To: hob_goblin
From: John Constantine
Sent: 01/01/2011 11:23
Subject: Happy New Year! And here's a new mystery for 2011…

Okay. First off, happy New Year. Let's get to the social bit first, yeah? Down a drink for me and all that. Celebrate another year of the world not ending.

Suitably pissed yet, you sodden old bugger? Right. Let's get onto business.

So I'm at this party last night, right? Seeing the New Year in, Auld Lang Syne and all that shit. I mean, I wasn't much in the mood for it – bit too many memories to do anything for old time's sake, but then, I don't have to tell you that, do I? Still, sometimes you just need to let it go a bit and go down on the piss, and Chas and the lads were on the way out, anyway. I get a ring off him at half six, got him half-dragging me out the door by seven. They don't give up, that lot. Proper mates, even after all the shit I've put them through.
Anyway, like I was saying, they got me out there. Didn't really want to go, after all that shit with the Kraken (you know, that stuff I mentioned last time?) but sometimes you've just got to go with the flow. So I end up in the Northampton, pissed off my arse and halfway off the barstool, when up comes this guy. Looks about the same age as us – not that that means much, you know, what with us being who we are. About thirty or forty, anyway. Brown hair, pretty tall, good coat (but not as good as mine!), American accent. Bit of a looker, really, which is just as well, really, 'cos the minute I see him, I know he's on the prowl. You know that look people get, when they're just deciding who to eye up first? Yeah, that's the look he's got.
And I suppose he must've decided on me, 'cos a minute later, he's over there with me, and wham bam, I'm in like Flynn. Sort of. Got a G+T out of him, and we got talking.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, John, did you really email me for the first time in three weeks to boast about your conquests? Well, yeah, what else am I going to do with my time and valuable internet-café-ing money, if not rub it in your face that my life might suck, but at least I can get laid? (Just kidding, mate. How's Alice getting on?)
But seriously. I'm writing 'cos in all the chatting (and chatting up, and believe you me, this bloke's never heard of subtlety) there were a few things that just stuck out like sore thumbs. Thought you might be interested.

I'll start at the beginning, yeah? I'm getting ahead of myself again.

So we're drinking, he's talking, I'm listening. Says his name's Jack. Captain Jack Harkness – you know that name? I dunno, just thought you might. Doesn't talk much about himself anyway, this bloke, or ask too many questions – fine by me, 'cos I don't want to answer them. Somehow, we got onto the origins of fucking New Year's, instead, and I mean, I'm pretty flat-out pissed by now, so I'm not all that fussed if he thinks I'm a nutter. I think I mentioned at one point that I'd met a song. You know, standard drunken truth-telling.
And we're pretty much finished the second round (all on him - I'm telling you, this one's a keeper!) by the time he actually asks me my fucking name. Okay, so he might've before, when I was busy trying to light up without Bill seeing, but…
Anyway, point is, when I tell him – and I mean, we're both plastered by this point, so don't quote me on this, okay? – he just sort of goes all grey and shocked-looking, just for a moment, and I'm thinking, God, this is either demonic possession or a fucking heart attack, and then he just sort of snaps out of it. And I ask him what the hell that was about – amazing how fear for your immortal soul sobers you up, innit? – and he just shrugs and says he knew a Constantine once, that's all, Jacob Constantine, not a very common name is it, so, about that song…

I don't know. Reckon it could be nothing – you know, if you hang around up Liverpool way long enough, you've got yourself a whole bushel of Constantines to pick from – but still, there's that shock thing. Gave me a bit of a turn, that. I mean, call me a paranoid old bastard, but when someone acts like that, I damn well want a reason.

The other thing is, this guy's got this kind of… bracelet thing, I suppose. Leather. Looks like something HG Wells might've written about on speed. Thought it looked familiar for a bit, but I reckon I'm making that up. The obvious conclusion (god, how I hate what my obvious conclusions are!) is charmed bracelet, but you know, they tend not to be that mechanical-looking…

There was a weirder bit, though. Way weirder. I'll get onto it into a minute.

Anyway, yeah. Awkward creepy moment avoided, we're back onto knocking back gin and stout and generally having a good time. Makes a nice change from the sushi dinners I've been craving since the whole Kraken thing. Much more me, you know? I'm not some fucking gourmet ponce, and god, but beer and gin goes down well for the whole recovery effort.
And the countdown starts off, and people're counting along and grabbing the party poppers off the bar, and we're all counting down, too. And I mean, he's sat there like there's not a care in the world, and I've sort of got that soft spot for New Year's, what with the still not being dead when they roll around, and we'rejust counting down, and I know I'll have a cracker of a headache in the morning, but I don't much care. (I was right about that, by the way, 'cos as I write this, I'm doped to the gills on aspirin and Rennie's for the indigestion and I still feel like crawling into a hole to die)
You know that American thing with New Year's kissing? I think it's an American thing. You tell me, you live there. Well, you're probably not going to be that surprised with the next bit of the story, that being the case. Turns out, he's a good kisser – which maybe isn't that big a surprise, either. So we're kissing, and everyone's singing their bloody Auld Lang Syne, and then – seriously, just like that – he jumps right back, and swears, and bolts for the door.

NO JOKES. You know damn well my kissing isn't bad enough to get that sort of a response.

And then there were two words I got when he was running for it. One's Torchwood. The other's time. I mean, there was other shit, too, but those were the ones that stuck out.

That's why I'm writing to you. Torchwood sounds familiar – can't think why, though. Time's something you should know about. And then, of course, there's Jacob Constantine.

See, there's only been the one Jacob Constantine I know of in the last… what, hundred and fifty years? You know the one I'm talking about. So if you could dig up anything on our Jake there, I'd be eternally bloody grateful and might even stand you a drink next time we meet up. That's Jacob Constantine, and Torchwood. Might be the Torchwood stuff's something I've heard from Midnight, even – something from your side of the pond. Explains the accent.

Just… let me know, yeah?

Ta,
John.

PS – Don't ever mix Rennie's and aspirin. My stomach hurts like blue fuck.