“You don’t want to know these things, Gerry,” she said through the phone receiver, “trust me, you need to leave it alone.”
Gerald Davis reclined back in his chair, kicking his trainers up onto his desk. It was late, everyone else at the office had retired back to their flats for the evening, but as usual he was pouring over leads in the dim light of his desk lamp. It was where he thrived, where he flourished, and the legitimate concern he heard in his friend’s voice produced an unconscious smirk.
“Really, Dani, I don’t see why it would be a bother,” he said. He could hear her exasperated sigh, which was punctuated by a long pause.
“People tend to die when they get too close to him,” she finally said, “I managed to escape with a broken heart, but there’s been plenty of others who weren’t so lucky. It took years of therapy to correct the damage that bastard caused me. Gerry, please leave it alone. It’s not worth the story. If it was, I would have written it years ago.”
“I didn’t know you back then,” Gerry said into the phone, “but I can’t imagine anyone scaring you off of a story. I realize we’ve been rivals as long as we’ve been friends, you wouldn’t be pushing this off for professional reasons, I hope?”
“God damn it, Gerry, really?” Dani answered, the concern having bled out of her voice. “Fine, fuck me for being concerned, the big bad reporter man wants his story, fair enough. Once, years ago, when I was angrier about what happened between me and him, I compiled everything I knew. I still have it saved; I’ll send you the link to it online. I never knew if my time with him would come back to hurt me, so there’s names and numbers I thought might come in handy. Blackmail or straight up scorched earth life, you know?”
“You were always great at research, Dani love,” Gerald said as he sat up in his chair, seeing the e-mail pop up on his computer screen, “the Guardian is lucky to have you these days. Cheers.”
“Yeah, I know it’s not as profitable as reporting for the Sun or anything,” Dani said, “but at least I don’t have to tell people I work for a fucking tabloid rag anymore. You listen, Gerry, and you listen good. This man you’re wanting to expose, this story you’re determined to mine for gold, you are heading down a dangerous fucking road. I dated that bastard for two years; I know what he’s like when his backs against the wall.”
Gerald opened the Cloud link, revealing the file folders generously sent to him by his fellow reporter. “I’ll be fine, Dani, I’ve gone into bloodier waters than this for a story, you know that.”
“No,” she said with another sigh, “you haven’t.”
He heard the click on the other end as she disconnected the call, then shrugged his shoulders before setting down the phone. He started clicking through the files she’d sent him, nodding at the names, places, dates, and numbers she had compiled. It was a start, that was certainly true, but it would take a lot more muckraking to get what he wanted. He’d heard the man’s name around over the years, always just on the periphery of different stories he’d covered for the Sun. Rumours of black magic and dodgy sex scandals seemed to always come with an asterix and that same sodding name, so eventually he decided that maybe that name was the story itself.
When he started dropping the name around his usual journo haunts, the pubs and press galleries, he was met with a lot of innuendo and hushed reverence born out of what he felt was fear from his peers. They told him about how Satchmo Hawkins got the shite kicked out of him in a pub back in the 80s when he tried to arrange a meet with the name. They told him about Irvine St. John and his crusade to find out the “secret history of the Royals” with the name as his source, which actually just sent him screaming like a madman into the gutter, career ruined.
Then he got the text from Danita Wright, who’d spent time working for a rival tabloid in the 1990s, prompting the phone call he’d just finished. She’d been the name’s girlfriend back around 1997 or so and had some choice words to share about him, it turned out. He wasn’t going to be warned off so easily, though, no sodding chance. Now he had a face and background to go with the name.
“John Constantine,” he said to the photograph of Dani standing with her boyfriend, date stamped September 1996, “I’m going to make you a star, mate.”
Gerald Davis reclined back in his chair, kicking his trainers up onto his desk. It was late, everyone else at the office had retired back to their flats for the evening, but as usual he was pouring over leads in the dim light of his desk lamp. It was where he thrived, where he flourished, and the legitimate concern he heard in his friend’s voice produced an unconscious smirk.
“Really, Dani, I don’t see why it would be a bother,” he said. He could hear her exasperated sigh, which was punctuated by a long pause.
“People tend to die when they get too close to him,” she finally said, “I managed to escape with a broken heart, but there’s been plenty of others who weren’t so lucky. It took years of therapy to correct the damage that bastard caused me. Gerry, please leave it alone. It’s not worth the story. If it was, I would have written it years ago.”
“I didn’t know you back then,” Gerry said into the phone, “but I can’t imagine anyone scaring you off of a story. I realize we’ve been rivals as long as we’ve been friends, you wouldn’t be pushing this off for professional reasons, I hope?”
“God damn it, Gerry, really?” Dani answered, the concern having bled out of her voice. “Fine, fuck me for being concerned, the big bad reporter man wants his story, fair enough. Once, years ago, when I was angrier about what happened between me and him, I compiled everything I knew. I still have it saved; I’ll send you the link to it online. I never knew if my time with him would come back to hurt me, so there’s names and numbers I thought might come in handy. Blackmail or straight up scorched earth life, you know?”
“You were always great at research, Dani love,” Gerald said as he sat up in his chair, seeing the e-mail pop up on his computer screen, “the Guardian is lucky to have you these days. Cheers.”
“Yeah, I know it’s not as profitable as reporting for the Sun or anything,” Dani said, “but at least I don’t have to tell people I work for a fucking tabloid rag anymore. You listen, Gerry, and you listen good. This man you’re wanting to expose, this story you’re determined to mine for gold, you are heading down a dangerous fucking road. I dated that bastard for two years; I know what he’s like when his backs against the wall.”
Gerald opened the Cloud link, revealing the file folders generously sent to him by his fellow reporter. “I’ll be fine, Dani, I’ve gone into bloodier waters than this for a story, you know that.”
“No,” she said with another sigh, “you haven’t.”
He heard the click on the other end as she disconnected the call, then shrugged his shoulders before setting down the phone. He started clicking through the files she’d sent him, nodding at the names, places, dates, and numbers she had compiled. It was a start, that was certainly true, but it would take a lot more muckraking to get what he wanted. He’d heard the man’s name around over the years, always just on the periphery of different stories he’d covered for the Sun. Rumours of black magic and dodgy sex scandals seemed to always come with an asterix and that same sodding name, so eventually he decided that maybe that name was the story itself.
When he started dropping the name around his usual journo haunts, the pubs and press galleries, he was met with a lot of innuendo and hushed reverence born out of what he felt was fear from his peers. They told him about how Satchmo Hawkins got the shite kicked out of him in a pub back in the 80s when he tried to arrange a meet with the name. They told him about Irvine St. John and his crusade to find out the “secret history of the Royals” with the name as his source, which actually just sent him screaming like a madman into the gutter, career ruined.
Then he got the text from Danita Wright, who’d spent time working for a rival tabloid in the 1990s, prompting the phone call he’d just finished. She’d been the name’s girlfriend back around 1997 or so and had some choice words to share about him, it turned out. He wasn’t going to be warned off so easily, though, no sodding chance. Now he had a face and background to go with the name.
“John Constantine,” he said to the photograph of Dani standing with her boyfriend, date stamped September 1996, “I’m going to make you a star, mate.”
ISSUE #8 (June 2020)
Written by Chris Munn Featuring: John Constantine
|
"RED INK"Interview # 1: Syder Eldridge
It shouldn’t have surprised Gerald that his first interview would take place down the pub on a noisy Saturday night in Brixton. The Effra Hall Tavern was crowded, most likely due to the football game that had just finished up earlier in the evening, and it was there that Gerald was meeting with the first person willing to go on record about John Constantine. He’d spent the past week making calls and inquiries to some of the names in Dani Wright’s files, which resulted in a lot of dead ends and hang ups as soon as Constantine’s name was mentioned. It seemed that the circle of friends that Dani had associated with in those days had all scattered to live separate lives. A William Strathern had been found murdered, along with his elderly aunt, a few years prior. Another, a biker Dani knew only as “Muppet”, was doing a stretch in HM Prison Pentonville for arson that resulted in a dead squatter. There were other individuals, but a married couple came up the most in her notes of the time, a Rich and Michelle Eldridge and their young son. When Dani knew them, the little boy wasn’t yet in primary school, his parents a set of itinerant fading punk relics of the 1970s music scene that never grew up themselves. He wasn’t shocked when Rich Eldridge told him to piss off on the phone, he’d become accustomed to the response. What did take him off guard was the call he received the next day from Eldridge’s son, no longer a child but a young man nearly twenty years on from the photos Dani had in her files. He’d meet up, he said, he’d tell him what he knew about Constantine. He assumed that meant vague memories of a family friend, perhaps with some rumours added to the mix. “John Constantine saved my soul from the Devil when I was three years old,” Syder Eldridge said before taking a swig from his first pint, not five minutes after introducing himself at a lonely corner table. He was a young man, green dyed hair cut into a fading overhang that threatened to stab him in the eyes if he moved his head too quickly. He was a proto-typical punk of today, but one who had obviously absorbed the culture of his father in a way that was less ironic and more reverent. Gerald hadn’t looked much different himself when he was that age, doing his best impression of a wide boy based on what he’d seen on telly and by watching his older brother’s mates from a safe distance. He was over 40 now, balding but with a handsome scruff that made him appear rougher and worldlier than he really was. His best days were still ahead of him, he lied to himself on a daily basis, comforted by denial. There was always the next story to write, always the next bit of gossip and juice for the Sun readers to lap up like dogs. “I’d heard about all the black magic stuff,” Gerald replied, skeptical, “but it can’t all be real, like. I mean, it just can’t.” Syder laughed nervously. “You have no idea, mate. I’ve heard it all, the spooky legends passed down by me mum and dad. The geezer was me sister’s godfather when she was born, then me family just cut him out of our lives. He was always kind to me, even when he didn’t have to be. I was a pretty rotten fucking sprat, could’ve used the back’ve someone’s hand at times to settle meself down, but Conjob was always patient. Uncomfortable, sure, but patient.” Syder leaned onto the table, as if the story he had to tell would get them arrested for high treason. Gerald followed suit, “Mind if I record this? Easier than typing.” Following a dismissive wave and affirmative nod of his head, Syder took a drink of his ale and cleared his throat. “It was me sister Ivy’s birthday, she’s about five years me junior and was turning sweet sixteen. She’d always been a moody little sod growing up, always under me feet in this way that just made me feel sorry for her instead of angry. After her tits grew in, she started acting more and more rebellious, and that’s saying something when our dad’s a tone-deaf oik from the 70s punk scene. She was dressing all in black, bleached her hair straw white, started shagging anyone she could find. Bloke or bird, didn’t matter to her.” Gerald was becoming impatient, tapping his fingertips lightly on the tabletop. “This was all leading up to her birthday,” Syder continued, “and me folks didn’t know what to do with her. The last straw came when Mum walked into her room one day and found her squatting starkers on the floor with this huge pentagram drawn under her. She had a doll in her hand, found out later it had scraps of our Dad’s clothes and hair sewn into it. Naturally, that caused a row, and Ivy walked out of the flat, giving two fingers to Mum as she left. Dad didn’t know where else to turn, so he called the one person the thought might sort things out for us.” “John Constantine, I presume,” Gerald commented. Syder nodded, then sighed heavily before continuing. “Dad hated doing it, making that call. He and Constantine had fallen out pretty severe like over a decade ago, something about our family’s heritage or some other bollocks. Constantine showed up a couple of hours later with Ivy Mae hanging off his arm like some bimbo, seemed he’d found her working a street corner on his way to the flat and charmed her somehow into coming with him.” Syder looked up and over the reporter’s shoulder, then scanned the room nervously. His tone became even more hushed, almost difficult to hear over the din of the pub patrons. “Constantine explained that me sister was possessed by something, a spirit. An unquiet spirit, that’s it, that had taken up squatter’s rights in her body and had probably been there since she was in the pram. He said her hormones were likely driving the spirit mad and he’d have to pull it out of her if we wanted Ivy’s behavior to settle down.” Smiling into his beer, Syder paused for reflection. The look of serenity quickly turned to one of disgust, his face growing pale. “The things I heard from outside that room, no one should have to endure. Constantine was alone in the bedroom with Ivy Mae, I know it, but we could hear a voice that was this queer mix of male and female. It was talking about the most perverse things, bargaining with Constantine with sexual favors. It just wanted to live again, it said over and over, and Constantine…” “Blimey,” Gerald said, more at the emotion coming off the lad than anything he was saying. “I shouldn’t be talking about this,” Syder said, standing up suddenly from the table, “sorry. Do yourself a favour, forget about John Constantine. He’ll fuck your life up something major, Mr. Davis.” “Wait a tick,” Gerald said, grabbing onto the sleeve of Syder’s leather jacket as he quickly brushed past, “your sister, what happened to her?” Syder looked down at the seated reporter. There were tears in his eyes. “Wish I knew, mate. What walked out of that room after Constantine was finished wasn’t Ivy Mae, it was someone else inside her body. The one thing he’s supposed to be bloody good at, and Constantine couldn’t even save my sister. Last I heard, she was selling her arse down Camden way, maybe you can find her there and ask her about him yourself.” He pulled his sleeve free of Gerald’s grip, leaving the stunned reporter speechless. Syder disappeared into the crowd of the pub, and Gerald only briefly considered following him. He decided against it as he hit a button on his tablet to stop the recording. He had a lot to digest as it was. Interview # 2: Gemma Masters A few days later, the feelers that Gerald had put into the water finally resulted in a bite from one of his own sources, removed from Dani Wright’s notes. As he’d learned, the police and psychiatric files on Constantine were redacted all to buggery, so there wasn’t much background to go on. A few major charges written off for lack of evidence, the murder conviction that had been pardoned posthumously after his supposed death in prison in the States, and not a lot else. “I have someone to introduce you to,” his understudy, a young lady named Charlotte, said to him over the phone late one afternoon, “meet us at Saint Olave’s Church, sharpish.” “Fucking hell,” he moaned as he slipped on his rain coat and packed up his tablet, “Hart Street on a mid-Tuesday, never a bloody taxi.” Half under an hour later, Davis climbed out of a cab in front of the cathedral, where Charlotte was waiting for him on the corner. She was hardly dressed for mass, her leather skirt pulled up just under the cleft of her arse, garters connecting her stockings to her undercarriage. Her mess of red hair hung down the side of her head, combed over to keep the kinked curls out of her eyes, and a smile crept onto her pierced lip when Gerald approached. “You owe me big for this one, mate,” she said as she took him by the arm, leading him toward the door of Saint Olave’s, “I dug up some background on your mark. We knew he was a Scouser, right? So I reached out to a contact up in Liverpool, who produced something that blew me knickers off.” “A birth certificate?” Gerald asked, eyebrow cocked. “Even better,” Charlotte said, her voice softening as she led him down the stairs inside the church, toward the basement and a small room held within, “I found a next of kin. Turns out John Constantine had a sister name of Cheryl, married under the name Masters, who died a few years back when her husband strangled her with a pair of nylons.” Charlotte and Gerald entered the fluorescent lit room, within which had gathered a flock of about a dozen people. Most were seated in a circle of folding chairs, discussing something that Gerald couldn’t believe. Written on the blackboard at the back of the room was a name and a mantra: Nocus Pocus: Freedom from Magic in 12 Steps. Gerald shot his assistant a look of incredulity. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?” “Mr. Davis,” a young woman said as she walked forward, her hand outstretched in greeting. She had dark black hair, pulled back into a tight high ponytail that bobbed up and down as she walked. She was young, possibly early to mid-30s, and her skin had a tanned tone that one didn’t usually see in a Londoner. She smiled as she took his hand in a shake, but it was a deceitful smile that worked hard to hide the anger and bitterness that was so close to surfacing. “My name’s Gemma Masters; Charlotte here tells me you’ve some questions about my Uncle John?” A few minutes later Gemma and Gerald had excused themselves to a private lounge across the hall from the support group meeting, which Charlotte had stayed behind to watch and make notations. “I thought I was familiar with all the 12 step groups in London,” Gerald said as he accepted a cup of coffee from his interviewee, “never heard of that one.” “We don’t like to advertise,” Gemma said with a slight laugh, “our addictions are a little less accepted or understood than alcohol, drugs, or even sex. Though all of those usually go hand in hand with magic, you know?” “I don’t think I do,” he replied, “is John Constantine part of your group?” “Uncle John?” Gemma asked, this time her laugh being loud and totally reflexive. “No, Christ no, but he certainly should be. He’s the reason a lot of those poor chaps in there got into magic in the first place, either directly or indirectly. He’s the cock of the walk in sorcery circles, I’m ashamed to say.” “So people in your line of work admire him, I gather?” Gerald questioned. Gemma had trouble making eye contact, but continued to explain, nonetheless. “You remember the old saying about James Bond? Women want to be with him, and men want to be him? It blurs gender lines a lot, you can have as much of the reverse, but the principle is the same. You either want to be just like him or you want to fuck him. Or…” Gerald noted her pause, and the hardening of her features as she struggled with her next words. “Or he completely fucks up your world and you hate him more than you’ve ever hated any living soul. He consumes you like a drug, he’s all you think about. He’s the epitome of magic, pure bastard magic condensed into a human body. I worshipped him, he was my uncle and I loved him and now I hate him. I hate what I became because of him.” “He was your Bond, then?” Gerald asked. “I wanted to be just like the bastard,” she admitted, “left home in Liverpool, came to London and got mixed up in some mad shite. I was a stupid kid, even went around calling myself Gemma Constantine. Trading on the name recognition, I guess, though I justified it as me taking up the family business. My mum was in fits over it, she knew what a horrible person he was. She loved him, of course, but she knew exactly what he was and what I was becoming.” “Charlotte told me about what happened to your mother,” Gerald offered, attempting to sound as sincere as possible, “it’s terrible and you have my condolences.” “Cheers,” she said with a grin a bob of her ponytail, raising her Styrofoam cup of coffee in salute, “to my mum, who right this second is suffering in Hell because of my dear Uncle John Constantine. He left her there to rot after causing her death, indirectly of course and with plenty of plausible sodding deniability.” Gerald was stunned speechless, a feeling he was unaccustomed to. Gemma put her hand up to him, palm flat toward his face, and shook her head. “I’m sorry, still a raw nerve, like. That’s not the story I want to tell you, anyway. You want something juicy for your readers and all, something full of black magic and bastardy?” “I want something interesting, sure,” Gerald answered, “but also something true. No god damn urban legends or ‘friend of a friend heard this’. I can’t be arsed to listen to rubbish, Miss Masters. Give me something real, please.” Gemma scowled, then coughed to clear her throat. “You want something real, Mr. Davis?” She produced her left arm, turning it around so that her palm pointed up, and rolled the sleeve back toward her elbow. On the underside of her arm was a series of markings that were unrecognizable to the reporter, perhaps Celtic lettering, going up from her wrist to just under the bend in her arm. “Tattoos of some kind?” Gerald asked, genuinely confused. “I don’t get the significance, I’m afraid.” “They’re not tattoos,” Gemma answered, “look at the runes more closely. They’re burned into my skin, Mr. Davis. I’m going to show you their significance, what each bloody marking means, and it’s not something I do lightly. So do please pay attention.” Gemma closed her eyes and spoke softly, bowing her head toward her bare arm. “Spells came easily to me,” she whispered, “a perk of being a Constantine, I fancy. I’m going to do some magic now, watch my arm.” She chanted a series of words, what Gerald gathered to most likely be Latin, and he could fill a stillness or calm come into the air of the room. His senses perked up, all five of them heightened by whatever the young woman was attempting to conjure. Was this it, was he finally going to see black magic for himself, in the flesh? He jumped nearly out of his seat when Gemma’s whispers turned on a dime into a restrained gasp and stunted scream through clenched teeth. Gerald watched in mute astonishment as the skin on Gemma’s arm, just above the bend of her elbow on the inner part, began to sizzle. The rune, individualized from the others on her lower arm, appeared within moments in a scorched pattern of scarred fat, and when it was over, she was panting and crying. Her nails had dug into her palm so deeply that blood had been drawn. “What the fucking hell was that?” Gerald asked as he backed up against the wall. He collected himself, then took his seat again, snapping a picture of the woman’s wound with his tablet. “I’m sorry,” he said, “just wasn’t expecting that is all.” “No bother,” Gemma grunted out, attempting to collect herself as well despite the smell of her own burning flesh assaulting her nostrils, “totally understandable. This is the birthday present my Uncle John gifted me last year. Like I said, magic came easy peasy to me and I had no intention on stopping. I may have hated him for what happened to my mum, but that didn’t mean I didn’t still worship everything John Constantine meant to my magic-addicted brain. I was getting into some scary shite, messing around with some truly mad bastards to further my knowledge.” She gestured to a towel sitting on the table to Gerald’s left, and he quickly handed it off to her. She pressed it against her arm, attempting to calm the fire in her nerves. “So Uncle John took matters into his own hands, for my own good he insisted. I tried to do a spell, a simple cartomancy incantation, and the first rune burned its way onto my arm. I thought something had just backfired with the spell, but a few days later I tried to do a summoning to speak with a minor wood sprite, up came rune number two.” “He found a way to keep you from doing magic,” Gerald realized. “He called it a ‘burn and bind’, when I finally put two and two together and called him on it. He decided I was in over my head and needed a good smack on the arse, to get the magic monkey off my back. Would have been nice if he’d told me, but he was never really one for social graces I suppose.” “So the 12-step group in there,” Gerald said as he continued to piece things together, “that’s you attempting to stay clean?” “John Constantine forced his own niece to experience terrible physical pain,” she said through tears, “as his way of helping her bloody detox. Stay away from him, Mr. Davis. If he’ll do this to his own flesh and blood, imagine what he’ll do to you…” Interview # 3: Francis “Chas” Chandler Two days later, Gerald Davis was sitting in the back of a taxicab that was being piloted through the thoroughfares of Whitechapel. He had his phone out, digital recorder switched on for dictation, and cleared his throat before speaking. “Aren’t you at all curious why I asked for you by name when I called for a ride?” He waited for the driver’s response impatiently, wondering if the pause in his reaction time was due to careful thought before speaking or simplemindedness. “The way I see it,” Chas Chandler said as he turned the wheel gingerly, guiding the taxi with a deftness that seemed almost automatic, “there’s only two reasons anyone would be bothered to know my name, and since I don’t owe you any money it must be because of him.” “Him?” Gerald repeated, a sly grin forming on his lips as he realized this cabbie was already seeing the game. “Don’t play the silly sod with me, mate,” Chas said with a laugh, “I heard about you through the grapevine, like, going around asking questions about Constantine. Reporter with a nose for the nasty, aren’t you? Only a matter of time, I thought, before you’d be knocking at me door. A simple phone call would have been sufficient, though, instead of all this cloak and dagger bollocks.” “I like conducting my interviews face to face,” Gerald admitted as he leaned forward, closer to the partition separating him from the driver, “and let’s face it, I didn’t know if you’d speak to me at all. I’ve met with lots of people who know Constantine or have dealt with him in the past…” “But none that would say they’re his mate, right?” Chas said, finishing the reporter’s statement. “Exactly,” Gerald said, “why is it you’re the only person I’ve found so far that makes such a claim?” The reporter eyed Chandler closely as he formed his response. The cabbie was a large man, but not overly so, whose age was slowly taking its toll on his features. He was a proletariat, a working man who probably voted Labour Party and had a two-up, two-down in Spitalfields. He was Common English to a fault, but it was a refreshing fault after the shady leads the reporter had been tracking down in the pursuit of his story. “Listen,” Chas began, “John isn’t the nicest bloke you’ll ever meet, but he stands by his mates. I’ve known him the better part of our lives and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me, and me for him. I wouldn’t be alive today if it wasn’t for John Constantine.” “That must be why so many people are scared shitless when I mention his name,” Gerald said, “his terrifying altruism. Give me something real, Mr. Chandler, give me a story that’s worth writing about.” Chas was silent for several long moments, the air pregnant with the uncomfortable quiet of the taxi’s inhabitants. “I want to show you something,” the driver finally said, turning the wheel to take the immediate turn on the left, “meter’s running, consider it the fee for your story.” They cruised down the A11 at a gingerly pace, Chandler obviously not being in any kind of a hurry. Gerald had the decency to not attempt any more engagements in conversation, instead allowing himself to be transported wherever it was the cabbie had in mind for their destination. It shouldn’t have been much of a surprise where they finally stopped, the “Watney Combe Reid” spelled out in the archways of the building’s edifice. “The Blind Beggar Pub?” Gerald asked, eyebrow cocked incredulously. “Didn’t think cabbies drank on duty.” “Everyone knows about the Beggar,” Chas said, hanging his arm out the open window of his vehicle as he allowed it to idle in front of the historic pub, “Ronnie Kray shot one of his rivals in the face there back in the 1960s, it’s infamous, it is. Got more stories kept inside its walls then most people know about. In fact, I’ve got one that nobody knows about. Nobody but me and John, that is.” “Do tell,” Gerald said, sitting up closer to the partition, phone in hand to record. “The Beggar was on the Ripper’s walk, of course,” Chas continued, “so you’d think between that bastard and the Kray Twins, I’d have some story about ghost slashers or zombie gangsters, right? Not even close, this stories about the Salvation Army.” Davis laughed despite himself. “The Salvation Army? You’re taking the piss, mate.” Chas laughed as well, but stopped it short, choking it into quick and stern silence. “I’m not big on history, mind, so a lot of this stuff just flew right past me at the time. It was back in 1999, January or February like because it was cold as bollocks, and John calls me round for a pick-up and a ride, per fucking usual. I gather him, per fucking usual, and he tells me to take him round the Beggar. I’m thinking, hey, yeah, nice night for a piss up and I’ll be off the clock from earnin’ shortly, so all’s gold. John’s sullen, though, not saying much even after we pull up to this very parkin’ spot.” Chas gestured out to the crowd of patrons milling about the entrance to the pub and sighed. “It wasn’t like this then, even with it being a wozzname, historical venue, right? No one was at the pub, the Beggar was empty, and John walks to the door with the keys in his hand. I’m not a thrill seeker by nature, Mr. Davis, I like to think I have more common sense than the average bloke, but I just couldn’t help meself. I got out of the cab and followed John inside the Beggar, and that’s when he gave me the history lesson.” “About the Salvation Army?” Davis interjected, hoping to keep the interview on topic through the cabbie’s reminiscing. “William Booth apparently founded the Salvation Army on the steps of this very pub,” Chas continued, “there’s a statue of him round the corner and everything. He was a great man by all accounts, what with wanting to help the homeless and all, and he got stones thrown at him right there by the good people of Whitechapel because of it. Tell me, no matter how good you are or how much you want to help people, could you shrug off all that hatred and spite that comes with dealing with an angry mob?” Davis cleared his throat. “I don’t know, I’d like to think so.” “Bollocks, mate,” Chas said, eyeing Davis through the cab’s rearview mirror, “no one could, ‘cept maybe Gandhi or Jesus. So what John said was that Booth took all that bottled up animosity that was only going to get in his way, all that hatred and spite that he was feelin’ after a great soddin’ piece of pavement had hit him in the skull and just sent it away. Exorcism was the word John used, Booth was a holy man who needed to take away all the shite that made him a fallible human being, so he prayed and drank it away inside the Blind Beggar.” The radio from the cab’s dispatch chirped to life then, asking for Chandler’s location, and he switched it off without a second thought. “So John says that all that displaced anger and rage that Booth took out of himself had been festering inside the pub for 150 years. Ever wonder why the Salvation Army doesn’t have vicars or deacons or the like, instead they got generals and lieutenants and all that other military bollocks? It’s because Booth became rigid and emotionless, he approached his ministry like some sort of military conquest, and it all happened because of what he did in that pub. Now, the owner of the Beggar back then was a bloke that wanted to cash in all the Ronnie Kray and Jack the Ripper shite, he couldn’t give a toss about the Salvation Army. Didn’t stop all the Army worshipers from congregating there on the regular, like, but as long as they kept their noses clean and their voices down it was never a problem. That was until the night John got the call to come help with a bit of a mess, and we walked in to one of the weirdest fucking spectacles I’ve ever witnessed.” Davis noted Chandler’s involuntary shiver as he paused in his retelling. “Apparently, a couple of Salvation Army worshippers had dropped a fuck load of LSD and went into the Beggar for a drink and communion with God or some other silly thing. Turns out they had communion all right, they tapped into Booth’s nasty bits that was hanging around in there, and it turned them into Sid and Nancy fucking redux. They’d refused to leave the pub, they’d broken furniture and smashed bottles over people’s heads, all talking barmy raving madness. They’d referred to themselves as William Booth as they cut themselves up with broken glass and ground salt and vinegar crisps into their wounds, and when the owner couldn’t talk ‘em down he had a choice: call the police or call John.” “I assume he helped them, then?” Davis asked. “Yeah, he did, it was pretty easy for him all things told,” Chas answered. He disengaged the parking brake and put the cab into drive, pulling away from the curb in front of the pub. “John has a habit of helping people, for no other reason than it needs doing. Sure, people have gotten hurt along the way, but that’s life, innit? I asked him, way back then, why he bothered to get involved in the mess at the Blind Beggar, and he said it was because he understood where Booth had been coming from back in 1865. Booth was someone who took all of his badness out of himself and made his life into something great, John said, and most people usually just fuck up their second chances as badly as their first ones. I think somehow John was speaking from personal experience on that one.” Hours Later “Come on Dani, pick up the phone you slag,” Davis mumbled into the phone tucked between his shoulder and chin as he finished up his typing. He’d returned to his desk and worked feverishly through the night, crafting the perfect story about the perfect subject. His story on Constantine wasn’t going to just make the magician a star, it was going to make Davis’ career. More people read the Sun than the Bible these days, and with his credit on the front-page byline Davis was about to become a household name. Sure, he hadn’t been able to secure an interview with Constantine himself, but that just provided plenty of fodder for a series of follow up articles. Hell, what if there was a publishing deal waiting in the wings for all this? If only Danita fucking Wright would answer her fucking phone, she was the last interview he wanted for the article, though he knew getting her to go on the record about her ex-boyfriend was going to be a hard sell indeed. “This is Dani Wright of the Guardian, please leave a message and contact information so I can return your call…” “Dani, I need you to call me back, sharpish,” Davis said as he stared at his laptop monitor, “I’m about five seconds away from sending in this Constantine article to my editor and I’d like you to give it a read first, fact check it and maybe offer up your two cents? Thanks, love.” No sooner did Gerald put his phone down on the desk did it start ringing again, blaring Robbie Williams as its ringtone, the name “Dani” popping up on the ID. “That was fast,” Gerald said as he answered the phone, but instead of a friendly greeting he heard only sobbing, panicked breaths. “Dani, what’s wrong?” “Oh god, Gerry,” Dani whispered, “I’m hiding in my closet, I barely grabbed my phone in time. They’re searching the flat, tossing everything around, I hear it growling. They’re here about John, they know what you’re doing Gerry, for god’s sake don’t write that article…” Before Gerald could offer a response, Dani’s hushed whispers transformed into frantic screams, coupled with sound of a door being splintered off its hinges. “Dani! Dani!” Gerald shouted into the phone, standing away from his desk, no idea what to do in the situation. This was a nightmare, something out of the stories his interviewees had told him about. The line went dead a moment after Danita Wright’s screams choked off into terrifying silence. “Oh God, oh Jesus,” Gerald said as he held his phone out in a shaking hand, unable to focus his thoughts enough to react appropriately. All he could do was slowly turn his head over to his laptop and the article he’d written. Not knowing why, seemingly possessed by some unknown force, Davis rushed across his office toward the computer. He had to delete what he’d written, he’d just cost Dani her life, he fucking knew it. She’d warned him, hadn’t she? This was what happened when you looked too hard at John Constantine. His fingers brushed the keyboard, but only slightly, before strong-gripped hands grasped him by the shoulders. He yelled in fright and confusion as he was tossed backward from his desk by the unknown assailant, an attacker that had appeared seemingly out of shadows and thin air. Gerald crashed hard through his window, shattering through the glass, propelled by uncanny force out into the open air. Gerald Davis plummeted to the ground, past fourteen floors of his building, screaming all the way until he slammed into the pavement below. The laptop still sat open, its screen blazing with the words Davis had finished typing out moments before. The lumbering figure made its way toward the computer and stabbed its thick fingers down onto the keyboard, then tapped forcefully on the trackpad. The last words of Gerald Davis were transmitted electronically to his editor, submitting the life of John Constantine for publication. The office was empty a moment later, as if no one had been there at all. The End |