Bloodline: Book One Obfuscation
Hellblazer #7 July, Year One	by Curt Fernlund

We British have always been keen on our heritage. Why? I dunno. A bigger lot a’ mongrel mutts you never saw. They call America the great ‘Melting Pot’, but as in most things, the British did it first.

It all started with Charlemagne I suppose. Being the Emperor of the West he ruled over most of what was the British Isles back before the first millenium- for about five years mind. In those five years though he opened the floodgates ‘n’ let the Franks come swarming in to snatch up land that was already held by the Angles ‘n’ the Saxons, the Celts ‘n’ the Vikings, the Jutes ‘n’ the Romans…

Lord don’t forget about the Romans!

It was a right mess, at least until the first Alfred took over. Alfred the Great they called ‘im, though probably not to ‘is face as that’d be an ‘ard bit t’say without a snigger. Alfred was the one that made London livable again. He built a navy to drive out the Norse ‘n’ Danish pirates that were runnin’ rampant along the coast ‘n’ through the rivers. He brought some law ‘n’ order back to the city- such as it was in those days. ‘Course after all a’ that was settled he handed the whole lot ‘n’ London over to Canute, the then King of Denmark. Go figure…

We survived the Danish occupation up until William the Conqueror came to call when he brought his Normans across the Channel ‘n’ pretty much laid claim to everything he saw. With the French-speaking Norsemen though, there also came a bit of refinement. They brought along their language ‘n’ their architecture, which eventually became the Gothic that we all know ‘n’ love.

With old Bill came the royal line as well. It was every schoolboy’s bane t’learn the line of ascension from William through Elizabeth, ‘n’ let’s not forget old big ears ‘n’ his princes, at least back when I was in me school tie ‘n’ short pants. Now days it seems they’re slidin’ a bit on all that pomp ‘n’ glory, which is both good and bad I suppose.

A royal pain in the arse it was, remembering all those names. ‘Course it’s always good to ta know who you are ‘n’ where you come from. Part of the problem these days- people jus’ don’t care.

People don’t, mind…

There’s others out there can trace their lineage back for thousands of years, way past we Brits. The Egyptians come ta mind without even straining. The Chinese too, though you’re hard pressed to get them to admit it. The Elves are big on lineage, ‘n’ so are the Dwarves. Don’t ever ask a dwarf ‘ow ‘is family is unless you ‘ave an hour or ten t’kill.

There’s others as well. Other things…

We Brits take pride in our heritage, no doubt about it. ‘Course we all know where pride goes…

Right before the fall!

Herein lies the root of my depression…

It’s cold out, a chilly wind blowing off the Thames from the south making what would be a normally cold night jus’ downright frigid. It’s raining of course. Not jus’ raining, mind, but bloody pouring I should say, like the heavens opened up ‘n’ all the tears a’ the angels since the dawn of creation been set loose to wipe humanity’s sins off the face of the map. The gutters are overflowing with the dead leaves of autumn ‘n’ every corner in the city seems a budding lake growing deeper with every drop. The winds are whistling through the buildings strumming like a dirge ‘n’ whinin’ ta beat the band.

It’s not a fit night out for man or beast, but here I stand in the doorway of the local Chinese take-in place on the Dilly picking at a container of cold sesame noodles with hot meat sauce poured on top. There’s bits of turkey in the sauce if you look hard enough, the slimy dark bits that nobody ever seems to want. Not me first choice in dinner t’night, but beggars ‘n’ choosers ‘n’ all that. Truth to tell I’d rather be up north sharing the real thing with Cheryl ‘n’ Gemma. I get the same invite every year, for the past few at least, and once every so often I actually accept. This year however me sister took me niece ‘n’ opted for holiday in France with the latest bloke to catch her fancy- an American. That left me- quite literally- out in the cold.

Happy Thanksgiving, John Constantine!

Still, it’s not so bad. No more than I should expect after all the years a’ grief I’ve given me sister, Cheryl. I owe ‘er more than I can ever possibly repay- not that I’d ever tell ‘er that- ‘n’ she deserves whatever little bits of ‘appiness that she can gather. If she wants to spend America’s Thanksgiving holiday in the south of France, who am I to argue?

An’ it’s not like I’m not enjoying meself either. Despite the cold ‘n’ the rain, there’s a circus goin’ on across the way, a regular floorshow for a couple pounds. The police have the whole street cordoned off, PC’s in PVC’s ‘n’ rubber slickers standing at opposite ends of Regent Street, between Jermyn ‘n’ Charles II, stopping traffic ‘n’ causing a right row with the motorists. I can hear the horns of the evening traffic trying to make some headway against the jam, lorry driver’s blaring ‘n’ cursin’ to end all. ‘Course the Bobbies don’t give a flying fuck. The official bird closest to me’s grinning like an idiot, truncheon in hand ‘n’ waiting for the word to start beatin’ ‘eads. You gotta love it.

They’re ‘oldin’ the media back, making the telly folk stand behind the barricades with the rest of the gawkers. I was lucky as the police rolled up after I was already in shop, so I get to see the whole sordid affair, least until they decide to evacuate the area. I don’t see that ‘appenin’ none too soon though, if ‘tall.

It looks like a simple gangland execution to me. Some poor bloke’s been strung up by ‘is ‘eels from a fire escape in the alleyway across from the Chinese place, back in the shadows ‘n’ garbage. A nice deserted place, perfect to dump a body. Even so I’m a little surprised that no one saw anything. The Dilly’s a busy place, even on a holiday- the holiday for us being the day we got the bloody Pilgrims outta our hair- don’t tell no one! It’s not important really. Not like it’s a bank holiday or such, but a few folk still celebrate. Schools are open, ‘n’ we still gets the daily post, but a few businesses shut down- like McDonalds ‘n’ Tower Records- for the day outta respect to our wayward ‘Murican brothers ‘n’ sisters. Go figure.

There’s detectives from the Yard scurrying about all over the place though. They been around the block twice now asking questions, but apparently not the right ones as they’re still going through the alley with a fine toothed comb. I feel for the bloke ‘anging from the fire escape. Who knows ‘ow long he’s been there, ‘n’ ‘ow much longer it’ll take before they cut ‘is bloody corpse down. Police got no soul at all.

He looks naggingly familiar for some reason, though try as I might I jus’ can’t place ‘im. A blonde chap with grizzled, grimy features as best as I can tell from across the thoroughfare. He’s probably some toff up from market on ‘is way from work got caught with ‘is knickers down ‘n’ topped off. Maybe I passed ‘im in the street recent, or saw ‘im in a pub, though I doubt we move in the same circles. Still, it’s annoying. Gonna keep me awake t’night for certain.

I’m chasin’ the last of me noodles about the container with me chopsticks when ‘er Majesty’s Finest finally decide to cut the poor bugger loose. He ‘it’s the pavement with a sickening wet thump that almost brings me Thanksgiving feast back up me throat ‘n’ sours the last few bites. I make a face ‘n’ close the box as I walk a few steps to the closest rubbish bin to give me meal a toss. I pull a Silk Cut free ‘n’ turn against the wind, sparkin’ a match. The cold rain clears me ‘ead as I turn about ‘n’ catch me reflection in the window of the Chinese take-in place. I stare hard at the image I see in the flare of matchlight; choppy blonde hair, gaunt ‘n’ grimy with a shadow of a beard ‘n’ grease stains on me favorite trenchcoat. Something clicks-

Bloke ‘ad a trenchcoat…

I feel a cold shiver run up ‘n’ back down me spine as I charge across the street sudden like, splashin’ in the puddles without a care. The police start shouting as I push me way through their blockade to get a good look at the victim. The bird with the truncheon grabs me jacket, trying to ‘old me back, but I jerk away from ‘er, stumblin’ forward. Me stomach churns as hot mustard ‘n’ peanut sauce backs up in me throat…

He’s pale, almost white like he’d been drained of blood, but there’s not much beneath ‘im, washed away in the downpour. He‘s a gash running from ‘is crotch to ‘is throat, ending at the artery with a sizable chunk of meat missing from ‘is neck so I imagine that’s what ‘appened. Strung upside down ‘n’ left to die if he wasn’t dead already. He’s dressed in a dark suit wrinkled from the rain, ‘n’ a trenchcoat that’s stained with blood ‘n’ gore, ‘n’ the excrement from ‘is bowels by the stench. Like I saw, he’s blonde ‘n’ fair, his eyes snapped wide in terror, locked on whoever did this to ‘im. Given the locale ‘n’ his look, I realize this isn’t any gangland execution, or even a random bit a’ work by the local bullyboys.

This is a message. A hint of things to come. For yours truly, apparently. The dead bloke- but for a few years ‘n’ pounds- he’s me…

John Constantine…

I’ve stared death in the face more’n a time or two. Hell, I’ve given the Devil the bird ‘n’ pissed on evils most decent folk don’t even want to think about. When they’re snug in their nice warm beds with the covers pulled up over their ‘eads I’m out dancing with the demons. Still, all that aside, there’s something jus’ plain wrong about seeing yourself dead in the gutter with your insides trailing down the pipe.

I’m on me knees spewin’ me dinner before I realize it. Despite the cold ‘n’ rain, the sour smell a’ death ‘n’ the way the bloke’s head is twisted cockeyed ‘n’ starin’ at me’s jus’ too much. Maybe it’s the MSG, I dunno, but I can’t ‘old it back. I hear the PC bird on me arse, jabbing at me back with ‘er club-

“’Ere! Go toss yer lot someplace else!” she says tryin’ ta nudge me along with the toe of ‘er shoe. “Come on now! You’re messin’ about the wrong place!” She gives me an ‘ard rap with ‘er truncheon, ‘n’ I’m about to give her a bit of me best when a familiar voice cuts in-

“What’s all this then? Can’t you keep the wankers back, constable?”

“’E busted through the line, Inspector! I was about to push ‘im orf when-“

“Constantine!”

I looked up, wiping the snot from me nose ‘n’ tryin’ to smile despite me state. I must’ve looked a right mess what with me ‘air plastered to me ‘ead from the rain ‘n’ me dinner drooling down me chin ‘n’ shirt. Still, even at me worst me old friend Inspector Watford recognized me. Me ‘n’ the Inspector go back a few years, but I guess ‘friends’ isn’t exactly what we were. More like business associates, but even that relationship was strained. Watford ran afoul of a few cases that jus’ wouldn’t pan out through ‘is normal channels. Bit of nasty stuff- knockers ‘n’ such, things that bump in the night. In the end ‘e came to me. I ‘elped ‘im, ‘e ‘elped me, ‘n’ like so many of me better friendships we parted company ‘ating each other's guts. No great loss-

“Watford…” I managed to croak whilst tryin’ to spit the last of the bile outta the back of me throat. I’m a bit shaky tryin’ ta stand. Oddly, Watford helps me up-

“Might’ve known you’d be mixed up in this, Constantine. Seems your type of…”

Watford was a bit slow at times, ‘n’ it amused me no end to see the light of recognition spark in ‘is eyes. He turned slow between me ‘n’ the body still sprawled in the grime, then back again. I let ‘im look, then turned me face skyward to let the rain wash away the last of me meal. I run me ‘and back through me ‘air ‘n’ start to feel better. Good enough to light up another fag at least-

“He- he looks like you, Constantine. What’s this about?”

“You got me, mate. I jus’ got ‘ere meself.”

Watford gave me the evil eye, ‘n’ I could tell he wasn’t done with me yet, but I was saved by the bell, so to speak. One of the constables from farther back in the alley let out a gargled shriek then came runnin’ past like the Devil ‘isself was on ‘is tail. I ‘oped that wasn’t the case, but to see the body- well, it wasn’t something I’d put past the First of the Fallen. I followed Watford back into the alley, a pair of Bobbies charging past the both of us-

“Lumbley!” Watford shouted ‘n’ I came skidding to a stop jus’ in time to see a woman stand up in the gritty shadows of the back corner. Maybe it was the garbage piled high, or the filthy walls covered in graffiti, or maybe even the smell of the fish ‘n’ chips place on the other side of the wall, but the woman looked a breath of fresh air there in the gloom. She was tall in ‘er ‘eeled boots, wearing a long dark coat flappin’ in the breeze that gave hints of a fine figure of woman underneath. Her hair was shoulder short, kinky auburn, ‘n’ like the rest of us plastered to ‘er ‘ead from the downpour. She was drenched to the bone, but she still managed to flash a smile as we all came running up. She was holding a briefcase, which she spun around to show us, opening it up for all to see-

“Found the heart!” she announced with a grin and I heard one of the constables start to retch. “Most of it at least. Looks as though someone’s taken a bite out of it.” She held the briefcase out at arm’s length and I saw Watford pale as another Bobby went dashing out of the alleyway, ‘is ‘and desperately trying to ‘old in ‘is dinner. I felt me own stomach lurch again, but I ‘ad to smirk. She was cool, that one.

“For God’s sake, Lumbley! Close the bloody case ye daft bird!” Watford strode forward, ‘n’ I was right behind, lookin’ at the woman’s prize. It was a heart all right, or what was left of it. If somebody didn’t take a bite out of it, then they gave it a right goin’ over. It was sitting in a pool of blood, ‘n’ there were some papers underneath, but they were ruined. Lumbley shrugged ‘n’ closed the case, turning her gaze on me for the first time. She ‘ad a truly dazzling pair of green eyes-

Watford snatched the case from the detective’s hands and shrugged in my general direction. “This is John Constantine…” he said with a disgusted grimace, no doubt ‘earin’ the dead bloke’s heart sloshin’ about in the case he was juggling. “Take his statement and get an address ‘n’ phone number.”

Lumbley nodded, but Watford was already heading back out the mouth of the alley as she dug her notepad out of ‘er bag. She glanced about at the few green looking constables still digging through the debris of the alley ‘n’ shrugged that I should follow ‘er away from the search. I nodded, stepping aside to let ‘er lead the way- ‘n’ to watch ‘er walk. She ‘ad a nice little arse ‘n’ a proper strut.

“John… Constantine?” she asked, fishing through ‘er bag for a match to light the cigarette between ‘er lips. I nodded, whipping out me Zippo in gentlemanly fashion. She smiled ‘er thanks, eyes sparklin’ as she bent in low to block the wind slipping through me cupped ‘ands. I smelled ‘er perfume there as we hunkered for a spark. Violets, I thought. She smelled nice, considering.

She rattled off the typical questions over a few minutes, writing everything down in ‘er little notebook. Now usually I’d play coy ‘n’ give me addy as Buckingham Palace, Blair’s telephone number ‘n’ some such nonsense. I gave Watford the addy of New Scotland Yard once, ‘n’ near as I know that’s still what’s on file. I liked this bird though. She looked to be fine, ‘n’ a bit of an ‘ardnose with ‘er uptight superiors, ‘n’ I jus’ didn’t ‘ave the ‘eart to give ‘er me usual bum’s rush. I answered more or less right to everything- jus’ changed a number here or there. If she really wanted to find me, it wouldn’t be too ‘ard, ‘n’ I’d see if she’d earned ‘er stripes legal like, or if she was another notch on the equal opportunity bedpost.

“You look like the deceased, y’know?” she said, finally putting ‘er notepad back in ‘er bag. She took a final long drag off ‘er fag then dropped it to the alley floor ‘n’ ground it under the toe of ‘er boot.

“I noticed that.” I said, lighting another, flicking the spent butt into a puddle. I patted me chest with a grin. “All parts still intact, however.” She chuckled a bit at that, then thought better of it as she glanced back towards the body.

“Doctor’s here.” She turned on ‘er ‘eel ‘n’ stalked up the alley, shoes clicking on the cold, cracked stone. I followed along, as no one ‘ad said I couldn’t yet. I’d seen the coroner before; oldish chap ‘ad been about for awhile. He was near sixty I’d say, with thinning gray hair and a sallow look like he’d missed ‘is last few meals. He always wore an old tweed suit every time I’d seen ‘im, jus’ a few years out of date. He looked like something out of one of the old Pulps, truth to tell; one of the old mad scientists from Buck Rogers or Sky Captain. He was picking over the remains as Lumbley strolled up to flank Watford ‘n’ I took up the other side near the alley wall.

I could see now what I’d missed before when the body was ‘anging upside down. The heart had been taken out, ‘n’ I could see too that the rib cage ‘ad been ripped open, after first bein’ crushed in it looked. Bit of grisly work that. The coroner was sliding the man’s intestines outta the way to get a better look inside, ‘n’ I smirked to see Watford turning a pleasant shade of green.

“I won’t know ‘til I get back te the labs ‘course, but ‘pears the ‘eart was the only organ disturbed. Aside from the trauma o’ rippin’ open ‘is chest, ‘course.” The coroner shrugged, fingering the ragged skin about the victim’s chest cavity.

“Weapon?” Watford asked, taking a deep breath. “Was it a knife?”

“Possibly. A dull one though, if ‘twas. I’d say more a jagged piece o’ metal, or maybe e’en a bit o’ broken glass. Short, whatever ‘twas, no more’n fifteen millimeters, ‘n’ prob’ly less. Shiv, maybe. I’d ‘ave yuir chaps poke about inna trash for a bloody bit o’ metal or glass though.”

Watford glanced at Lumbley, “Sergeant!”

“On it.” Lumbley snapped to ‘n’ charged out of the alley to gather the forces for a search in the rubbish. It didn’t look like a weapon’s cut to me however, ‘n’ I’ve seen more’n me share. Looked more to be a claw mark of some sort; a dog or wolf- not that there’s any wolves in London. Maybe a cat then, or something worse.

“Any papers?”

The coroner ‘eld up a plastic baggy with a wallet inside. “Clive Baryon- a solicitor. Prob’ly on ‘is way te work this mornin’, poor sod. Body’s stiff already by a few hours. Not a robbr’y though. Wallet’s full; fifty pounds ‘n’ a few quid, some schillin’.”

“Any marks on the body?” I asked, ‘n’ the coroner looked up at me with a queer glance.

“You mean aside from the gapin’ gash up ‘is chest?”

I smirked. I’d asked for that one. “No! I mean like sigils or such.”

“Wot? Writin’? Not as I’ve seen yet. Maybe the killer stenciled ‘is moniker on the poor bugger’s arse. Ya want I should pull ‘is trousers down fer a look ya bloody poof? Who is this ponce?” The coroner looked up at Watford ‘n’ Watford looked at me with some disgust-

“You still here, Constantine? What are you, a ghoul? You’ve given your statement. We’ll call you if we need more.”

“Cheers to you too, mate. I’ll ‘old me breath waitin’. You do the same, right?”

“Out!”

Watford looked about for a free constable to escort me outta the alley, but I was already on me way. I passed Lumbley ‘n’ gave ‘er a nod, to which she offered ‘er thanks. I passed through the barricades ‘n’ glanced back ‘n’ saw that she was watching me leave. She smiled, then went about ‘er duty. I hadda smile too.

There was still a bit of a crowd gathered across the street watching the going’s on, so I blended in with the mob to see what would ‘appen. There was the usual skull-duggery what droned on for another couple of hours before I got really bored. I was watching the crowd as well, but I seemed to be the only poor sod with no life to stand about in the rain for all that time.

“Sinner!”

I nearly swallowed me fag as I spun about ‘n’ saw one of the Salvation Army standin’ jus’ behind me. She was a bulky one, layered in clothes ‘n’ wrapped in a dark wool long coat, hat ‘n’ scarf wound about ‘er lower face overall. Surprised I didn’t smell ‘er right off.

“Pardon?” I asked, stepping back a bit ‘n’ upwind.

“He were a sinner! Got as ‘e deserved no doubt.”

“You think? Seems a bit harsh to me.”

The woman hawked ‘n’ spat, almost on me shoes. “Not by ‘alf, I says! ‘is like’s gonna burn in ‘ell fer eternity. Mark my words! Jus’ as ‘is Lordship says. Blood!”

She was a daft cow, ‘n’ I was starting to think maybe it was time to look into the Salvation Army. That ‘ad a ring of zealousness it did, what she said. Last thing London needed was an army of zealots roaming the streets. Hard enough to catch a taxi as it was.

I started to ask ‘er something else, but she was ‘alfway up the block already, moving away as quick ‘n’ quiet as she’d snuck up on me. She was accosting some couple marching down the lane sharing a brolley. I felt for ‘em, I must say.

I watched the crime scene for a bit longer, but there didn’t seem to be much ‘appening so I decided to get me arse back ‘ome ‘n’ into bed. For one reason or t’other I hadn’t ‘ad a decent night’s sleep in a fortnight, ‘n’ me bed was sounding more ‘n’ more enticing. I turned me collar to the rain ‘n’ chained another fag, then started out towards ‘ome.

It was barely a ten minute walk from Piccadilly Circus to me flat on Bedford, so I ‘ad no problem with the walk despite the rain. Gave me a bit of time to think, to try ‘n’ piece the puzzle of the solicitor together.

Normally I wouldn’t give a rat’s arse. The Salvation Army cow wasn’t too far off the mark, actually. Solicitors ‘n’ barristers are about as low as the human soul can sink- money-grubbing bastards the lot of ‘em. Still, I couldn’t shake the fact that Baryon bore more’n a reasonable likeness of me. Add to that the way he died, and so close to me own flat, well, I never been one to believe in coincidence. I’d be more’n ‘appy if it did turn out to be an execution, or even some new lunatic loose on the streets. The body though; ‘is looks ‘n’ where ‘n’ ‘ow he died jus’ hit too close to home- literally.

I used the time to walk ‘ome to run through the usual list of suspects. I ‘ad a lot of enemies. More’n any one man should accumulate in any lifetime. Me own fault really, for sticking me nose into other people’s business, but I got this thing ‘bout the world goin’ to Hell inna hand-basket. I’m jus’ good like that.

The First of the Fallen popped up right off the bat. He ‘n’ I’ve crossed swords more time’s ‘n’ I care to count, but I usually came out on top. He’s ‘ad me soul in ‘is coffers a time or two, same as ‘is mates- the Second ‘n’ Third. Any one a’ them would love to get me downstairs for a bit of the rough. Last I recall though, I was in the free ‘n’ clear with two of the Three, ‘n’ the First was trying to figure how to claim me soul, which I’d sold ‘im- so he thinks. It’s all a bit complicated, like the fine print of an actual legalize contract, but I know the dance well enough to keep that lot busy for a time.

There were others of course. Less than the Three, but ‘ating me with a passion to rival ‘em any day. Me old friend Ellie might go to extremes to make me suffer after all I did to her in the end. Not to mention the snob, Gabriel. I stole ‘is ‘eart, literally- for Ellie the Succubus mind- then used it to get the First off me back. It was worth it at the time, but now Ellie ‘ates me with a fiery passion, ‘n’ the snob’s probably not above doing me for a bit of revenge too. I haven’t seen either in some time.

There’s demons by the score; Nergal ‘n’ NORFULTHING right at the top. Etrigan too, after last Halloween I suppose. Then too there’s me peers, any one a’ which wouldn’t mind seein’ me laid out proper. Jason Blood, Papa Midnight… Hell, even Madame Xanadu’s got an ‘ard on to see me dead lately. An’ Tefe… Can’t forget me own flesh ‘n’ blood when it comes down to it.

Truly amazing jus’ how many people I managed to fuck up the bum over the years. An’ I didn’t even scratch the surface. If the body in the alley was a warning, then whoever sent it should’ve signed their name on the bloke’s arse like the coroner suggested. I’m the original master a’ tact ‘n’ subtle, but this was jus’ a bit beyond me reasoning to see the cards. If there was a message, I was missing it…

I started back to me flat, the mystery of the dead bloke still spinnin’ in me ‘ead. It could’ve been simple coincidence I suppose. Stranger things have happened. Hell, they ‘appen to me almost every day. Try as I might, I jus’ couldn’t get the man’s face outta me mind though. There but by the grace, it could’ve been me.

The rain was still pounding as I made me way over to Haymarket and along Trafalgar Square. Like Piccadilly Circus, the Square was still abuzz with traffic ‘n’ tourists despite the chill ‘n’ rain ‘n’ the time of night. I walked along under the overhang of the National Gallery side, stoppin’ a moment to swap a dry fag for the soggy butt I’d been suckin’ on for the last block ‘n’ saw that London’s foul weather couldn’t keep the Salvation Army away either. There was a goodly dozen of ‘em milling about around Nelson’s Column in the Square proper. Like the woman I’d chatted up a bit earlier they were all dressed in their Sunday best; dark woolen coats ‘n’ hats pulled low, scarves or what not wrapped tight to shield their faces. As a bitter wind whipped across the Square I actually envied them their apparel tonight.

With a shiver I shrugged me own coat back up on me shoulders ‘n’ flipped me collar to the rain ‘n’ wind and stepped off again. They weren’t doing anything ‘sides standing about in the Square, which last I ‘eard wasn’t against the law. Hell, the Metropolitan would have to arrest half the tourists in town if it was, not to mention a goodly portion of the local population.

I gave the Army a wide berth though, watchin’ outta the corner of me eye as I jogged across Charing Cross Road ‘n’ into the shelter of the St. Martin- in- the- Fields Emergency overhang. They were oblivious to me, a pair only turning my direction when an ambulance came screaming up the drive into the emergency ramp. I shrugged-

If there was a conspiracy to rid the world of John Constantine look-alikes tonight, it wasn’t any of their concern. Cheers then. Another night…

I turned onto the Strand with a nod to old Oscar ‘n’ half contemplated nickin’ into the Griffin for a quick pint to chase the chills away. The Griffin was a fine public house once upon its time. Its proximity to the Square though, ‘n’ the Tube station at Charing Cross, not to mention the Strand itself ‘ad changed it over the years. Catch it at the right time ‘n’ you can get a pint ‘n’ a bit of the old town mystique. Mostly though it’s been gentrified to appeal to the tourists. It’s got a load a gaudy crap hangin’ from the walls ‘n’ ceiling; tapestries ‘n’ coats, shields ‘n’ swords. Jus’ what the public wants to see. Sure, a stout would hit the spot right about now, but not at the cost of sittin’ in a smoky room full a’ yuppies ‘n’ tourists trying to sound authentic ‘n’ mucking with the dart board.

I thought about hikin’ me arse up to the Coal Hole, but about then the weather took a turn for the worse. The rain got thick ‘n’ icy, turning to sleet ‘n’ whippin’ sideways. Bob’s pub was a bit of a walk outta the way past me turn, ‘n’ frankly I’d ‘ad jus’ about enough rain for one night. I checked me Silk Cuts in the lamp light on the corner a’ Bedford, counting out me fags ‘n’ hopin’ I had a Guinness in the ice box.

Fuck it!

Me bed was callin’…

It was warm in me building, thank god. The radiator was rattling ‘n’ clanging somethin’ fierce ‘n’ steam was spewin’ outta the stand pipe in the corner as I climbed the stairs up into the dim. It was quiet inside, so ‘course the stairs were creaking under me weight with every step. The stain was peeling on the banister, flaking off under me touch; ‘n’ there was a musty, mildew smell rising with the damp heat. Not the best place I’ve lived, but a far cry from the worst as well.

Aside from the flickering glow of the bare overhead bulbs there was little light in the hall, ‘n’ no noise coming from any of the other flats. I hadn’t met me neighbors yet- aside from me landlord ‘course. He’s an old Jew named Gellar, seventy-somethin’ goin’ on forever to hear him tell it. A survivor of Auswitz, he’s got some stories to tell ‘n’ we’ve shared a nip in ‘is pawn shop downstairs a time or two come rent day. He lives on the third landing in the back. The other upstairs flat’s rented out to a Dread by the music I hear at all hours comin’ through me ceiling. I like Marley well enough, but some a’ the newer Rasta leaves me a bit cold. Still it’s not like I’m home much to get annoyed at the noise, ‘n’ I have me own little idiosyncrasies besides. I do tend to get a bit loud meself from time to time.

The last neighbor on me own floor’s a woman about my age according to Gellar. She’s a divorcee apparently, an’ a looker to hear him tell it. Quiet though, ‘n’ I’ve yet to see ‘er meself. Name on the post box in the entry hall says Moran. There’s no sliver a’ light ‘neath ‘er door as I pass. No noise either, so she’s either out or in bed same as the rest. Fine by me. It’d be nice to get a full night’s sleep jus’ one night out of the week…

I notice the draft as soon as I open the door ‘n’ I can see the shards a glass shining on the floor in the glow of the street lamp outside me window. Somebody smashed the pane to get in, ‘n’ right away I got that violated feeling as I sagged with a sigh. I’d been robbed.

Not that I had anything worth stealing you understand? At least nothing worth selling off for a fast quid. Things I ‘ad lying about weren’t what normal folks would call class. I had a few nick-knacks from me travels, a bunch of dusty books that most people wouldn’t be able to read, tools of the trade ‘n’ the like. Mainly things that I was too lazy to toss out or take to storage. Whoever made the climb up to me window ‘n’ struggled through the glass most probably cursed me up ‘n’ down to see the slim pickings that awaited him in me sanctum sanctorum. I jus’ hoped he didn’t nick me last pint…

The mind does tend to wander when one gets sleepy ‘n’ tired. I should’ve seen it coming I suppose. Me track record speaks for itself, ‘n’ with what I’d witnessed at the crime scene earlier, me internal alarm bells should’ve been blaring. I was worrying about me next taste however, ‘n’ let me guard down. It’s me own fault really-

Somethin’ shot outta the darkness as soon as I closed the door ‘n’ slammed me square in the chest. The force of the blow lifted me off me feet ‘n’ I slammed ‘ard back into the wall, me ‘ead bouncin’ off the jamb. I heard bells then, I’ll let you know, and slid right down to the floor in a daze. The room was swirling something fierce, ‘n’ I was shaking me head to try ‘n’ clear the cobwebs some mental spider was stretchin’ over me sight. I moaned, trying to focus when I first ‘eard the voice-

“John Constantine…” a squeaky little voice rasped ‘n’ I squinted into the darkness to see who I was facing. There looked to be three of them, but they were shadows flittin’ about in the glare a’ the street lamp comin’ through the broken window. They were all sort of small ‘n’ wiry looking, one being less than the other two. It was the little one that was doing the talking, ‘n’ I finally saw ‘is face as he stepped right up. “So! We meet again!”

He was a scrawny little shit. A kid by the looks, all filthy with grease ‘n’ grime, his clothes smelt like they hadn’t been washed in a month. He ‘ad that punk look that died back in the Nineties; ratty dungarees ‘n’ a leather vest, MC boots. His ‘ead was shaved close in a checkerboard pattern ‘n’ ‘e wore a dangly gold earring off ‘is left lobe. He ‘ad a nasty look about ‘im, granted, all bravado with ‘is mates right behind. Typical bullyboy! I didn’t know ‘im from Adam-

“Sorry, luv.” I said, pullin’ out a fresh fag ‘n’ lightin’ up, mostly for show. He winced in the glow of the fire I noted, then I flipped me Zippo closed before he did something I’d regret. “The attitude’s familiar, but I jus’ can’t place the face. Give us a clue then?”

The punk snarled then, ‘n’ I got a nasty feelin’ in me bollocks. I shriveled right up as ‘is mates gave with the hiss. Punk boy leaned right in ‘n’ quick as lightnin’ wrapped a bony claw about me throat, chokin’ me. He was stronger than he looked, ‘n’ ‘is breath was like sour cabbage that’d been cooked way too long as ‘e hissed in me face-

“Then you’ll go to Hell never knowin’, old man!”

He sneered, his face twisting up in a queer little smile that didn’t seem to fit really. I saw why right off, ‘n’ though I still didn’t recognize the git, I did recognize what he was about. The deathly reek, the superior strength, and the long pointed teeth all meant jus’ one thing-

Vampires…

Bloody, felching Vampires!

It was a perfect end to a perfectly wretched night.

Bollocks…

END OF BOOK ONE

Story © 2004 Curt Fernlund and may not be reproduced without permission.