ISSUE #9 (December 2020)
Written by Chris Munn Featuring: John Constantine
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"COFFIN NAILS"“No, no, not right, not this one, fuck, not this one either!”
His name was Phillip Cole, and yes, he was spending his evening digging through the ashtrays at the Red Lion pub. Each spent cigarette butt passed through his fingers, and in turn each one was tossed into a pile on the table. When the waitress had asked just what the fuck he was doing, he snarled at her like an animal and turned back to his task. “Come on, come on, just one, just one bloody Cut, that's all I bloody want!” This had been his third stop for the night and it was coming up on closing time. He'd tracked them all the way to Belfast from London and he'd be damned if he lost the trail after coming all that way. He needed his fix, by God, and he knew the odds were in his favor that the man had frequented at least one of the local pubs in the area during his brief stay. “Shite!” Phillip Cole shouted, tossing the empty ashtray back onto the table. The pub was nearly empty at such a late hour, and the few patrons that lingered were too involved with their own states of drunkenness to pay much attention to him. He was a peculiarity for sure, but it was Belfast and they'd all seen much stranger in the wee hours of the morning. Furious, as much at himself as the situation, Phillip pulled on his leather jacket and stomped out into the chill morning air. It was far too late for him to hit another pub, and all those treasure troves of fag trays would be emptied out during clean-up. Impossibly, he'd lost the trail after all, and the threat of his supply being cut off was driving him around the bend. It was by sheer providence that he looked down to his boots, an unknown force driving him to lower his head and take in the grime of the sidewalk. It was right there between his steel toes, the single solitary cigarette, half smoked and discarded. He bent down, crouched to check the label, and nearly squealed in surprise. It was a Silk Cut, a London brand all the way up here in Leprechaun Land! What were the odds that it had belonged to anyone but him? Carefully he picked up the butt between his fingers and brought it closer to his face. He felt it almost immediately, the opiate-like buzz that thrilled him all the way down to his y-fronts. It was his, his night had finally struck gold! And it was half a smoke, not just a moist filter like usual! With a careful handling of the spent fag as if it were something sacred, Phillip pulled out a plastic bag from his coat pocket and placed the coffin nail inside. Should he wait until he got back to his rented room or just find a spot close to do the deed? He started walking back toward his room, his thoughts racing faster and faster with each step forward. The anticipation was killing him, so when he passed by a 24-hour diner his decision was already made for him. He ducked inside, stumbling past a patron in his haste, and made his way to the nearest waitress. “Here, you got a public bog?” he asked, interrupting the girl as she was taking another table's order. “In the back corner,” she pointed out, “but you have to order something, paying customers only.” “Fine, fine, whatever,” he said as he dashed past her, “giz us a cuppa and leave it waiting, I'll be back.” He barreled through the bathroom door, slammed it shut and then fumbled with the chain lock to ensure his privacy. Thankfully, he realized after he was already at the sink counter, no one had been using it already. The cautiousness returned to his movements as he pulled out the bag that contained his prize, and with shaking, nervous fingers he placed the cigarette on the marble finish. With near surgical precision, Cole tore free the paper wrapping to expose the tobacco that was contained within. With his lighter he carefully burned the remaining tobacco, turning it into a thick ash, and from his other jacket pocket he produced a small straw, the kind used for stirring coffee. And with a madman's frenetic desperation, he placed the straw over the ground up ash and snorted the contents straight up his nose into his sinuses. Phillip was not a large man, nor was he strong. His habit, in fact, had left him a skinny weakling who barely weighed the same amount of stone as a kid in primary school. But after inhaling the ash he gripped hold of the counter top so fiercely that the marble cracked under the pressure. His eyes rolled back into his head as he experienced the rush, the ecstatic sensation of the drug that allowed him to experience the lives of other people. Inhaling the ash gave him the ability to see through the smoker's eyes, to feel what they felt at that moment in time. He'd been doing it as a recreation for ages, but it was by sheer chance that he happened across the greatest trip of his life one night in the bathroom of a seedy London underbelly pub. He'd become addicted to that one hapless smoker's life, and now no other would bring him the same amount of joy. Cole fell down hard onto his arse and let free a torrent of giggles and manic chuckles. “Oh, John Constantine,” he said between the fits of laughter, “whoever you are, you are one sick bastard...” The feeling was indescribable - it was everything Phillip could do to keep from pissing himself on the floor of the bathroom, afraid that he was going to bite his tongue off while convulsing. As he slipped out of reality and into the past, a dopey smile appeared on his face. The rush had taken him... His vision flared back to life with the spark of the cigarette's tip, flooding his senses with a Technicolor blur of lights and sounds. As he focused, he recognized that he was standing outside of the pub where he'd found the spent ashes, flanked on either side by his companions. He was living the life of a stranger in patchwork, but where the normal wanker's life was dreary and dull the experience of being in the skin of this John Constantine was a thrill-a-minute. What it must be like to feel like this man all the time, he thought before he decided to listen in on what his host was saying. “So that's it, then,” he said, feeling each word pass through his lips between draws on the cigarette. “Mad bastard dead, no more ladies waiting to become corpses, and my heart broken once again. Nothing else left for us here, right, time to fuck off home?” The young girl spoke up first, and fuck if she wasn't gorgeous. She was a blonde and obviously a bit of a slag given her appearance. Who the hell wore a mini-skirt and heels in downtown Belfast? Not to mention she was obviously having sex with Constantine, or at least desperately wanted to by the way she looked at him. “I have nowhere to go,” she said, “when we get back to London.” “I have no fuckin’ idea why I’m even here,” the second companion, a darkie with a head full of poncy shit-locks, said. His accent was weird, like Cockney mixed with Creole of all sodding things. Whatever, he was a shit, had to be. “I've heard things about you, Constantine, about how all your mates end up as statistics. Call me a coward, but hanging around you is bad for me bleeding health, right? I can’t believe I’ve survived this long, why the hell did I listen to you?” “We’re not done quite yet, Shocka,” John replied, bringing a smile to Phillip's face, just what that shit needed to be told and all. “Go on back to Southampton and I’ll be in touch, got more trade in that flat of yours, I’m assuming. Or, you can stick by me side and become my apprentice or something, right? Here I thought we could be mates after all this, and despite what you may or may not have heard hanging with me will make your fucking reputation in the smoke, son.” And that was it, the hooks were in and this Shocka prat was suddenly weighing his options. Should he stay or should he go? The cigarette was nearing the halfway point, the end was coming quick. “Be at the airport at six in the morning,” John ordered. “Show up or not, but If you're coming don't be late.” Suddenly, John staggered just slightly, his hand held up to his forehead while a wave of dizziness washed over him. “Shit,” he said as he steadied himself, “something's not right here.” Uh, oh...he couldn't be catching on, could he? No, no way, that was bloody impossible. “Fuck it,” Constantine said before tossing the fag to the ground, severing the psychic connection. Phillip tumbled back into his body, snapping him awake like he'd just been hit by a car. He was drained of energy, physically exhausted from his astral ordeal, and the only thing he wanted was to sleep for a week. He couldn't, though, not when he desperately needed to secure his next fix. He stood on shaking legs, bracing himself on the sink, and looked at his watch. It was three in the ante meridian; an hour had passed since he'd locked himself inside the pisser. That meant he had only three hours to spare before Constantine would be leaving on a plane back to London. He exited the bathroom only to find the eyes of the restaurant staff firmly fixed on him, noticing his pale, sweaty complexion. He walked wearily to the front doors, brushing off any attempt to check on his status. “Sorry,” he said before leaving, “ate some bad curry.” Twenty minutes later, Phillip Cole stumbled into the ratty motel room he'd rented for the week, dodging the drug-dealing desk jockey that likely would have mugged him rather than speak friendly to him. The last trip into Constantine's head was still buzzing through his thoughts, the conversation running over and over through his head. Fuck was that bugger's emotions something strong, an overwhelming sadness swirled with a cocky swagger that would put the most egotistical rock star to shame. Sleep was an impossibility, despite how tired and weary his body and mind felt. He was wired and paranoid that if he did manage to drift off into slumber he'd sleep too long and miss his chance to score his next fix at the airport. Normally he'd just dose up again but snorting a normal person's fag-ash would be a waste; he was happy to save himself for the bigger rush. So, half-delirious from exhaustion, he reached over to the bedside telephone and made a call he'd have never made were he in his right state of mind. “Sally?” he asked hesitantly once the ringing on the other end of the phone line stopped. “Sally, luv, it's me; it's Phillip.” “Phillip, baby!” Sally Cole shouted into the phone. He closed his eyes, thanking the God he didn't believe in that she was happy to hear his voice. “Where are you, what's going on?” “I'm sorry for taking off,” he admitted, “but there was something I had to take care of, sharpish like, you know? I didn't mean to put a scare into you.” “You asshole,” Phillip's newlywed wife replied. “You disappeared in the middle of the night, no note or anything! I thought you were fucking dead or kidnaped or something! What was so bloody important that you couldn't at least tell me where you were going?” “Listen, Sally,” Cole answered, trying to calm his wife's hysteria, “I'll be home soon, I hope. I'm up in Belfast right now, and I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.” “What?” she asked, shocked. “Phillip, please come home, I need you here with me. The doctors say I'm due in the next week or so - are you going to let your child be born without her father here to meet her?” “I wish,” Phillip responded, close to tears himself as he lit a cigarette with shaking hands, the phone cradled between his face and shoulder, “I wish I could explain, I really do. But I can't come home yet, I just fucking can't. I love you, so fucking much it hurts, but if I don't do this...” “Phillip, please...” she pleaded. “I'll call you soon,” he said, “tell our girl I love her, and I hope to be back for her birth.” “Wait, you son of a bitch just wait...!” Phillip hung the phone back onto the receiver, ending the call. He hunched over on the edge of the bed, sobbing to himself while his guts churned from withdrawal. The DT's were coming sooner now, just a short while after his last fix, the pain and sickness leading him to desperation. He stabbed out his cigarette and prepared it for inhalation, cursing himself for being so weak. There was no way snorting his own fag was going to work, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Just two hours left. By the time 5 A.M. rolled around, Phillip had said “fuck it” and left the motel. He couldn't rest, not with the kind of thoughts he had rolling around inside his noggin, so he decided to get the jump on his quarry by arriving at the airport early. There were several in Belfast, so he took a guess and went to the biggest in the city, fuck if he even knew the name of it. It had to be the right one, though, it just had to be. So, there he stood in the airport foyer, perched against the wall next to the washrooms with an eagle eye's view of the front doors. It was 5:30 when he'd arrived, and every few minutes he was checking his watch, eyes darting back and forth from his wrist to the entrance, his anxiety increasing with each passing moment. It wasn't until five ‘til six that he realized he really should have waited outside, knowing that any smoker worth their salt would have one last ciggie before coming into the airport. But it was too late by then, he was committed to his sentry spot, moving now would just give them a chance to slip past him. When six o'clock came and there was no sign of Constantine or his companions, Cole quickly started to lose his cool. He began pacing back and forth in front of the loo, muttering to himself and attracting way too much attention from the small crowd waiting on their flights to board. Where the fuck was he, he'd said six hadn't he? Fuck, what if that cigarette he'd spliced had been from the night before? What if he'd missed them by a whole day and they were already in London? At ten after, his heart leapt nearly out of his chest when he recognized the dark-skinned bloke that wandered into the building, dreadlocks hanging lazily in front of his face. It was that daft fucker, what had Constantine called him - Shocka, wasn't it? The young man stood in the center of the room, looking around nervously for any sign of his companions, making it obvious that Constantine was still coming but was likely just running late. A few minutes later, the girl came in and made her way to the boy's side, but still no sign of Constantine. She was telling him something, but they were too far away for Phillip to overhear. Was John not coming after all? What the fuck was Cole going to do now? When Shocka excused himself and headed toward him, Phillip came close to having a stroke right there in the airport. Avoiding eye contact, he watched as the darkie walked straight past him...past him and into the lavatory. Cole smiled like a madman and swiftly followed his prey into the washroom. Once again providence was shining on him, as the khazi was empty besides him and the Shocka bloke. Locking the door behind him, Phillip crept up to Shocka's back whilst he was making use of the urinal, oblivious to what was about to happen. “C'mere, cunt!” Cole shouted as he grabbed Shocka by the back of his shirt, spinning him around and slamming him face-first into the adjacent wall. “What the fuck!” Shocka yelled, prompting Phillip to pull him back and give him another hearty shove into the wall, wrenching the young lad's arm up against his spine. “Where is John Constantine?” Cole asked forcefully, twisting Shocka's arm to punctuate the question. “Where is the tosser?” “He's not bloody here yet!” Shocka explained, yelling in pain as his arm came close to snapping. “Alright mate,” Phillip said, leaning in to speak directly into the boy's ear, “you're going to do me a solid, understand? When Constantine gets here, you're going to lead him out front and stall him. You're going to get him to smoke as many cigarettes as humanly fucking possible. Keep him out there as long as you sodding can, you got it?” “I got it! I got it!” Shocka agreed. “Oh, and I'll be watching and listening. If you say one bleedin' word to him about our little encounter here, I'll fucking kill you. Stove your head in with a fucking hammer, I will, so help me! And your little slut that's waiting for you? You don't want to fucking know what I'll do to her!” With the threat made and understood, Phillip released his hold, pushing Shocka toward the door. The lad looked back, prompting Cole to nod his head toward the exit, a sneer wiped across his face. “Good dog,” he spat, “now go fetch.” It was half past six when John Constantine sauntered into the airport, swaggering in like he ruled the bloody world. Shocka had kept schtum, not saying a word to the Mercury lass but every so often flicking his eyes to look at Phillip across the way. A cold, hard stare was all Cole had to give when Shocka had looked his direction. But true to his word, as soon as Constantine approached Shocka stepped in his path and began to lead him back toward the doors. “Can I bum a fag?” Cole heard the boy ask, to which Constantine removed the packet of Silk Cut from the interior pocket of his raincoat. Success! Phillip followed the two men outside, careful to keep his distance but still keeping his eyes on them for any sign of the boy selling him out. Thankfully, Shocka kept silent about it, instead badgering his mate with question after inane question. It was obvious that Constantine was humoring the lad, but he nevertheless stood and sucked down the cigarette like he was puffing pure oxygen. Finally, he'd smoked it down the filter, and Cole watched with bated breath as Constantine prepared to drop it to the ground. “Just don't fucking step on it,” Phillip whispered. It was at that inopportune moment that Shocka stepped into his line-of-sight, blocking John for just a moment. Phillip started up, thinking that the boy had finally grown a pair, but calmed down when he saw the discarded butt hit the concrete. “We got a plane to catch, mate,” John said as he turned to walk inside, Shocka trailing behind with one last look backward. Once they were inside the airport, Phillip made his way to where they had been standing and carefully crouched down to pick up the snuffed-out cigarette. Sadly, he'd only got the one out of him, but that was better than nothing. He held the butt in the palm of his hand and noted to himself how odd it was that it had grown cold. True, it was fairly chilly outside, but not so much that it would have doused the embers so quickly. His desperation, however, made him kick the thought into the back of his mind. With the spent fag held tightly in his hand, Cole rushed through the increasing crowd of travelers on his way to the bathroom. His salvation was in sight, the nightmare of the last few hours would quickly wash away in a rushing river of bliss. Once again locking the door to the bathroom behind him, again fortunate that there were no other patrons dropping their cargo in the stalls, Phillip positioned himself in front of the sink's counter top and went to work on his ritual. He'd timed the ritual down to a science, his once-shaky hands now preternaturally steady as he prepared his dose. His lighter burned the remnants down to ash, and with his trusty swizzle straw placed against his nose he whispered a faint prayer before starting. “This is the last time, Sally,” he declared, “I swear to Christ, this is the last time.” He inhaled, sucking the ashen contents up into his nasal cavity with the fury of a man possessed. Stepping back, Phillip rubbed his nose with his fingers, anticipating the climax of the concoction. This was it, the rainbow bridge of ecstasy, the vicarious trace upon him once again. It only took a moment for him to realize that something was very, very wrong. He'd entered the fugue state, the brief recess between his body and the astral connection made with the cigarette's smoker. In theory, he should have seen the doors to the airport, gone back in time five minutes at the most to experience the inane conversation between Shocka and Constantine. Instead he was sitting in a kitchen, immersed in pitch darkness yet able to see quite clearly. He was looking at someone, another man in the kitchen. He was staring at John Constantine, the very person he should have been inhabiting! Then he went into shock at the sudden influx of pain shooting from his astral form through to his body. This person, whoever he had jacked into, wasn't a man at all - he wasn't fucking human! Visions of fire and blood permeated his eyesight, the walls of the kitchen melting and dripping simultaneously. Phillip cried out, trying desperately to sever the spiritual connection. He succeeded partially, his eyesight snapping back to the bathroom his prostrate body was laying in, but the pain...dear lord, the pain was still there! “Well if you aren't the saddest bloke I've ever seen,” a voice said from above him, causing Cole to flick his eyes upward. John Constantine leered over Phillip's seizing body, his hands dug into the pockets of his raincoat and a smirk on his mouth. “You just got conned, mate.” Oh Christ, oh shit, oh no! What had this bastard done to him? How could he have spiked his cigarette like this, he'd just watched him smoke the fucking thing! As blood began to seep from his nose and foam bubbled from his mouth, all Phillip Cole could move was his eyes while the rest of his body went into anaphylactic shock. Constantine crouched down beside him and placed a tissue to his mouth, wiping away the discharge. “Do you really think I wouldn't feel you riding shotgun on my soul, you daft fuck?” John asked. “I've been wise to you since London, I just hadn't a chance to sort it out before having to come north. Then you followed me up here, I couldn't fucking believe it! You thought you could ride around in my head without consequence, did you? Well, now what you're experiencing is what it feels like to be a demon.” Phillip's eyes widened. John smiled and winked at him. “Mad shit, innit? A few days ago I killed a demon that had stolen my face - it's a long story, but I will say that he smoked like a fucking chimney. I collected everything I could that he touched, to dispose of the evidence, like, you know how it goes. Decided one of his spent fags might just teach you a little lesson, so we set this whole sting up. Shame you had to rough up Shocka like that, but I guess the lad was pretty convincing, huh?” Phillip wanted to scream, to yell and curse until his lungs ran out of breath. Instead, all he could do was spasm and bleed, paralyzed with the sympathetic sensations of the damned. “Don't worry, it's not going to kill you,” John assured him as he stood from the floor, “but I doubt you'll ever recover. Say goodbye to your life, mate.” He started to leave but turned around one final time and pointed a judgmental, accusatory finger at his victim. “And don't ever fuck with John Constantine again, you piece of shit.” It wasn't until an hour later that a random stranger discovered Phillip in the bathroom, sprawled out on the piss-stained floor with blood oozing from his ears and nose. For the next thirty-five years, Phillip Cole spent his days in a bed in a Belfast psychiatric ward. He never moved nor spoke again, but the desperate movements of his eyes proved that he was very much awake and alert for every hour of every day for the rest of his pathetic life. His wife grieved for him and gave birth to their daughter a week after his “trauma”. John Constantine boarded a plane for London that afternoon, not once bothering to ponder the fate of the nameless man he'd just doomed to a literal living Hell. Business as usual… The End |