The gate slams behind him and John opens his eyes.
Bad weather and bad dreams.
He's in his bed.
He's in a bed.
Another nameless motel.
Another stained ceiling.
He reaches for his cigarettes and already the thoughts come tumbling back to him.
He's a month out of Ravenscar, mind frayed and bed sweaty from another nightmare. Another memory he can't chase away.
` More bad dreams he can't help.
He's trying this time. He really doesn't want to go back and he's being good. No friends, nothing weird.
Not even any drugs. . .
His hands shake as they light his cigarette and he's faced with another aimless day.
Bad weather and bad dreams all day and all night.
He has nothing to do and nowhere to go, nothing but to think and no one to take him from his thoughts when he can't stop them.
Cheryl has a baby and Chas is in London.
His other friends are in the wind.
No band and no guitar, not that he was really good at it. He'd just been pretending. . . like with everything else.
He get's up and goes to the store, spends some of his last few quid on another pack of Silk Cuts and walks around with his hands in his pockets and his head full of broken glass.
It's been like this for a month.
Nowhere to go, no one to see.
No one that visits and no one to visit himself.
Just him and his head.
Him and his glass.
He ends up at a pub.
He always ends up at a pub these days.
He want's to get drunk.
Wants to forget but never can.
He drinks and drinks and doesn't hear the music.
Someone puts on ABBA and he doesn't hear it.
He stays, sits, drinks and braces for another night all the same. The same thoughts and the same dreams all in the same putrid, little room.
Nothing changes and he's only just holding it together.
He's not sure he wants to live like this and the cracked bar in front of him is screaming that this is as low as it get's.
No faces he knows in the crowed, no voices shouting over the din. . . no one to call and nothing but the thoughts in his own head to keep him company.
They scream at him.
He doesn't think he's ever been so alone.
He can't hear the music over the screaming. . .
Astra's screaming. . .
He can't hear anything any more except her.
So he doesn't hear when two men call out to him and he jumps when they sit down on either side of him. He isn't used to people any more.
They slide onto stools and smirk, heads shaved and shining.
"Evening, mate." One of them say's and his heart hammers between them.
One is gangly and tall and the other is broad and dense.
They're both skinheads.
"Don't think I know you." He say's, trying to play it cool. Whatever it is they want it isn't going to be good.
They order their drinks and they order one for him too, pushing it towards him like they're old friends.
The gangly one lights up.
"You're Constantine, right?" He asks.
John hesitates. "You wanna tell me your name first?" He asks.
"Nigel." The man say's.
Nigel.
Right.
He snorts but the man doesn't thump him for it.
Warning sign number one.
"This is Tom, we've been looking for you." Nigel continues. "Heard about you and some friends of your's having a gig in Manchester some years ago." He reads John's face. "Now we don't want music you understand. . . we want the other thing. We've heard you know about the Arcane. Heard you know a lot."
John feels himself break out in sweat . "Lot's happened since Manchester." He say's. "I'm not sure I'm the man you want."
Nigel nods and Tom say's nothing. "Well now that's not what we've heard. We've heard you're the guy to talk to. You're the guy who know's stuff."
He thinks of Newcastle and suddenly almost can't see.
He's blind and deaf and flailing.
"We've got a problem. One of our friends was. . . well he wasn't the careful type, you know? He brought something into the house but. . . it won't leave. Won't bloody get out. Do you understand?"
John thinks of all the arrogant, somehow lucky stuff he's done and shakes is head. "Can't help you." He say's, voice shaking more than he'd expected.
He tries to get up but Tom plants his hand in his chest and pushes him back onto his stool.
"Drink your pint." He say's.
John drinks his pint. "Look I can't help you." He say's again.
He can barely help himself.
They don't blink. "We're not asking." Nigel say's, mouth turned down in a frown yet somehow still smiling.
He has a freckle under his left eye.
John stares at it. "I'm telling you I can't help you." He say's again, feeling strained.
There's smoke in the air and Nigel doesn't listen. "Anyway, it's small time but Paul, that was the poor chap- he got eaten. Since then it's been wrecking the place. You can't even go into the drawing room."
John stares at him wildly.
It doesn't sound that tough.
He's dealt with weirder shit. . .
It's only fucking up a drawing room. . .
He stops himself and shakes his head. "Mate, I'm telling you. I can't do anything about it." He say's, desperate for them to listen.
They shake their heads.
They don't listen.
"See you keep saying that but you took care of that thing in Newcastle, I heard."
John think's he's going to vomit but he doesn't. "Heard that did you?" He asks, voice horse.
Voice cracking.
Nigel shrugs. "Dunno what I heard but I heard something. Anyway, we need it gone and we need the proper sort to do it. You know what we mean?"
He doesn't and Tom grunts.
"Don't fucking make a problem." He say's.
John looks around the pub and considers splitting but they're right next to him and he doubts he'll make it. "Look. . . maybe you tell me what it is and I can help you from here." He says, hopping Nigel think's it's a good offer.
Nigel shakes his head. "No deal." He say's.
They drain their pints and he finishes his as he plots his escape.
He has to get away.
He can't do this shit again.
He isn't ready.
He never was.
His mind is already running through what the hell they could have summoned.
They usher him out, Nigel standing close, too close and Tom lighting a cigarette.
They take him to a car.
A beat up Admiral with a dented driver's door.
He want's a cigarette too.
He frowns and get's in the back, feeling like a prisoner or someone in a movie, ready to make a run for it.
"Don't do it." Tom say's, lowering his head to look in at him like he' knows what he's thinking.
John thinks of the orderlies who beat him and the nights in Ravenscar and doesn't run.
Tom nods his head.
He nods too.
The car starts up.
The seat is cracked and old.
Nigel is humming.
John can't name the tune.
They head out of town, away from the city and into farm land but it isn't so far and they pull off at a black hulk before he's calmed down.
John's eyes adjust and he see's it's not a black hulk after a moment.
It's a manor house.
He looks around uncertainly and there's no lights showing from within.
"Alright, we're here." Nigel say's, fishing a copy of 'Candour' out from under the seat, glancing at it and throwing it in the back where John think's his heart is finally going to explode.
"I can't do it." He say's again, more weakly this time.
Nigel tuts and then suddenly there's a fist in his hair, dragging him over the back of the seat in front of him and Nigel is in his face, nose touching his cheek, breath foul.
"You're gonna fucking do it." He say's.
John isn't right in his head and he starts to shake but then the hand lets go and a few hairs leave with it.
He sits back, bile twisting in his throat.
"Right then, out you go." Nigel say's.
They get out and he looks up at the manor house. It's crumbling front steps and boarded up windows. The missing masonry and the broken bricks littering the front walk. . . It looks derelict.
Tom pushes him and Nigel laughs.
He walks and they take him inside.
Maybe if he does what they want they'll take him back and he can go to bed.
Maybe the same every day isn't so bad.
He wants to see his stained ceiling again.
He stares around and then see's lights down hallways and knows suddenly that there are people here. His one hope that the place is abandoned. . . that somehow Nigel and Tom brought him to the wrong house is dashed.
They pass rooms with collapsed floors and ceilings.
John doesn't like the holes that lead to nowhere, up and down. . . promising things and pains he can imagine only too well.
He looks at Nigel.
The man has stopped humming.
"It's in here." The man say's, stopping at a closed door.
John stares at him.
He stares at the door.
What the hell is he supposed to do?
He doesn't even know what's on the other side of the door.
Tom raises his eyebrows. "Well?" He asks.
John shakes his head. "What the bloody hell do you want me to do?" He asks. "You brought me all the way out here. . . I don't. . ."
But Nigel is smiling.
He puts his finger to his lips and then opens the door.
There's light inside.
There's a fire in the grate and people all around.
Tom shoves him and John stumbles inside, raising a hand to shield his eyes for a moment before turning wildly and seeing a room filled with people.
There's a red banner with a black double S hung over the mantle, red and black.
SS.
He see's a dozen shaved heads and black boots and people are laughing all around. Girls with their hair bleached and faces hard. . . men and boys with smirks and brown bottles in their hands.
He turns to Nigel and Tom and opens his mouth.
Nigel hits him. "We needed the right kind." He say's. "Proper English lad. Figured that was what it'd want."
There's a table laid out and John stares and see's food.
There's cake even.
He turns and balls his fists. "What the hell is this?" He shouts but they all laugh and he think's maybe he's gone round the bend again except he's definitely here and this isn't his usual brand of crazy.
"A worthy sacrifice." A figure say's rising out of the masses, his head nicked and shaved.
His eyes triumphant.
John's are bulging out of his head.
"We summon a God tonight. A God of the ancient Britons. We who call ourselves British, English, we here have taken pains to reclaim the glory that was our England! To take back our jobs and our government from outsiders. From Pakis and Nogs. . ." The man looks around as the others clap and cheer. "Is this not our homeland? Is this not our place? Is this not our fucking land?" He points downwards and receives cheers.
It's a lot of bullshit but one word stick's in John's ears: sacrifice.
He has a sudden, horrible feeling that he knows what they're sacrificing.
Who they're sacrificing.
He tries to run for the door then but Nigel catches him and drags him back, laughing.
The crowed closes in on him.
He turns again, wild this time and scared.
He's a cornered animal so he lashes out.
People are laughing, black boots and shaved heads.
Bleached blondes with their hard faces.
Nicks along their lovers' scalps.
Hate in their hearts.
People are pointing at him.
He's thinking of Astra.
When is he not?
He puts his hands over his head and cowers.
They grab him and drag him along, Nigel singing.
"When I was a lad, I hadn't any sense. I bought a flute for fifty pence. The only tune that I could play was-"
He stares ahead as they drag him to a circle they've drawn on the floor.
White chalk on brown wood.
He doesn't know what it's supposed to be.
Maybe he doesn't know enough, maybe they don't.
He looks up and the man who'd risen from the crowed is there. He's older but not by much and his head looks like a skull.
There's a black, double S hanging behind him.
An evil herald.
"Blood of an Englishman. Proper red." He say's.
John stares up, heart hammering painfully.
Nigel is grinning.
Tom watches.
They're all watching.
Hungry and waiting.
His eyes water over and he tries to draw air, looking again for an exit that isn't there.
Nigel is in his ear.
"We sacrifice you and we get what we want. You see? Heard about that botched job in Newcastle." He clicks his tongue while John's heart does a somersault. "Don't reckon anyone will miss you."
There's candles burning around them.
People watching.
He can't breath and Nigel and Tom are on either side of him again.
Even Tom looks pleased for once and he's holding tight.
Hurting him.
John thinks this might be it and almost accepts it.
Almost except he doesn't want to be murdered by these people.
The cake has a red 88 on it.
Enough candles that he can't count them.
Who's birthday is it?
No.
Not here.
Not like this.
He struggles and they hit him, Tom's fist is big and meaty against his ribs.
He gasps for air and Nigel coos and takes over, holding him up. He wipes away his tears. He smiles and looks into his eyes and John feels his whole body shake.
Nigel searches his eyes and see's what he wants.
Nigel nods and let's go of his face.
John panics and kicks, desperate this time.
He hears an 'oof' and hits something soft.
Nigel doubles over, hands flying to his balls.
It isn't enough and the rest of them don't pause.
A knife joins them and he's still in the circle and blood get's out.
It sears when the knife cuts and he can't stop it or what follows.
Something changes.
The air changes and his breathing. . . he's only just started again but suddenly everything tastes bad. The air around them is putrid and stale.
The others sense it too and something shakes the house.
They're on the ground floor but everyone looks uneasy.
The knife has stopped moving and John is just as uneasy as all of them.
The shaking stops and when nothing happens he and Nigel both go for the knife.
He grabs it but Nigel rips it away again, lashing out with his little cutter.
John throws them to the floor and Nigel screams out, yelling for the second time.
He's fallen on the knife and John stares in horror as the house begins to shake again.
Collapsed rooms finally devour the caverns above them.
Rot taking hold.
Rot winning.
He braces himself like a crab against the floor.
People are shouting.
"It comes! He comes!" The leader shouts, head shaved and nicked.
The SS overhead flutters.
The fire flares.
Something large is in the room.
Large and taking up space nothing can possibly fill.
John can't make sense of it and crawls away into a corner.
Whatever it is, it grabs up jackboots and devours them whole.
it eats and it feasts and it kills.
It licks the things it calls fingers and tears flesh and leather alike.
John cowers, everything he's recovered gone and then the thing looks at him.
It sniffs.
It waits.
He waits.
"Constantine." It breaths.
He opens mad eyes, not knowing if he's even alive still.
He wants to grovel.
The thing has horns.
Too many to count.
"No. A Constantine. A different one." It say's.
He doesn't know what it means.
It has no mouth.
He doesn't know how he's hearing it speak.
He can hardly look at it.
"A debt is paid. I spare you."
He stares back and then it's gone.
Ancient and primordial.
Some forgotten deity he doesn't want to know the name of.
He can't feel his legs and all around him is carnage.
It's like Newcastle all over again and he screams but there's no one left to hear him.
No one to care.
He wants to die.
He claws at his face and shakes his head against it but there's red everywhere.
The house is weak and he hears it creaking around him.
He get's up and tries to find the way out, slipping and sliding in what were once people. Bleached blondes and shaved heads.
There are lights down hallways just out of sight.
He doesn't know what he's seen.
No one left to tell him.
No money.
He closes his eyes and makes it outside, vomiting among the crumbling masonry and broken bricks.
He's in the middle of nowhere now and shivers in the night.
The beat up Admiral is in the grass but the keys are inside, mired in puddles of what were once the dregs of society.
His mind is shattered glass.
Blood and cities that aren't the same. . . little girls and skinheads. . . he can't sort it out.
Screams sounding all the same.
People all the same.
He wanders his way back to civilization.
There's a score of dead neo-Nazis behind him.
They had mothers too once. . . probably.
Not like him.
He's seen their mangled corpses.
He can't get it out of his head and he can't get Newcastle or Astra or Nigel's freckle out either.
He walks and mutters to himself, trying to make sense of it.
Trying to understand why it's all happened again.
Over and over.
Everything going wrong and him walking out. . . unscathed. . .
Nigel dead. . . Tom dead. . . their leader dead. . .
Astra and all the rest. . . all dead.
A siren eventually stops him and the police take him for a crazy.
He is and they take him back to the nick and process him and in just a few days time he ends up back in Ravenscar even though he tried to do the right thing.
Even though he stayed away from the drugs and the magic and all his friends who've disappeared.
He ends up back in the padded cell with the orderlies who hate him and the doctors who don't care.
He has new nightmares now.
New horrors to keep him up and play before his eyes, over and over and over.
The gates locked behind him.