"Lyric"
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"Lyric" |
| Hellblazer Annual # 1 March, Year Two | Written by Chris Munn |
The dialogue in this story is taken from the song “If I Ever Leave This World Alive” by Flogging Molly. These lyrics are the copyright of the band and used without permission, but take heart in the fact that I loved the song enough to write a story around it.
This story takes place between Hellblazer # 14 and 15.
They hadn't spoken to one another during the walk back, and as they entered the house shared by Kit and her only living sister Claire they remained silent. The two went into the kitchen, coats off and placed on the backs of chairs, and John lit a Silk Cut while Kit put the tea kettle on. He watched her move across the kitchen, her sadness covered up by the hard shell she'd built up around herself as a defense against a bad childhood and just living in Belfast in general. He'd notice brief moments where her mask would crack, the veneer would slip oh so slightly, and a genuine emotion would seep through.
He'd loved her once, but those feelings were gone, taken from him during an act of self-preservation years before. There was still something there, though, he had to admit. A spark, the smallest flicker of passion that he could see still burning behind her eyes. How could someone love and hate a man in equal amounts?
“If I ever leave this world alive,” he began, the words coming out seemingly of their own volition, “I'll thank you for all the things you did in my life.”
The words caught her off guard, and she turned to him with a look of confusion mixed with sadness.
“If I ever leave this world alive,” John continued, “I'll come back down and sit beside your feet tonight. Wherever I am you'll always be more than just a memory.”
She crossed the room to him and placed a hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned his face into her hand, feeling the soft touch of her fingers on his skin. “If I ever leave this world alive...”
They returned to their silence following the showing of emotion, sipping their tea and smoking their cigarettes with nary a word said by either. The distance between them had grown too large due to time and tragedy. She wouldn't admit it to him, but Kit hadn't loved another man since John, fourteen years of loneliness and an emptiness in her heart that could only be filled by a man that she forbade herself to love. John had loved her, she knew that, but she also knew that she would always come in second place to his true love. She was a poor substitute for magic , and the moment his hidden life intersected with their personal life the show was over between them.
Constantine knew this, too, and had long ago accepted it. Unlike Kit, John had taken a few lovers since their time together. Some were serious, others not, but in hindsight none were able to replace the feelings he had for Katherine Ryan, the clichéd “one who got away”.
“If I ever leave this world alive,” John spoke again, and again the words seemed to come from nowhere, surprising even him, “I'll take on the sadness that I left behind.”
Her reaction this time, instead of a tender caress, was an angry slap of her palm across his face. How dare he continue this? Words came so easily to him, promises to take on the sadness that he himself had inflicted upon her, intentionally or not, that the sentiment sounded cheap when sounding from his lips. He'd hurt her again, wounded her just as deeply as before, with nothing more than mere words.
“If I ever leave this world alive,” he continued, nursing the red mark on his cheek, “the madness that you feel will soon subside.”
She stood angrily from the table, turning away from him with her arms crossed beneath her breasts, hiding the tears that were fighting to drop from her eyes. He came up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her back into his chest. “So in a word don't shed a tear, I'll be here when it all gets weird.”
Kit laughed and pulled herself free from John's grasp, brushing past him to leave the kitchen in favor of the sitting room. John nodded solemnly and collected his coat from the back of his chair. “If I ever leave this world alive...”
He pulled on his olive-drab trenchcoat and moved into the sitting room, finding Kit at the far end, staring out the window at the cars passing by her house. Slowly he moved through the room, on a bee-line for the door, noticing that she was intentionally ignoring his presence. When he reached the door, he paused before going for the handle, giving one last look in her direction. Finally she gave him notice, a weak smile playing on her lips. Despite everything between them, she decided she could at least give him a proper goodbye.
She met him at the door and the two embraced in a final hug, her face pressed against his neck. “So when in doubt just call my name,” he told her, “just before you go insane. If I ever leave this world...”
She raised her head to interject, but John continued on.
“Hey, I may never leave this world. But if I ever leave this world alive...”
She stopped him there with a finger pressed against her lips. Finally she spoke to him, giving him a reply to his sorrow-filled words. She said, “I'm okay; I'm alright, though you have gone from my life. You said that it would, now everything should be alright.”
And with that, John smiled, finally hearing what he'd wanted to hear from her. She was happy with her life, she was surviving without him, just like he was. It made him content, though also a little sad that, with those words, she had effectively put to rest their time together. This was it, the final goodbye between these two people whose lives had grown so far apart yet so close together during their impossibly-long years. He kissed her on her cheek, then, and hugged her for the last time before pulling away and placing a hand on the door knob.
That was how John Constantine walked away from Kit Ryan, leaving them both the better for it.
He met up later with Mercury, the young woman that had traveled with him to Belfast . She looked up to John as a father-figure, an uncle who protected her since she was a small child. Her eyes asked the question that her voice was afraid to ask. What happened between him and Kit, her expression asked, and so John responded to her unspoken question.
“She says, I'm okay; I'm alright, though you have gone from my life. You said that it would, now everything should be alright.”
Seeing how much those words had affected him, Mercury took John's hand in hers and held it compassionately. He pulled her close, hugging the girl tightly against him, not wanting her to see the single tear streaming down his cheek. “Yeah, it should be alright...”
The End.
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"The Beast of Bucksbridge Moor" |
| Hellblazer Annual # 1 March, Year Two | Written by Meriades Rai |
There was no sign of what was to come.
Not until the darkness came alive with blood… and the lambs began to scream.
John Constantine studied the headline in the local newspaper – Slaughter! The Beast Of Bucksbridge Strikes Again! – and then glanced down at the eviscerated remains of a lamb that seethed with flies as it lay puddled at his feet. His expression was thoughtful as he lit a cigarette and then turned towards his companion, a short, pretty redhead in a green parka and Wellingtons .
“Right then,” he said. “Jess, you know I love you, but I've got to ask… do I look like Scooby fucking Doo?”
The redhead, Jessica Trevert-Lyall – just plain Jess Trevert when John had last seen her back in her old stomping grounds of Camden some six years before, but since happily married into Cornish gentry – smiled sweetly.
“Well, there's always been a bit of the dog about you, John…”
“Dog tired, maybe.”
“You should get more sleep.”
“No rest for the wicked, love,” Constantine murmured. “And even less for me.”
Scowling now, John flicked his ash at the paper. “I thought this sensationalist bollocks was confined to Fleet Street, and these country rags filled their front pages with the results of sewing competitions and which old biddy's cat's had shat out the biggest litter.”
“Not when the Beast's at large.”
“That's what I'm talking about! That! Fucking ‘Beast' for fuck's sake…”
“I never had you down for a sceptic, John. More things in Heaven and Earth and all that?”
Constantine grimaced. “Trust me, love. Ninety-nine out of every hundred supernatural occurrences, for want of a better phrase, are down to people. People being sick little fuckers, yes, but just people. It's the other one percent we'd all be best worrying about.”
“But this isn't one of them?”
“This,” Constantine tapped the paper again, this time almost setting it alight, “is cartoon cowshit is what it is. Fucking good job this isn't happening in the middle of winter, they'd be blaming the abominable pissing snowman.”
John stared out across the fields, squinting against the early morning sun. The story in the local rag referred to the third incident of lamb mutilation in the general area inside the past two weeks; this latest killing, the one evidenced by the stinking remains littering the grass all about him and staining his boots, was the fourth. To be honest he'd been intrigued by Jess's story when she'd called him up out of the blue, but now he was down here he was just feeling narked. Trekking down to Cornwall had seemed like a good excuse for a weekend break as much as anything – it'd been fucking ages since he'd seen the ocean, apart from flying over it, of course – but it turned out that the moor was thirty miles in from the coast, which was a royal pain in the arse. And then there was the fact that these animal murders weren't up his alley anyway. Well, not at first glance. Unless…
“See, out here, life's so fucking dull that you've got to conjure horror out of nothing,” Constantine muttered. “So every time some sheep gets munched by a wild cat or a half-starved mastiff it's filed away under some mythical fiend from the pit out roaming the fog, hungering for unwary souls. And because wild cats and half-starved mastiffs are pretty fucking common out in the sticks, you get a lot of dead sheep, and the legend of the Beast grows all the quicker. Bloody daft, really.” He puffed at his cigarette. “Especially when you consider you've already got the bucca…”
“The what now?”
John continued eyeing the horizon, his expression thoughtful. “You ever wondered where the name comes from?” he asked. “Bucksbridge? It's derived from bucca, the Cornish name for a storm or water spirit. Nasty little fucker, not like your common-or-garden nymphs. The one most people are familiar with is from the Three Billy Goats Gruff, though the original Norwegian telling of the folklore it was based on turned the bucca into a troll. Artistic license. Anyhow, a bucca lives in the shadow of any naturally occurring or manmade-from-natural-resources crossing – or bridge – over a waterway where innocent blood's been spilled upstream. The brook that cuts through the land here, it was home to one of these bastards, lurking in the darkness like a trapdoor spider, darting out and biting off the legs of the local kids clambering overhead. Trip-trap, trip-trap. It died off eventually – most things do – and the legend was forgotten in everyday terms, but the name of the moor lingered on for some reason.”
Jessica shivered. Constantine finally turned and grinned at her.
“No worries here, though,” he said. “An honest-to-Buddha bucca didn't carve up these poor mutton chops any more than werewolves or the children of Nuliajuk or anything else otherworldly. This is human handiwork, not animal.”
“You're sure?”
“Don't make me talk about bite radius. I'll sound like that squirrelly fucker from Jaws. No, a feral predator would've taken sheep for a start, not lambs. Better meat, see? And wolves and the like kill to eat, while all this is just blood for the sake of blood. There's far too much flesh and intestine here for it to have come about through hunger.”
Jessica stared at the desecrated remains, her complexion pale. “So, now what?” she asked. “It's not your jurisdiction, so you walk away?”
“Now I never said that, did I?”
Constantine 's grin widened and he put an arm around his friend's shoulders. “You just show me to the nearest pub, love,” he said, “and lay on the Scooby snacks. But, I swear, if we're talking Slaughtered Lamb and pentagrams on the wall and Brian fucking Glover then I'm going to have to kill every last one of these in-bred, rubber-booted, muck-spreading, fox-hunting, tractor-driving, pheasant-knobbing tossers just out of principal. No offence, like.”
“None taken,” Jessica sighed, shaking her head. “I'm sure my tenth-generation Cornish farmland husband will love meeting you too…”
John Constantine's condescending attitude to country folk was typical of the city dweller mentality – and in some cases, it must be said, a healthy dose of scorn wasn't entirely undeserved – but Bucksbridge didn't merit such a snit, as Constantine was forced to acknowledge after a pleasant afternoon in the local tavern, The Fox & Ferret. A couple of bowls of chips were slathered in tomato ketchup in a manner not dissimilar to that morning's gutted carcass, not that it put either Constantine or Jessica off their meal, and that was followed by a few pints of bitter to wash it down. Lovely. Jess said her goodbyes at just past five, before the after-work crowd flooded the bar, and made John promise that he'd be back to her house to kip in her spare room before midnight, or that he'd phone if there was a change of plan. Woman things. Always fretting. John made a face, but deep down he liked being fussed over. It was the one of things you missed when you ran out of girlfriends and found yourself alone.
Still. Alcohol got him leery sometimes, or melancholy, but he was actually in good spirits tonight. Even a cantankerous old bastard like him couldn't be miserable all the time after all.
He spent the next three hours at a corner table, smoking and drinking and scribbling biro moustaches on the various photographs of local residents in the same newspaper that had earned his bile earlier that day, and then at fifteen minutes past eight he finally latched on to the conversation he'd been waiting for. Constantine 's prolonged presence in the pub was geared towards securing a lead on the mystery of the butchered lambs – ale and chips were just garnish – and his patience was about to be rewarded.
“Who's Steve then?”
The three youths at the window table – two girls, one lad, none of them over nineteen – all looked up in surprise as Constantine eased himself into an empty seat across from them without invitation and flicked his cigarette carelessly in the direction of their ashtray. “You were saying, this mate of yours, you haven't seen him for over a week?” he continued, flashing his best smile. “Sorry. Pardon my eavesdropping. Ears like a fucking elephant, me.”
John winked at the girl on his right, a blonde bit. Nice looker, if a sausage on the skinny side. The girl just stared at him like she'd stepped on a couple of mating slugs, obviously immune to his charms.
“Fuck off, mate,” said the lad of the group, a spotty oik with a cheap haircut and bumfluff on his chin. His threat was rather half-hearted. Constantine cocked his head at the boy, cigarette dangling from his lip.
“Don't worry,” he murmured. “I'm not trouble – luckily for you, you twat. And I'm not the plod. I'm just on the sniff for anything out of the ordinary. It's something that comes natural to me, see. I sit, and I relax, and I let the world flow, and I can tune in on what's important, cutting out all the shite. Audio-sensory meditation. Otherwise known as listening.”
The oik was looking around, his expression somewhere between frantic and angry. The second girl, a rough little tart with the kind of gut that put a bloke in mind of an anaconda that'd swallowed a goat, she was clasping a bottle of cider like she was planning to smash it on the table and shove the jagged end in Constantine 's mush – which probably wasn't far from the truth. John sighed. Fucking kids.
“We're just talking,” the blonde bit said, slowly. Gorgeous Cornish accent. “Our mate, Steve, he's not been around much lately. It's not like him. He - ”
“What're you doing, Sally?” the lad barked. “Don't give this prick any - ”
Constantine reached forward and slapped something on the table, causing the three kids to flinch and shrink back in their seats. And to make the oik shut the fuck up, which was most important.
Everyone looked down at the pack of cards that John Constantine had just taken from his coat pocket.
“If I show you a trick,” he said, softly, “will you keep a civil tongue?”
The oik paled, which made his pimples stand out like meningitis.
“Pick a card,” John said.
For a moment, the lad did nothing. Then, with a flourish of bravado, he reached out and cut the pack.
Constantine said, “Don't look at it yet. First I want you to think of something. A secret. Your biggest, darkest, nastiest secret. The one no-one knows. They don't know because you'd never tell them, you'd never fucking tell anyone, of course you wouldn't, not even your best friend, certainly not your girlfriend, because sure as hell she'd never understand, would she? And because if you never tell anyone it's like it never happened, it's like it was a film or something. But it wasn't a film, was it? They don't show that kind of thing in films. It's taboo, and with good fucking reason. Because it's disgusting. Are you thinking about your secret, chum? You must be, because it's like Dostoyevsky and his white bear, you can't not dwell on it while it's there.”
John tapped his forehead. His eyes were pale as ice, his smile gentle, his expression benign. That was always Constantine at his most frightening.
“You can look at your card now.”
The lad glanced down at the card in his hand. It was trembling. His knuckles were white, his wrist shaking.
“Go on,” John encouraged, in that same soft voice. “It's only a playing card. What do you think you're going to see?”
The lad lingered a moment more. Then his arm went limp and he turned his face away.
“No,” he said, his voice cracking. “I don't want to.”
“Smart lad.”
Constantine reached out and carefully took the card from the oik, sliding it back into the pack and slipping the pack back into his pocket.
“Right then,” he said, breathing smoke like silver snakes. “How about you tell me about your friend Steve, most notably where I can find him, and then I'll leave you adorable little munchkins to enjoy the rest of your evening, hmm…?”
Steven Hartley lived with his parents out past the official boundary of the village, in a refurbished station house down by the river. According to the boy's friends down the pub, who, in the end, had been only too pleased to fill Constantine in on the particulars – funny, that – Steve's folks had been on holiday in Italy for the best part of a fortnight while Steve had been left behind to dog-sit for their elderly Labrador . Gladys. Stupid fucking name for a bird, even stupider name for a dog, but there you go. Never underestimate the twattishness of people. When John suggested that Steve's absence could have been down to the lad deciding to join his family in sunnier climes his friends had debunked that, claiming they'd spoken to their mate on the phone twice in the past week. He'd just never turned up when they'd arranged to meet, like that night in the Fox.
Constantine stood outside the Hartley residence now, in the light of a freshly risen full moon, and he grimaced. The old station house was built high on the riverbank, surrounded by a copse of trees, in the shadow of a wooden bridge that arched up like a crab's leg and spanned the watercourse away to his left. Trip-trap, trip-trap.
“Well, then,” John muttered. “There's fucking symbolism for you.”
He cast away his cigarette and climbed the wooden steps to the station house porch, then rapped on the front door. When there was no answer, not even the slightest sound of movement to disturb the darkened silence on the other side of the entrance, John leaned down to the mail slot and flicked it open.
“Come on, Stevie boy, don't piss me around,” he announced, genially. “Some mates of yours gave me a tip-off. Told me if ever I was feeling peckish that you made a killer lamb stew…”
There was a crunch of wood and a sudden flurry of footsteps from inside the house. They started close but receded rapidly. John sighed and skipped down from the porch, then sprinted away down the side of the building, cursing as he almost tripped on a tree root. He reached the back of the station house just in time to see a crooked shape slam out of a kitchen door and scramble away through a back yard and down the immediate slope of the bank beyond.
Constantine couldn't have been certain he was on the right track back at the pub – sometimes even his instincts were wrong – but now there was no doubt about it. It was nice to get a break every now and then. Of course, now there was a chance his quarry was going to escape…
“I know why you did it this way,” John called as he reached the head of the bank and started down. “Other people, they'd think you were a monster if they knew – but you're trying not to be, right?”
Down below, the figure in the darkness hesitated at the edge of the water. Constantine slowed his descent, hands in pockets, breathing heavily.
“The signs are there, like in any good mystery,” he said. “Lambs instead of sheep, nothing eaten, so it wasn't an animal responsible; no sigils etched in the blood and entrails, so it wasn't ritualistic. You're not a Satanist, or the Cornish pagan equivalent, whoever the fuck they are these days. But the fact that it's lambs is significant. You want the youngsters – but you don't want to be slaughtering babes or toddlers. Not you, the man. The thing inside you wants young, sweet, human souls, of course it does, but you're trying your best to appease it with little woolly jumpers. Thing is, it won't be happy with that. Maybe it's told you that already. What do you say, Steve?”
Down in the shadows, the figure moaned. When it spoke, it wept, but its voice wasn't truly human – not any more.
“It won't leave me alone,” it wailed. “In my head, in my gut… in my fucking dreams. Says it wants me to bring the young ones to the bridge and make them cross. Then it can take them for itself. Says it won't need me after that, says it'll let me free.”
“Probably true,” Constantine murmured. “For what that's worth. But you're a good lad, aren't you Steve? You don't want the blood of children on your hands, the memory of their screams in your head. Not like your ancestors, hundreds of years ago before this village was even a blot on the landscape. Those arseholes, they hung their unwanted sprogs upside-down from the trees and slit their throats so their blood mixed with the water. Sacrifices to the god of the moment – but all it attracted was a bucca. Its body perished centuries ago but its spirit lived on. Now it's finally strong enough to come a-hunting again. Through you , the unlucky resident of the nearest thing to the present-day shadows under the bridge.”
Steven Hartley – or what was left of him, at least – slumped in the grass and mud and reeds of the riverbank and began to keen.
“I tried to feed it,” it sobbed. “I tried.”
“I know,” said John. “You showed some kind of mercy. Decency. And that's why I'm going to do something for you. I'm going to sit with you, ‘til dawn. Understand? Because the bucca lives in the dark for a reason – it doesn't like the light. Come the sun, Steve, we're going to burn that fucker out. But I can't lie to you; it's going to hurt like a bitch. And these things you've done already, the lambs… well, I can't make you forget that. Chances are you might not get over it at all.”
“It won't let you help me. It'll stop you.”
John Constantine frowned, sadly, and then lit a cigarette as he began to trudge down the bank into the night.
“Yeah,” he said. “They always try. But not one of them's managed yet…”
“You fuck. You fuck. You promised you'd be back by midnight, or you'd phone, or… Jesus. Christ alive, John, what happened to you…?”
Constantine stood on Jessica's doorstep, framed by the rising sun, blood dark and slick in his hair and on his face and running in wet streaks down the length of his coat. A cigarette was drooping from the corner of his mouth and he looked tired. Dog tired.
“Turns out the Beast of Bucksbridge Moor didn't want to leave quietly,” he said. “It's what I came down here for, right?”
Jess shook her head in wonderment. “So… what, you've solved the mystery? Everything's going to be okay now?”
John Constantine turned and stared into the distance, out across the fields, towards the dawn. The depth of sadness in his eyes was so subtle it could easily be mistaken for weariness – but then, those two impostors shared a lot in common, didn't they? Chances are you might not get over it at all.
“Well, there'll be no more dead lambs,” he said, quietly. “Or anything worse. Just a shame it came at a cost, in the end.”
He turned back to his friend and smiled. “Right then, love. I'm fucking famished. Fancy fixing me up some bacon and eggs? Or some smoked salmon? Anything but lamb fucking cutlets…”
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"The Pride and Fall" |
| Hellblazer Annual # 1 March, Year Two | Written by Jae Lizhini |
Salford never had much of a chance in the winter months. The grey molasses of clouds painted the skies above the town. A sweeping darkness that transformed everything from the squat warehouses on the Manchester Ship Canal to the brand new posh skyrises on Hartshead pike into vile silhouettes of a more shit brown variety. Hard rains spat down from sky's sludge battering everything that would let it.
“Going to be sorry to leave this lovely city,” John Constantine spoke from the back seat of a cab. His head was laid back on the chocolate leather of the seat; his eyes tightly closed burning with the temptation of sleep.
“You must be from the north then. You lot can't appreciate a good bit of history when you see it.” The stocky cab spoke, his large hairy forearm lashing forward, his hand gripping the passenger seat. “Manchester might not have been at the heart of the empire but it sure did its duty to support it.”
John weakly opened his eyes. The whites that framed his blue gems were webbed with red. “Kind of been a long fall the last few centuries then, eh guv?”
The cabby turned, his cheeks matching the scarlet carpet of his full beard. “The fuck it has!” His voice grew in volume, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. “Sure we had a rough go of it in the nineties but it was the tossed economy.”
“Settle down for us mate, we'd not want to make a crash up.” John said. “I did see Life on Mars, terrific round of history you lot have had.”
“Don't patronize me you fucking bastard!” The cabby roared his hand sliding from the shoulder of the seat and snatching a wad of sandy trench coat. “You could do with a bit of manners. Gabbing off about a bloke's city isn't really proper now is it? You could at least give a listen before you run back to your boyfriend in London towne.”
“Look I'm sorry.” John attempted. But half his words were scrubbed away by the sudden assault of a truck's horn. “Oh shit.”
Neither John nor the cab driver could close their eyes before the checkered taxi slammed into the iron grill truck cab. The front end of the auto folded like an accordion on impact. The fiber glass and metal grinded against the asphalt sparks igniting the dark street like fireworks. The front wheels lifted off the pavement curling against the metal bumper of the truck sending those hundreds of pounds of pressure straight into the interior of the cab like a severe gale wind.
The cabby felt his safety belt constrict on his back. The way he was sitting caused his shoulder and ribs to painfully smash into the thick leather seating. The airbag ignited slamming its force into his bearded jaw causing him to usher a painful grunt. A few teeth came free from his mouth along with a copious amount of blood.
John never wore a safety belt, and as the impact hit, his body was forced over the seat. His head smashed through the back window. The glass did little to halt his body, only ushering the applause of translucent shards as his body escaped the car.
The mage let out his own painful yelp as his shoulder hit the asphalt, having to at the very least, unhinged the joint at the speed his body hit. His body rolled feet over head, landing on the cold wet grasses. He rolled a full metre across the flat peat before his body came to a stop. John laid there a moment spread eagle, before the pain uttered him unconscious.
John Constantine's eyes flickered open with the dingy sprit of morning rain spraying coolly against his unshaven face. With effort he pulled his body off the soft earth. Sitting on the cold grass it hit him like a tonne of bricks. He lifted his left hand from the ground rotating his shoulder a few times before sitting his hand back on the ground once more. “Either your bastard lucky Constantine, or something is definitely wrong. Hope it's not another case of borrowed blood.”
Standing to his full height he straightened the folds of his trousers with his thick fingers. His head lifted up, with the speed of the savage headache that pulsed through his skull. It only got worse as he looked to the still dim city that lay before him. The familiar London red masonry greeted him as he stared at the rugged buildings looming at him. Like in Manchester, the buildings here also looked like rectangular slabs thrown down from heavens, with all the broken edges and cracks that would come from such a plummet. They did however match the faded gray atmosphere of winter morning… they were eye sores in broad daylight.
John turned his head toward the turnabout that was a few feet from where he stood. He stayed still a moment, his eyes flickering across the open street. His headache increased in the sudden understanding as to where he was. How he arrived in South London, he didn't care, all he needed to know was how quick he was going to get away.
“Bleeding Croydon?” He spoke to himself, “Hell I could have dealt with, but Croydon?” He sighed sliding his hand inside his trench coat, his fingers sliding into the inner pocket sliding across the plastic film of his familiar friend. Pulling out his packet of Silk Cuts, he slipped a filter between his lips. His silver lighter was urged forward with a play of his fingers igniting the business end with the amber of sunset.
John took a deep drag of the fag, silver vapours expelling from nose. Pulling the cigarette free, he opened his mouth letting the smoke slowly escape from his yellowed teeth. “Okay, so we just need to find Purley Way, there's a station up that way. Should be a train that'll send us right up to the tube on the south end....”
He walked slowly through the soft grass, feeling the soft mud slide against his the traction of his shoe's soles. The Clack of his runners catching actual concrete seemed to calm him. He slid his right hand into the pocket of his denim jeans, his left feeding his lips the inviting taste of his cigarette. All the while he was convincing himself he'd be up from the underground at King's Cross for lunch.
John knocked out a quick pace as he walked the empty street. Despite his worn and relaxed gate he moved quickly. He wasn't ready to spend another minute here that he didn't have to. This feeling intensified when he saw a portly fellow suddenly appearing a foot in front of him. Like John he was moving fast, his uncombed tuff of dark curls was a few paces behind him, the wooden cane he carried driving his weight forward. There was no time to dodge the human cannon ball. As a reflex the mage closed his eyes tensing for impact.
But nothing struck.
He turned his head on his shoulder trying to find the figure who almost hit him. The gray cracked streets looked back at him in a stoic silence. “South London, and ghosts, seems like you haven't lost your charm mate.” He said shaking his head. He took another long drag of his silk cut, the nicotine burning his lip in a satisfaction only career smokers could appreciate.
Shrugging his shoulders he began walking again. John took the final drag of his Silk Cut flinging the smoldering butt into the street. He let out a sigh as he reached his hand into his trouser pocket pulling the small mobile free. He flipped it open looking at the time hoping to get an idea of how long he had been walking. However it did him little good, more annoying was the fact he didn't have a signal. He came to a stop suddenly raking his hands through his short blond hair, the strands falling in a disastrous surface. "This is either the longest bleeding street in England or I really am in hell."
"Or its something else entirely," A slurred voice spoke from behind him.
"Right that's an option looking clearer by the moment." Constantine said with his trademark spoonful of loathing. He turned his body around only to find that there was no drunken Irishman behind him after all. "For fucksake, this is doing well to piss me off. 'Least someone could instruct a bloke on where to grab a pint."
He turned his head once again towards him. And as though he hadn't noticed before, an illuminated sign presented itself across the street, contrasting from the otherwise grey coloured night. The sign was a familiar rectangle type extending off the side of the building with a slender rod. From the distance it was not readable, but as a rotund form shambled out of the door, stumbling to the curb, it was hard not to guess it was a prayer answered from on high.
John turned to the curb of the side walk, and without looking for oncoming autos he quickened his pace across the street. His footfalls padded his course towards the door below the illuminated sign. He could make out a Strongbow sign in one of the three foggy windows as he walked towards the red bricked nirvana. He convinced himself he'd just settle for a pint or two then be back on his way towards the station. He knew a sit down would do his agitation good.
He turned his gaze to the flushed face drunkard as he stepped onto the sidewalk. His eyes looking at the man's bloodshot eyes sunk into his face with the swelling gray that painted him a regular to England's public houses. However he wasn't searching the man's assortment of chins for a sign of the bloke's alcoholism he was just glad that he was solid. “See the match tonight mate?” John spoke to camouflage is obviously staring.
“Don't talk to me about it! Sherwood Forest was all over the pitch, Man City didn't have bloody leg to stand on. Between you and me referee was in the pocket.” The man said, in a howl of slurs.
“Fuck, you don't say? Bloody Hughes needs to get on it or there won't be a supporter left.” John said, pulling loose football trivia out of his ass.
“Tell me about it mate, sad sight its been.”
“Well I definitely need a pint now.” The mage said pushing open the tinted door. A bell rung as it crashed against the glass. The dark pub's cacophony of loud voice and the ringing of glasses ran across John's ears. His eyes went immediately to the almond wood bar that stood front in center as he walked in. A crowd of people run around it two bodies deep.
“Say mate, give us a pint of local, yeah?” John called above the crowd and the Television that was still broadcasting highlights from Sherwood Forest and Manchester City match.
The Bartender turned on his heels. His face was thin and nimble, with crease lines outlining the corners of his lips. His dark eyes stared at John for almost a moment, a piecing stare that seemed all the more serious underneath his broad eyebrows that looked stark black. “No, I will not Constantine.” The Bartender said in a grim whisper.
“The fuck not?” John asked, his head stretching between the shoulders of two men.
“What does it matter?” The bartender asked. “Quit us now, you're not wanted here.”
“But this is the first time I've been to this pub.” John spoke. However even before he got to the last word, a strong pair of hands grabbed his arms in a vice like grip, forcing them behind his body.
“'e said you are not bloody welcomed.” The bouncer said, in more of a grumble than a proper voice.
“What this about?” John tried to ask as the bouncer pulled him from the crowd, in an effortless tug. He tried to turn around to see who the bloke manhandling him was, but had little chance with the rough moving. Lifting the mage up by his coat's collar, The Bouncer flung him back towards the wooden door. John's face smashed heavily into the door with a hollow thud, the bouncer using him like a human battering ram to open the door. As the door came open the bouncer let go. John fell through the doorway landing like a rut sack on the cold concrete.
He stayed in a folded pile of pain and misery. His head was ringing and the left side of his face felt numb. If this wasn't some sort of metaphysical trip, he was sure that he'd be halfway to purple when he woke up tomorrow.
Finally he sat up. The cold winds brushing across his sore skull. Leaning back, against the frigid uneven wall, he blinked several times. His clearing vision did little to erase what he thought he saw. It wasn't the Croydon Street he was expecting. In fact it wasn't a street at all.
The dark sands brown sands of the beach carpeted the stretch of land in front of him, ending at the point that the foaming waves licked at the ground. It was hard to tell exactly which beach it was, aside from being in England. Like most of them, the wet sands were matted to the ground without much wind shaped ruggedness. Above the rummaging water, the gray English sky sat as bored as ever, mainly just there to toss some ice flavoured winds to annoy the citizenry.
John stood up from the uneven wall. Crooking his head he saw it wasn't a wall at all. It was a large boulder sitting in the sand. But as usual he dusted off his slacks and coat, and took a step forward. Of course all he got was one step.
“DIE!” A high pitched shrill called in front of him.
John looked around trying to spot the voice. Before the gleam of the knife caught his blue orbs as the moonlight caught the metal. The small form blurring at him definitely met business.
The knife darted towards him. John leapt back, the blade slicing into the fringes of his trench coat. The pint sized attacker came forward with another slash much slower than first. He moved his hand forward, his hand snatching the wrist, in mid swing.
Looking down at his attacker, John's eyes widened two full sizes. Looking up at him was a girl, aged about twelve. Her tussled brown hair fell across her grime coated face, streaming thickly down her ratty rugby shirt, loose enough that one could only get the briefest silhouette of her thin shoulders. “You bastard, let go of me!” The girl yelled wiggling in his grip.
“Sorry love not on today's itinerary.” John said looking at the girl. “Drop the knife and we can talk civil like.”
The girl's thin lips formed a scowl as her hand opened. The blade fell harmlessly against the beach's sand. “That's good.” John spoke releasing her hand.
“I'm supposed to kill you or I'll never see my parents!” The girl yelled the moment she'd been released, throwing a tiny fist into his chest.
John put his hands up in a truce. “Look I don't know what's going through your deranged munchkin brain, but were not getting anywhere like this.”
The girl shook her head. As her hair flew back behind her, John could see pink scars coursing around her throat. A pink shadow of a rope's braid--, obviously to the mage that meant she too was a ghost. But perhaps this ghost knew what was going on.
“Okay I'll bite lass.” John finally said. “Tell me who are THEY?”
“There are a lot of them, a nun, a hippie, a black man, a friendly old man; one dressed in leather, a beautiful woman with red hair. They told me you are why I'm here. If I kill you, then everything will be sorted and I can go back to mum and dads.” The girl explained.
The mage made a frown. He knew exactly who she was talking about, spirits of unlucky bastards who crossed paths with him. They were restless spirits determined to annoy the piss out of him. But having used this child for their plans, that wasn't something he could stand by and have happen. John bent down to the small dirty face. “Okay love, I need you to take me to them. Uncle John with right this for you, and get you home for supper.”
The small girl's face went wild with excitement, a large grin scaring across her face, her small teeth glittering ivories at Constantine. “You mean it, you could do that?”
John sighed extending his hand. Since that night in Newcastle when his exorcism went wrong, and he sentenced a small girl to the confines of hell—he found it hard to pass up the need of children. That was one of the buttons that exposed the slender of purity still left in his black heart.
The ratty haired girl clenched John's hand as hard as she could and pulled on his arm, forcing him to advance to her lead. He went silent as they walked, knowing that though he told he she'd go home. It wasn't the home she was hoping for. She was dead, he knew, and she needed her rest.
John slid another silk cut into his lips, drawing his hand towards the fag and the silver lighter exposing the end to the biting of the flame. He took a long drag, the silence giving an audience to the cracking sizzle as the cherry devoured a centimeter of its length. Pulling the cigarette free with his other hand, a cobalt cloud of smoke wisped from his open mouth curling like ghostly tendrils.
“That stinks” the girl said her nose scrunching up enough that some of the dirt covering her face flaked away, falling down her cheeks.
“Can we just lead the way?” John asked in a scowl. His hand leading the silk cut back to his lips.
“Git.” The girl mumbled under her lips.
They walked for the better part of an hour, going deeper the unfamiliar seaside towne. It started out simple enough, as they walked along streets with lines of tourist shops, and fast food parlours. But as John followed the small girl's path through the maze of streets; the buildings began to grow older and more decrepit. Well tended green lawns soon turned into over grown jungles. Before the mage's eyes, a beautiful English resort town began to transform into the broken English town of his nightmare—it was beginning to remind him of Newcastle.
“Its only a little further” the girl reminded him. He was already considering what he was obviously walking into. But if he ghosts of Christmastime past were the reason for this delusion then he'd have to face it. He didn't much fancy being in Frankenstein's England any longer.
“Good on us then.” John chided “Me lungs are reminding me what a career of pollution does to ‘em.” And if he subconsciously reminded himself, he pulled the ever emptying packet of Silk Cuts from his trench coat pocket sliding another to his lips and introducing it to his lighter's flame.
They left the cracked sidewalk and pushed into a gravel trail that brought them through a side street taking them from the dingy ghetto streets. The trail soon erased any concept of it having its origins in an urban sprawl. Both sides of the trail seemed to be lined with flat earth and bit of grass, strewn like a Street beggars Easter basket. Standing like a sentinel in front of them was a two story building that had seen better days.
It was a shaped like an old brownstone store that you saw so much of on Bessons Street, but it was in dire need of repair. The large windows along the front of the building was lined with rotting wood, pieces of the once bracken oaken had come away in parts, leaving only jagged frames. The windows themselves were boarded up with much healthier wood, but sloppily extending over the surface of the frame leaving large gaps between the two by fours. The building itself looked to have been comprised of masonry, but it was hard to tell, as in the dim morning light it looked so grey it almost came into a tone of blue. Bits of the corners of its sharp rectangular design had crumbled away, along with large cracking fissures creating spider web patters along its front face. Despite it all, it was only the golden plate that stood out on the front of the rotting wood door that gave John pause.
Carefully etched letters stood out from the caramel like metal its new and expensive tone glowing in contrast to he dilapidated building. In large Arial letters it said “FOR CONSTANTINE”. This was bound to get messy.
“Open the door John.” The girl said behind him. “We didn't come all this bloody way so you could stare at your name. You said you could get me home.”
The mage lifted his hand to his mouth, removing the cigarette from his lips. A gray cloud of smoke curled from between his teeth. “I'm getting to it luv-- All in good time.”
He slid his freehand to the dented iron knob and turned it. Pushing the door with his shoulder the door squeaked open. The hallway was dark. The only light seemed to come from the door he held open. That light showed the yellowing of the narrow walls, and the thick residue of dust sitting atop the glaze of hardwood floors. John slid the cigarette back into his mouth taking a drag as he stepped into the house. He only made two steps before the party was joined.
Six forms appeared near the edge of the hallway, blocking entrance to the main room. Unlike the other ghosts he'd come in contact with today, they were wisps of black and white—like people made of smoke. He turned his head looking to each recognizable face. Each of them moving statues of regret, reminding John of all the times he had failed those he cared for.
A lanky man with a full head of long stringy hair, and a Sex Pistol's T shirt took a step forward. John felt a ping in his heart seeing his old mate looking so youthful. Times before he got addicted to the junk and his hair fell out in clumps. “Hey man, glad to see you, but really you shouldn't have come. You really should have just let her kill you.”
“Why Gaz,” John asked letting another plume of smoke slide from his mouth, “You lot going to gab me to death?”
“No Constantine!” The elderly nun spoke her smoky form stepping in front of Gaz. “You have damned the innocent girl to her death!”
“You lot have been in the dust to long, She's already dead! “
John turned his head as he heard the girl's scream. She shot through the open door. Though he couldn't quite make out what she held in her tiny clamped hand, it did look nasty and her sprint was only a heart beat away. He stepped to the side, as the girl jabbed the fragment of wood where John had been.
A screech of breaking wood crunched through the mage's ear as the girl stepped down on her left foot, finishing her jab. The flooring gave away under her, her leg sliding into the newly created hole. She lashed her arms as she felt her weight shift, her body fumbling into the jagged abyss. John lashed his arm out towards the girl's pleading hands. However his hands only snatched at air.
Through the hole, she plunged into a stunningly well lit basement. The sight was short lived however, as her neck slammed painfully into an old rope holding a large crystal chandelier. When her neck slammed into the rope, it broke where it was fastened to the wall causing the chandelier to fall from the ceiling. The high pitched whirl of the excited pulley was the last thing she heard. The old rope tightened brutally against her narrow neck. The weight of the falling chandelier crushed her windpipe instantly.
Silence ushered a floor up. The sound of the Chandelier shattering carried from wall to wall in a brutal eulogy. All six ghosts bowed their heads respectively. John slowly walked towards the hole.
Her small body hung wrapped around an old tweed rope, swaying lifelessly above a swirl of fire surrounding a broken Chandelier. He took a step back, his eyes drawn to the dark floor. “So it was premonition mark.” John said weakly.
“Yes.” A tall Scottish voice spoke standing with the other smoke like ghosts. Emma's voice spoke delicately and sultry even with the Glasgow trill. John's eyes glazed as he heard her voice. It'd been a long time since she spoke to him. “Only you could see it, because it was your fault.”
“All in a days work.” John said in a wounded voice.
 |
"Untitled" |
| Hellblazer Annual # 1 March, Year Two | Written by Curt Fernlund |
At first I think it's all in me ‘ead…
It was a long one at the Coal Hole last night, an' I remember the first few pints; cold n' dark and smooth flowin' right nice. But then it's always the last few that remember you, innit? I remember Braggi set up the pub twice, which means I was there till the wee hours. Seems there was a cheeky little bird somewhere in the mix too, all pins n' arse an' rubbin' up on me for a time. A quick feel a' the sheets an' me hand jus' comes away sticky an' grimy though otherwise, so maybe that was jus' wishful thinkin'.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
“All right!” I shout in me best morning falsetto shot full a' hot gravel and broken glass in me throat. Course I start coughin', a nice jag that lasts a bit an' at least gets me ta sit up an' put me feet on the floor. I hang me head an' spit a wad a' somethin' that's dark an' slimy onto the hardwood floor between me feet. I grab a fag off the table an' light up an' soon all's right with the world. Least until I look at the clock.
Up at the bleedin' crack a' noon's not me usual favorite way t'start another glorious day, but sometimes it jus' can't be helped. Today it's because some tosser's come knockin' on me chamber door with a vengeance. I wince at the windows an' see a dazzlin' yellow brilliance bleedin' through the grime an' raggedy drapes an' makin' dust flit in some grand ballet through the air.
Bam! Bam!
“Oh, bloody hell,” I grumble as I get up and stagger uneasily towards the door. Head spinnin' I fumble at the locks an' yank it open an' actually blink in surprise. The first person I see's the last I'd expect. Well, maybe not the last, but right up there. CI Dickinson from the Strand Station, an' two of his bully boy Bobbies lookin' all grim an' prim in their blues an' toppers.
“Chief Inspector,” I say round me fag, rakin' me hand through me hair. I need a wash as I smell a' stout an' sweat. Dickinson wrinkles his nose, but him an' his Bobbies are all eyes on me wanker an' I glance down to see why. I'm in me shorts, but I got a woody ta beat the band. “Always a pleasure,” I say with a smarmy grin. “What do I owe to today's?”
“Do you have any shame, Constantine?” Dickinson snarls, lookin' me up an' down like I was somethin' he had ta scrape off of the bottom of his shoe.
“Depends on the company, Dickey,” I say, blowing smoke into the hall. His boys frown even harder, if that's possible, an' I see the bigger one twistin' his fists about his nightstick. By the look of the three of ‘em I figure they're here for some good reason, an' apparently no good for me. “Now, what do you want? I got no tea, an me crumpets are a bit dated, so-“
“Cheeky bastard!”
I don't expect Dickinson ta shove past. He's usually the paragon of etiquette an' proper procedure. I stumble back into the jamb, which gives his boys leave to push into me flat as well. “Here! You got a warrant, Chi-oof!”
I double over and lose the last few pints of last night as big boy rams his club into my gut. Nausea hits me like a sledgehammer as I drop to my knees an' toss what's in me stomach, me head spinnin'. I'm vaguely aware of Dickey an' his boys marchin' through me room, though what they're lookin' for I haven't a clue. I'm just spittin' and gaggin' the last when they come an' huddle over me.
“Girl was found under the stairs on the Strand this morning, Constantine. Dead, but worse; half-naked, beaten, raped…” Dickinson's voice was cold an' if looks could kill I would have been dead a hundred times right then. “She was gutted, and the Examiner says she was probably alive when it happened. Her heart was missing. Reeks of some of the shite you pull, Constantine.”
Bollocks. All I need, an' I see where this was goin'. “I don't go around killin' birds, Chief Inspector. An' I was at the Coal Hole all night besides, surrounded by witnesses.”
“Yeah, all your good mates to back you up,” Dickinson grinned, a nasty thing ta see. “Well, we checked out the Hole and one of them fingered you, Constantine. Said you were talking up the lass most of the night. Said you left with her.”
Wonderful. And even if I did, I don't remember, though odds were it was probably the bird that was hangin' on me most a' the night. “Figure you didn't find any stray hearts in me flat, right? Not that that matters I suppose.”
“Not a bit, arsehole,” Dickinson said as his bully boys helped me to me feet, none too gently. “We'll get the truth down at the station though. Be sure of that. Now get dressed.”
I gathered me clothes off the floor an' did, all the while trying ta piece together the blank-sided puzzle of the night before. I could vaguely recall the girl's face, an' thought maybe she was one of the glitter girls that worked the Circus, though I wasn't certain. Figured I'd find out soon enough though as the cobbers hauled me down ta the street an' their cars.
At least they didn't drag me out in me birthday suit…
Remarkably, I was in an' out of the station in under three hours. Long enough for Dickinson an' company ta give me a right thrashin' though, down in the basement in one a' their stock gray interrogation rooms. The big ponce went on me with a gleam in his eyes, wearin' padded mitts as ta not show too much wear an' tear. Even so he managed to bruise me ribs an' split me lip, an' I'd have a bit of the dark eyes for a few days.
I called Braggi at the Coal Hole when they gave me the chance, an' that only came when a passin' barrister heard the row an' started screamin' bloody hell about me civil rights. Braggi showed up on the station's steps about fifteen minutes later with a half-dozen of his best customers all willin' ta swear that they'd carried me home an' put me ta bed last night, bless ‘em.
Dickinson was none too happy, but his witness got trumped so I got ta give him the finger an' step out into the sunshine a relatively free man. Least as free as Queen and Country allows.
I almost laughed ta see Braggi waitin' outside as I came down the chipped concrete steps. I was so used ta seein' the Dwarf in a dirty tee shirt with a filthy bar towel slung over his shoulder that I almost didn't recognize him in a black three-piece suit that seemed straight off the rack from the 1900's. He looked none too pleased ta be in it either, tuggin' at the high collar with his too wide shoulders fit ta burst the stitching.
“Thanks, mate,” I said, fishin' through all me pockets, hopin' for a fag but comin' up empty. I checked me wallet, but apparently the cobbers in processing beat me to it, as it was emptier than usual.
“Not a problem, Johnny,” he said, finally pullin' loose his tie enough that he relaxed a bit. “I sent the boys back. Figured you didn't want a parade.”
“Not likely,” I agreed as we started walkin' back towards the Hole. Braggi spotted me for a pack a' Silk Cuts an' a take-out coffee at the first News Agent we passed, thankfully. I'd sobered a bit through me ordeal, but me mind was still a blank on just what had gone on. I needed to think, an' without me props I'll admit ta bein' shite over shinola.
Finally, with the caffeine an' nicotine workin' their own special magicks I asked the ten quid question. “Who was she, mate?”
“Little Angel from off the Strand,” Braggi replied a bit glumly. “She's been coming to the Hole for awhile now, after work and when things were slow. Cute bird, but already hard. Shit, John, she was only seventeen.”
I took a long, hard drag off me fag. With the name came the face, an' she was the girl from Picadilly like I thought. Didn't know she was workin' the Theatre District now, but I imagine she had ta move with the money. Prostitution's a competitive business, an' if you don't build a stable a' regulars it can be a lean, hard life. “I suppose Dickinson was telling the truth how she died? He's had a hard-on for me for years, ever since that night in the Tubes. Wouldn't put it past ‘im ta doctor the evidence a bit.”
“Word is, no. She died nasty, John, and it took a long time from what I hear.” Braggi actually shuddered, so I knew it had ta be bad. I'd heard stories about Braggi, Bekki's son from back on the other side in the day. He was no stranger ta war or blood before he retired an' took up tendin' pub. “They eviscerated her, John. Cut her heart out and spread her entrails in a pentangle, smeared her blood in runes according to Shelby.”
Well, that brought me up short, and I knew then why Dickey had come straight my way. A ritual killing, then, and Shelby would know. She was a Fade, one a' the poor lost souls not quite ready ta cross over, still walkin' the streets of SoHo thinkin' she was still alive. She'd been a prostitute herself from what I'd gathered, an' died a nasty death too; tied to a bed an' suffocated with a plastic bag over her head.
“Who fingered me, Braggi?” I asked, chainin' a fresh smoke an' flickin' the first into the gutter. I shivered myself, feelin' a chill despite the sun. Braggi shrugged.
“Dunno, Johnny. I asked about, and you know it wasn't one of the regulars. Yuir family, and most everyone owes you to some degree. But last night was busy, what with the weather and the semi finals and all. Lotta people in and out. Lotta new faces.”
“No worries, mate,” I say, clappin' me short, stout friend on the shoulder. “I'll find out. And I'll find out who killed Angel. This just got personal.”
I left Braggi at the stairs an' made me way down ta the scene. I figured there would be a few of Dickinson's best hangin' about, an' I was right. Luckily there are ways around the mundane, if you know how.
I stepped up to the tape first, just another gawker tryin' ta see what had happened. I saw the pentangle, bloody and ragged, like it was scribbled in a rush. The runes too were fairly amateur, like somebody was tryin' to copy from a script. Still, it was a nasty scene all right. Very bloody. I took advantage of a gaggle of Japanese tourists that felt the need to document the crime scene on their digital minicams and slipped under the tape when the Bobbies converged.
I stared at the mess, an' could see the smears of blood. Angel kicked an' fought, but from a casual glance I could see she was outnumbered. At least three of ‘em; two holdin' her down at the end, and the third…
What I couldn't figure was what the ritual was for. The five-pointed star is fairly basic an' standard as magic goes, but the runes were a mishmash of conflicting thought. I saw the symbol for Venus, the Goddess, not the planet, and a Germanic sigil that stood for fire. There was a Celtic image that meant prosperity, and an Egyptian Ankh etched on the sidelines. There was no salt for containment. No candle wax for enlightenment. It made no sense. It was like the whole thing was staged.
“Cor,” I said aloud as it hit me like a ton of bricks. Someone was trying to set me up…
“Here! You! Where'd you come from?”
I turned and saw one of the Bobbies striding my way with a passion. “Get behind the lines! What're you doin' there?” I'd let me concentration slip an' had been made.
“Sorry, mate,” I said slipping under the tape again and hurrying away out the other side before he could grab me. I rushed off a bit, and luckily the tourists took the opportunity to surge forward again, distracting the Bobby. I lit a Silk Cut and stared at the scene from across the street.
Not a ritual. Not even close. Someone killed Angel for the sole purpose of making it look like it was some cult slaying, a sacrifice full of sex an' blood an' what the mundane think of as magic. That alone would red flag me, but in SoHo it would blaze like a neon arrow over me door. Dickinson must of cum in his pants when he saw this.
I turned and saw Shelby standing in the shadows. She was dark and husky, wearing what she died in still, a leather and bone corset and 15 cm spiked heels, her kinky black hair wild and matted about her tear-streaked face. Her wrists and ankles were red with rope burn and there was a bloody gash where her right nipple used to be. “Shelby, Luv,” I said as she moved closer, her body flowing and rippling with the breeze.
It was horrible, John. She screamed and screamed but no one helped her. They shoved a trash bag into her mouth to keep her quiet. And they held her down while… while…
She started to cry, her body wavering in and out of sight as she shook, probably remembering her own death. I stepped up, wanting to comfort her, but me hand just passed through her wispy form. “Who, Shelby?” I asked, trying to sound calm and soothing. She wailed and I gritted me teeth against the shattering cry.
Black men… Dark and cruel, cursing and calling her names; Whore! Slut! Skank!
Black men? “Negroes?” I asked, my heart racing caught up in her anxiety.
No! she shrieked. Leather coats… Boots… Masks… Preaching!
Blood!
Bugger me.
Shelby faded with that, unable to hold herself in check, her form dissipating on the cool breeze washing off of the Thames. But she had spoke volumes in her brief appearance, and I knew who had done the deed. Why, I had no idea, but I would find out.
They had fingered me. Tried to take me out of the picture.
They had made it personal.
I had ignored them long enough.
My good will aside, it was past time to investigate the Salvation Army…
Eventually in the virtual pages of Hellblazer at Vertigo: Subculture
Story © Curt F 2009
Stories © 2009 Chris Munn, Meriades Rai, Curt Fernlund, & Jae Lizhini and may not be reproduced without permission.