Suffer The Children

by Rossi

Chapter One: Some Mornings It Doesn't Pay To Get Out Of Bed.

To say the room dripped blood was not an exaggeration.

John Constantine took another long drag of his cigarette, grateful for the way the smoke drowned out the stench of shit and blood. Even if it was his third this morning and it wasn't even seven yet. Better the burning in his sinuses than vomiting last night's takeaway all over the floor. Hell, if he'd been alone he might have done it anyway: early morning hangovers and gruesome murders didn't mix. But up-chucking all over Detective Sergeant Kingston's shoes wouldn't go down particularly well. Or come up very well either.

"What makes you think this is somethin' I'd be interested in, Phil?" he asked at last, his fingers only trembling slightly as he took the smoke out of his mouth.

"As soon as I saw this mess I knew it was right up your alley. Some kind of magical shite." Kingston's face- broad and craggy, like a small cliff face topped with grey scrubby hair- twisted as he looked around the small room. It had been- until as recently as last night, around 1am, according to the forensic boys- the home of one Nigel Burrowes. He owned- _had_ owned, rather- the somewhat dubious second hand bookshop downstairs. His sexual preferences had drawn him to Soho and the lure of the area's rent boys. He'd been on the Met's list of known paedophiles, Kingston had said in the careful tones of official neutrality, but considered generally harmless. Quiet. Shy. Bookish. The epitome of Nigelness, he'd kept himself to himself. Not usually the sort to attract such a spectacularly occult death.

"When I first heard Burrowes had snuffed it, I thought he might have topped himself. He'd had a couple of goes, just couldn't get the hang of it." Kingston stayed in the doorway while Constantine made a careful circuit of the red-coated room. His shoes stuck to the floor at every step; ‘Puts me in mind of really nasty pub carpet,' he thought wryly. "Must have been a hell of a clean-up job for the coroner's lot," he added aloud.

"Then when uniform flagged it as a murder, I thought it might be one of those vigilante groups," Kingston continued, ignoring the crack, but seeming to enjoy watching Constantine make his way gingerly around the room. "We've had a spot of bother after some wanker working for the local rag decided to make a name for himself, publishing a list of registered child molesters in the area."

"You're slipping- isn't ‘paedophile' the official term?" Constantine ignored the glare and went on. "'S possible, if one of your vigilantes had access to some pretty powerful explosive," he remarked, examining the floor beside the bed. In the gore-spattered room, it was the only clean spot, a small circle about a foot in diameter. In the very centre were two scorched marks that looked not unlike footprints. Very small footprints. Constantine knew the answer to his speculation about the explosives, but he wanted to keep Kingston distracted.

"No shrapnel. And I'm willing to bet my pension the lab boys turn up nothing on residue either. No reports of an explosion, and his neighbour's one of those nosy old biddies that have their own personal radar." Kingston shrugged. "So unless the vigilantes have access to some kind of top-secret silent invisible explosive, I'd say we're talking paranormal forces. Which is your department."

"I'm not on the payroll of Her Majesty's Finest," Constantine said, straightening and making his way to the door. "What makes you think I'll offer me services?"

"Because Burrowes isn't the first one."

"How many?"

"Three others, so far. All perverts. All found dead in highly suspicious circumstances." Kingston stepped aside to let Constantine pass, reaching into his jacket as he did so. "The first one, Patrick Clarke, was a sad case like Burrowes here. Found incinerated in a toilet block. Local bobbies would have passed it off as National Front, except for a few anomalies."

"Such as?" The photos Constantine pulled out of the usual yellow envelope were clinically graphic, in the manner of all crime scene pictures. A dank toilet block, the walls scrawled with hate slogans and faeces, Clarke himself a sad soggy heap of charred ashes and blackened bones. Crappy place to die. Poor bastard's glasses had melted over his face like a plastic poultice.

"No accelerant, for a start. No struggle, no evidence of anyone else being present. Except for this." Kingston reached over to pull out the next photo- a patch of tiled floor unsullied by greasy soot, except for two small footprints.

"And the other two?"

"Like our friend here. Splattered all over the landscape. I figure our villain has gotten the taste for it with Clarke, and then refined his technique. Certainly the second one, Long San Teo, was a bit of a botch job." Constantine's gaze moved over pulverised body parts strewn throughout a small alley littered with refuse and syringes. "Didn't have the power, y'see, or judge it well enough. With Burrowes and Callaghan, the third victim, you could fit the largest bit in a cigarette packet. Teo, well, you can see what a mess was left. And to make matters worse, he wasn't found until the next day."

"Hmm?" Constantine fished through the pockets of his trench coat at the mention of cigarettes.

"Half the feral cats and dogs in the area had had a feed by the time we got there. Rats too. Bloody pervert had become a veritable smorgasbord."

Constantine screwed up his nose at the image. "And the last one?" he asked, hoping to get this over and done with. Kingston was enjoying it too much.

"Callaghan? Nasty piece of work, that one. Cheers across the patch, when news got out he was off the scene. He was found in a similar state to poor old Burrowes, in his flat-cum-torture chamber. Like I said, a nasty piece of work." The basement flat was a S&M showpiece, chains hanging from the walls, whips sorted by size… It didn't escape Constantine's notice that the chains hung to an unusually low height, and that the cuffs were extra-small. "He was into home movies of the particularly revolting type. Kiddie torture, rape, that sort of shit. Problem was, we could never pin anything on him. We didn't even know about this place until some sad act druggie breaks in and finds him." Kingston's grey eyes were like flint in the landscape of his face. "Same thing, no shrapnel, no residue, two little black footprints." The police officer watched as Constantine slid the pictures back into the envelope. "Now, some coppers might decide to turn a blind eye, mark the files as "Unsolved" and leave it at that."

But not Phil Kingston. The man was like a rock, slow and solid and dependable. Had the morals of his Yorkshire forebears, stood no nonsense, believed in the inviolability of justice. For a moment Constantine found himself wishing one of the more… flexible members of CIB had been called onto this case. In the next moment he knew why they had not.

"Scum like Callaghan, I might be tempted." Large corrugated hands took the envelope, slid it carefully back into the inside jacket pocket. "But the law doesn't work that way. Justice for all, innocent until proven guilty. Someone, or some_thing_, is playing God on my patch, and I don't like it."

"Strange way of putting it." With another exhalation of smoke, Constantine decided. "Fine, I'll have a nose about. See what the word out there is. But a word of caution, Phil. This thing, whatever it is-and I'm not sure _what_ it is yet- is bloody dangerous. It'll chew up your lads like potato crisps. Try and curb their enthusiasm, eh?"

"I already knew that, but I'll keep it in mind. Keep me informed. And try not to draw too much attention to yourself? Area wouldn't be impressed if they found out I was consulting with the occult."

"Or me, eh?" With that, Constantine took his leave, glad to leave the stench of death and boiled cabbage that permeated the halls. He had people to talk to, the sooner the better.

So much for sleeping in.

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