Part 3 – A Little Help From My Friends

                "John, I don't understand," Katie pleaded as John pulled his wallet out from his pocket. He opened it up, and pulled out five twenty pound notes, and handed it towards her. "I can't take this!" John grabbed her hand and forced the money into her palm.

                "Look, I can't explain why you have to go, but believe me you'd be safer if you did." He told her. He picked up the cigarette packet from the table.

                "That kid shooting himself was not your fault!" Katie stated, still holding the money, not even bothering to look at it. "You can't shut me out now, you need help getting through this!" John lit his cigarette, and gazed at her through the thin stream of smoke rising through the air centimetres in front of his face.

                "I've seen kids die before." He told her, bluntly. "Innocent men, women, children and animals have had to die because of my actions in life. I'm not adding you to the list." Katie was speechless, not wanting to believe what John had just told her. "I have to sort something out. Then things'll be safer around here."

                "Why won't you tell me why things aren't safe at the minute?" Katie asked, starting to get annoyed. "What aren't you telling me?"

                "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you!" John shouted, losing his temper. "You wouldn't understand!"

                "Try me!" Katie yelled back.

                "Is the answer really worth dieing for?" John asked her, lowering his voice.

                "Who's gonna kill me if I find out?" she asked. John was about to shout at her again, but stopped himself. He took a drag from his cigarette and sat on the sofa. Katie stayed where she was.

                "There's somebody new in town. Somebody who reckons himself to be a bad motherfucker, and has already caused at least two kids to die."

                "The ones at the school?" John nodded.

                "Yeah. And I'm supposed to be the only one who can stop him." Katie stood in silence for a few moments as John smoked some more of his cigarette.  "And this bag of shit probably knows I'm on to him, and if he finds out about you, you're fucked."

                "Christ…" Katie muttered, swaying slightly. "How are you going to stop him?" John shrugged, breathing out another cloud of smoke.

                "I'm working on it." He told her, grimly. "But you need to go home, pack your things, and get out of London for a while. I'll call you when I clean this mess up." Katie stared at him, then nodded reluctantly. She was about to cry. John stubbed the cigarette out and walked over to her.

                "I will call you. I promise." He told her. She nodded, then kissed him.

                "You be careful." She told him. He smiled slightly.

                "I've been in worse shit than this before." He told her. "Go on, get outta here. And don't talk to strangers." Katie laughed slightly.

                "Ok." She said. "I'll hear from ya soon, yeah?"

                "Yeah," John told her. In his head, he was doubtful. He was getting old, he knew that. Not in your prime anymore, John, ol' boy.

                "Ok." Katie kissed him again, then opened the door. She stood in the doorway for a moment, then closed the door behind her. John listened to her footsteps disappear down the corridor, then closed his eyes. He had to think of something fast. But first…

                John picked up the glass of water on the table beside the sofa, and hurled it at the wall. It shattered on impact, sending tiny shards of glass and water across the wall and floor. That's better he thought, and lit another cigarette.

                "Well, now this is a surprise!" Clarice stated in her usual upper-class manner. John smiled slightly as he walked over to her table in the Knightsbridge Tea Room. He pulled out the chair, and sat down heavily on it. "What seems to be the problem, then? Another dead girlfriend?" John lit up a cigarette.

                "No. Something much bigger than that." John stated. Clarice leant forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the table. John looked up from the ashtray to see Clarice's withering form. A shell of a human, at first sight. Her skin seemed to have stretched tightly over her bones, creating the feeling you were looking at a walking, talking skeleton.

                "Really?" Clarice asked, in a slightly higher tone of voice, sounding interested. "How much bigger?"

                "About as big as it gets." John replied. He looked around to make sure nobody else was listening. Satisfied that there were no eavesdroppers, John leaned closer to Clarice. "The Antichrist is here in London, and it's doing some nasty shit."

                "Well now," Clarice said, leaning back. "That does sound interesting." John leaned back as well. He blew a cloud of smoke to his side.

                "And God himself wants me to take the bastard down." He added, almost proud, but at the same time pissed off with the hassle.

                "Can't imagine why." Clarice stated, clearly and bluntly. John would have been hurt by the comment, had he not thought it already. "So why are you here?"

                "You're like me. Connections to the underworld, as it were. You heard any rumblings? Any ripples in the piss that is London? Anything at all that'll help me find out where to find this wanker." John told her, stopping briefly halfway through to inhale another puff of smoke, and exhaling it at the end of the last sentence.

                "If what you're saying is true, John, then this Antichrist is working extremely quietly. I haven't heard a single thing about him." Clarice said, staring at John with the same grim smile as always. "Sorry, John." John sighed, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray.

                "If you hear anything, give us a bell, yeah?" he said to her, standing up. Clarice nodded. "Alright, then. Gonna go see some other people. See if they've heard anything."

                "Why bother?" Clarice asked. "If I haven't heard anything at all about the matter, then I sincerely doubt anybody else would have." John turned to look at her.

                "This guy's more like me. A down-and-out." He said, then started to walk away.

                "Hey, John," Clarice called. John stopped, but didn't turn. "Try not to bugger this up. And try not to let anyone die." She requested. John smiled to himself.

                "I'll try."

                London. Capital city of England. Home, or at least one of the homes, to the Royal Family. Arguably the most powerful humans on the planet. Not counting most other world leaders. People think of London and see images of sunshine beaming down on Trafalgar Square, or the guards outside Buckingham Palace, or the classic black minicab. Peaceful images for the tourism lifestyle. But London's not the popular, charming, busy place people think. As soon as the sun disappears, the darkness of the city takes its place. Like a swarm of insects, drunks and pill-heads and crack addicts, thieves and murderers and rapists all descend upon the streets like a plague.

                A young girl sips on her drink whilst holding a cigarette in her free hand, laughing and joking with her mates. She doesn't notice the man sitting in the corner, half a pint of ale in his hand, watching her every move intently, planning on how to get her attention. Frustration takes over, and, unknowingly, the girl will notice the man after she leaves the pub to walk home.

                A whore lays bleeding in the gutter, her stomach open, her guts sitting over the drain cover, still warm. Some ex-client's idea to abort the kid the prostitute was carrying in order to stop his wife of twenty years from finding out about his deception.

                A group of drunk thugs finish hammering seven shades of shit out of the unfortunate black boy who only wanted to meet his father at the bus station, leaving him broken and bloodied, in a heap outside the gates to the local church. The dead lay nearby, making bets on whether they'll have more company shortly.

                I walk through the streets of London in darkness. I know what lies out here, what can happen to innocent people who've never done a thing wrong in their lives. Luckily, I'm not innocent, and I've got a few tricks up me sleeve and a rabbit in me pocket to keep me alive for another day. All the shit that goes on in the most powerful city in England, and I don't see any eyes watching it. Nobody gives enough of a shit to do a bloody thing about it. That's why, one day soon, this whole fuckin' city is gonna swallow itself up into Hell, and I'll be standing on the side of it, saying "Told you so".

                John walked through the shadows, a trail of smoke left in the air behind him from his cigarette. He flicked the ash to the dirty, grim floor just next to a young boy coming down after a strong hit of cocaine. The boy looked up at John with expressionless, lifeless eyes, as if to say "Are you here to take me down to hell?"

                Ignoring the boy, John walked up the concrete stairs of the building, past more drug addicts and drunks. Some were like the boy, staring at John in wonder, some were asleep, maybe even dead. One girl was sitting in the doorway to a room crying like an infant. John continued up the stairs to Darren's floor.

                As he got closer to the door leading into the short hallway, John could smell the shit-like stench of death. Taking another drag of his cigarette, John pushed at the door, and almost choked on the smoke he was holding in his lungs by the sight in front of him. Bodies lay about the hallway, motionless, but charred, like they'd been stuck in a well heated oven for a few days. Fuck me… John jumped over two still-steaming corpses towards Darren's room, only to see his old magician friend the same way as the others. Next to him lay the smouldering body of his infant son. John looked at the bodies, then dropped his cigarette to the floor. He crushed it with the front of his shoe, and pulled another from his pocket.

                "Nasty habit, that." Came a voice, almost startling John, had he not already guessed that the culprit of this little massacre was still in the building. John lit his cigarette, and turned around. In the shadows of the far corner of the opposite room stood a tall man. John couldn't make out any of his features until he too lit a cigarette. It was the man from the school field, who had told Kelvin to go gun-crazy the previous day. The Antichrist himself.

                "So, you're the prick I'm supposed to stop, eh?" John remarked, unphased by the presence of such a powerful and dangerous entity. He'd seen it all before. The Antichrist smiled wickedly at him, seeming to enjoy being in the presence of John Constantine, even if the feeling wasn't mutual.

                "John Constantine. Scouser scumbag who also happens to be a mage. You've been causing quite a storm down below, you know?" he told him as John glared into his cold, empty eyes. "You're not only the most hated man in your realm, but mine as well. Bollocks up this job, and you'll have a hat trick with Heaven pissed at you as well."

                "Lovely jubbly." John replied. "So, you taking on a British personality, are ya? 'Bollocks' and everything?"

                "This ain't the cinema, John, me boy. Not everything's from America." The Antichrist told him. "Now, the reason I waited for you is pretty important. I wanna make a deal wit' ya."

                "Already made a deal with three mates of yours. Had enough of doing that." John taunted, and started to walk down the hallway. "Do me a favour. Fuck off back to Hell to save yourself from a kick in the bollocks, and me the hassle of swinging the boot home." He called to him. The Antichrist stood where he was, and took a drag from the cigarette in his hand. He smiled to himself, glad that John hadn't bothered to listen to his request from Satan himself, let alone accept it.

                John opened his packet of cigarettes to find it empty. "Fucksake…" he muttered, dropping the empty carton onto the pavement. A sudden gust of wind caught the box, lifting it into the air slightly, and dragging it down the street.

                A black taxi cab pulled up to the kerb in front of John. He pulled at the cold plastic handle on the outside of the door, and let himself into the back of the vehicle. He closed the door, and looked into the rear view mirror, seeing another pair of eyes staring at him. "Alright, Chas?"

                "The fuckin' 'ell you doin' down in this shit 'ole?" Chas asked him, surveying the building behind where John had been standing. The windows were boarded up, and the wood was dark from rain and other liquids, rotting away with each day. An old, unkempt man sat in a doorway with nothing but a newspaper and a piss-stained box to protect him from the outside world. People had sprayed and scratched their names and phrases along the cement walls, a way to keep a part of London for themselves.

                "Came to see an old mate of mine for a bit of a chinwag." John told Chas as he slowly pulled away from the kerb.

                "How is the unfortunate sod?" Chas asked, watching the road for the not-too-rare sight of drunken teenagers staggering around or sprawled across the road, face down in a pool of their own vomit.

                "Dead." John replied bluntly. Almost without any feelings.

                "'Kinell…" Chas muttered. "Ain't easy bein' a mate o' yours, is it?"

                "Got a smoke, Chas?" John asked, changing the subject quickly to avoid having to explain to his friend why Darren ended up looking like an overcooked roast dinner, with his guts as cranberry sauce, and his infant son as a charred side order.

                "its fuck knows what time in the morning, me wife's doin' her nut with worry 'cause a you, and I'm missin' the footy highlights to drag your arse home." Chas moaned. "Don't ask me for a fuckin' fag 'n' all."

                "Miser." John stated. "Back to my gaff, Chas, on the hurry-up. Gotta have a smoke before I go spare."

                "Yeah, yeah, you're fuckin' lordship. So what 'appened to your mate?"

                "Natural causes, like." John lied. Chas knew he was lying.

                "Natural causes my arse. Nobody around you dies of natural causes."

                "Ok. Antichrist burnt him, his kid and his neighbours to a crisp." Chas didn't see the red light ahead of him, and almost drove through the front of a family saloon.

                "Shoulda gone to Specsavers, ya twat!" Chas yelled.

                "It was a red light, mate." John reminded him.

                "Fuck off. It was turning yellow." Chas stated. "So, Antichrist, ya say?" he asked, returning to John's story.

                "Yeah. I'm supposed to stop the tosser." John explained the rest of the tale as Chas pulled up outside John's block of flats. "Cheers." John stated, stepping out of the car.

                "Maybe you should take up tipping." Chas stated, again going home empty pocketed.

                "Tell ya what," John said, leaning down to peer through the window beside the driver's seat. Chas looked over to him. "If I stop this prick, I'll buy you a pint."

                "Anything I can do to help?" Chas asked, the proposition of a beer to good to pass down. Especially from John Constantine.

                "'Ave a butchers for anything suspicious, and stay outta trouble." John told him, then slowly walked towards the entrance to the building. Chas watched him until he walked through the door, then started the car up again.

                "Mad fucker." He muttered to himself before driving home through London's nightlife.

John walked up the stairs towards his apartment. He felt tired after a long day of wandering about the city looking for a bit of help. He also desperately needed a smoke. He walked down the quiet, darkened hallway, and stopped outside his door. He pulled the keys out of his trench-coat pocket, and pushed them into the lock. The door slowly creaked open. "Fuck's going on?" John wondered aloud, pushing the door open slowly. He saw Katie facing him from the other side of the room as he walked in. "I thought I told you to go!" John stated, his heart racing at the thought of the Antichrist getting to her.

"He told me to do this…" Katie replied, as if in a trance.

"Who told you to do what?" John asked her. Katie pulled a gun from behind her, and aimed it at John's face. She cocked the hammer back, ready to fire. "Bollocks…"