the spray of blood and flesh that followed rained down the sidewalk around John. Merv's body crumpled to the ground, smoke twisting from the bullet wound in his forehead.

Smiling, John turned to the curb and tossed his stomach into the rain gutter. Straightening up, he wiped the corners of his mouth on his blood-soaked shirt and said, "And for your information, I'm still just as fucking cocky as always." Stepping back to the hotel room, he grabbed his coat and decided to head off to talk with the man who was behind all of this.

His limp has mostly died away as he reached the gates of the manor house. From beyond the long drive, he saw the rotation of blue and red lights dancing above the trees, and John wondered what he had missed. The sound of an approaching siren persuaded him to step to the side of the drive as an ambulance rounded the corner and sped past him. "Bloody hell, the world's gone to shit."

"Excuse me, sir, but you can't be here. This is a federal crime scene. Do you have business here?" a man in a dark suit asked, trekking down the driveway and flashing his badge. His tone turned to anger as he rushed to John's side. "How do these fucking people keep getting in? Can somebody seal off the front gates? Fucking hillbilly cops, I tell ya."

"I'm looking for this girl," Constantine replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the picture. Turning his nose, John wiped the gloss of the picture against the side of his coat, leaving a streak of blood on the dirty fabric. "She went missing some time ago, and I was given word that she might be up here. What the hell happened?"

"Some kid went crazy, tried to butcher the mansion owner with a steak knife -- if you'd believe it. I guess there was some weird stuff going down, and I'm really not at liberty to say anything further until we sort heads from tails here," the fed responded, burying his hands in his pants pockets and fanning his coat edges behind him. "There's a bunch of kids waiting by the second ambulance, but they need to be checked before they can be released."

"Is this one with 'em?" John asked, flashing the picture again and wondering how much more deluded this last stretch could get.

The agent looked at the picture, taking note of the blood and casting a curious look at John. Offering the photo back to John, he asked, "What's your interest?"

"Her mum paid me to give a look. I've been through shit trying to get to the truth. Simple yes or no, and I'm out of your way. I'll send the bird to collect her," Constantine responded, stepping back and making a motion to go back to the road.

"Hey!" the agent called after him, drawing John's attention back toward the manor house. "Do you want to see an ambulance about those wounds?"

Constantine shook his head, turning back to the road and saying, "Nothing that a good bottle won't fix. Better if I mend on me own, thanks. 'Sides, I gotta get a ride out of this fucking country."

Next Issue: Constantine's on his way back to England, but even a simple plane trip loses its simplicity as John finds himself in the center of some chaos in the blue skies. And sometimes, the person sitting next to you has quite a story to tell.

Story © 2003 Michael Franzoni and may not be reproduced without permission.