Suffer The Children

by by Rossi

Chapter Two: Out of the Mouths of Babes.

"Lookin' fer sumfing in partic'lar, mate?"

Roxy's CafT was well known as the place to find 'off-duty' prostitutes of both genders. Not much of a refuge, really- the walls carried a patina of grease several generations thick, and the customers often pitted their wits against the resident cockroaches. It was run by an ex-tom by the doubtful name of Candy; a misnomer if ever there was one, unless she was one of those peppermints grandfathers inflicted on children. Hard as nails and pungent enough to take your breath away.

This time of morning, the place wasn't exactly jumping -the counter hand was slouched against the cash register, flicking through the "News of the World" and sparing the occasional glare to his customers. There were a couple of young women, obviously old to the game, their faces hard beneath the thick make-up and their legs blue with cold in their too-short, too-tight skirts. A wino, huddled into an old Army greatcoat, muttered and coughed to himself while he nursed the cup of tea he'd splurged his last 10p on. And over in a booth near the front window, three young men in tight jeans and even tighter t-shirts under their thin jackets, drinking Coke and sharing a bent cigarette while outside the sleet spattered against the windows and turned the footpaths treacherous.

Every bleary eye turned to Constantine as he made his way to the counter and muttered a curt request for a cup of tea. "Hold the grease", he nearly added, seeing the dull shine of it on the crockery. He knew he was being assessed, could almost hear the collective wheels turning frantically. Tourist? Police? Pimp?

Punter. He caught the eye of the largest of the three lads, and received a brief nod in return. Carrying the chipped white mug of murky brown-ness, he made his way to the table. The large one -Craig, his name turned out to be- had jumped in early with his question. A bit of an entrepreneur, despite a London accent that made Constantine's sound cultured. Had tabs on himself, too.

"Not in the way you mean." Constantine slid into the empty seat next to a spotty, slouching youth whose dark hair hung lank and unwashed around his face. "I was wonderin' about the book store bloke."

"Old Rabbit?" asked the youngest of the group. He still had the slightly rounded face of childhood, but his blue eyes were ancient in their world-weariness. He couldn't have been more than fourteen, Constantine guessed.

"Shut it, Noel," Craig said curtly. "'E's bloody filth."

"Do I look like police to you?" Constantine sneered, shaking a cigarette out of the pack and fishing in his coat for his lighter. As he lit up, he felt the hungry eyes of nicotine addiction on him.

"Journo, then," said Craig, his thick fingers twitching towards the pack left on the table. Heavy set, his hair shaved down to a dark fuzz, he looked more the sort to be beating up gay men than to be selling his body to them. Definitely a story there, one not to be found in the General Reading Section either, he'd warrant.

"Nope." Deliberately he blew a cloud of grey blue smoke into Craig's face, enjoying the way the boy sucked it in greedily. "Guess again. Get it right, you might win a prize."

"You're Conjob, aren't you?" Unexpectedly, the question came from Spotty. He was sitting up, his lanky form unfolding like a deck chair, all impossible angles. "I've heard of you."

"Constantine?" Craig's hand jerked away from the cigarette packet like he'd been stung. When he looked up, his muddy brown eyes held new respect. "Shit, _everyone's_ 'eard of yer."

"I won't ask what." Constantine grinned briefly. "So, what do you lot know about Burrowes?"

"He's dead, ain't 'e?" Craig shrugged. "Not much else, is there?"

"Rabbit was a bit of a regular," said Spotty. His accent was smooth, polished. Public school-boy living rough. "He liked them young, like Noel here. He was considered a safe customer, so he was popular with the chickens." At Constantine's raised eyebrow, he elaborated. "The young kids, the underage ones."

Noel nodded. "He was all right. Nothing weird. Used to give us sweets 'n' stuff."

"Noel was his favourite, weren't you, Noel?" sneered Spotty. Noel's pale skin flushed pinkly.

"Get stuffed, Simon."

"Not mourning his loss, are you?" Spotty -Simon- shook his head in disgust. "Or is it because he found himself another little friend? Either way you're going soft."

"It's not my fault that kid starting working our patch," said Noel sulkily. "I told you Craig should have warned him off."

"Not worth th' bovver, shrimp like that," Craig muttered, a brief shadow of unease flitting across his face.

"And I told you to leave him to Callaghan and his like," Simon drawled, his eyes suddenly predatory. "Just up their alley, pretty thing like that."

"Callaghan?" Constantine asked. Wrong move- the faces of the three closed up as effectively as a steel security door slamming down.

"We keep away from him- he's dangerous," Noel said, casting a look at Simon.

"He's also dead. Found in his flat a couple of days ago. I'm surprised you haven't heard."

"Who says we haven't?" Simon leaned across, his breath wafting across Constantine's stubbled cheek. "Callaghan had mates, clients, 'co-workers'. And no-one wants to run afoul of them." He leaned back, folding thin arms across his chest. "Besides, you never know -what happened to him could happen to anyone. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that." A warning.

Constantine swallowed the last mouthful of tea, grimacing as he spat the sludge of tea leaves and unmelted sugar back into the mug. Normally he would turn the little snot upside down and shake the information out of him, but Kingston had asked for his discretion on this one. And while he didn't dance to the Old Bill's tune, his quarry would soon get wind of him if he made too much of a ruckus. Curiosity might have indeed killed the cat, but he also knew several ways to skin one.

"Ta, lads," he said, straightening his coat as he stood. "Keep the ciggies, I'll get meself some more." He ignored the knowing sneers on the faces of the two toms and the bloke behind the counter -talking to boy prostitutes was better than demon-raising, although demons usually talked more. Especially when it wasn't entirely certain he was dealing with one of Hell's host. He'd scout around, see what the word on the street was, call in a couple of favours. Sleet hit him in the face as he left the cafT, and he turned up his collar with a curse. But first to the nearest newsagent's -he needed some more smokes.

A fruitless day was darkening into wintry night as Constantine considered his next move. The Curry Gardens on Regis Street was looking good. A vindaloo, maybe a pint with Chas, sound the cabbie out on Burrowes. His usual sources had been strangely uninformed: even the most talkative 'Big Issue' sellers had been uneasily silent at the mention of the name. The specifics of Burrowes' death must have gotten out.

Then he caught sight of a burly teenaged boy, shoulders hunched against the biting wind, a ragged knitted hat pulled down over his ears, trying unsuccessfully to loiter with intent outside one of the strip joints.

"Evenin', Craig." To the lad's credit, he was only marginally startled by the old 'sudden appearance' trick. Recovering his tough man attitude, Craig nodded.

"Yer wouldn't have the price of a cuppa on yer, would yer, mate? It's cold enough ter freeze th' bollocks off a brass monkey." He glanced around. "I could make it worth yer while."

"I don't play on that team, I told you once already, kid," snorted Constantine. "And last time you weren't that helpful. I've had a long shitty day and all I got out of it was sore feet. The only thing on my mind right now is a curry and a pint." It was hard to hide the grin as Craig's muddy brown eyes light up at the mention of food. Hook, line and sinker, now he just had to reel him in.

"You were askin' 'bout Rabbit and Callaghan. I might 'ave sumfin' for yer." Craig shivered as the wind picked up. "Cost yer a meal."

"Inflation's pretty heavy, ain't it? It was a cup of tea a minute ago." Constantine appeared to consider it, then jerked his head. "Come on, then, but if you're pulling me leg I'll make Callaghan look like bloody Roald Dahl."

"Who?"

"Never mind."

The kid ate like he'd never seen food before. Rajit was going to have to change his 'all you can eat for a fiver' policy at the rate Craig was inhaling the menu. It wasn't until his fifth helping that he actually started to talk.

"I couldn't tell yer this mornin', not with Smartarse Simon sittin' there like Lord Muck," he said in between mouthfuls. "He 'ave laughed 'imself sick." He pushed more rice onto his fork with a fragment of narn bread. "Would've ruined me rep."

"That won't be the only thing ruined if you don't start talking," Constantine said, his patience starting to wear thin.

"Yer remember that kid they woz talkin' about? The one wot woz pinchin' customers from Noel?"

"What about him?"

"I've bin seein' 'im around a lot the last month 'r so." Abruptly, Craig laid his fork down, as if his appetite had fled. "Didn't do nuffin at first, since he wasn't gettin' in anyone's way. I thought he'd probably end up in a dumpster somewhere, or gettin' picked up by th' filth. Then Noel started whingin' 'bout how he was pinchin' punters. Which woz funny, since I hadn't seen him workin' th' street. Didn't seem like one of us at all."

"How do you mean?" Craig shrugged.

"I dunno. Just a feelin'. He just seemed… above it all."

"So if he wasn't cruising, what _was_ he doing?"

"Watchin'. Talkin' ter th' lads, th' punters. Funny thing was, no-one could remember exactly wot was said later."

"Interestin'." Constantine drained his pint, shook out a cigarette. Craig licked his lips, and the older man sighed and held out the packet. "Go on, then."

"Yer see, when Simon sez stuff 'bout leavin' someone fer Callaghan, there ain't exactly much leavin' 'bout it." Craig sucked the cigarette smoke deep into his lungs, exhaling with an almost contented sound. "When Callaghan or one of 'is mates clears up one of our 'problems', it ain't no accident."

"Simon set them up?" Constantine's eyes narrowed. You couldn't be in the shady end of the magic business as long as he had without developing a certain thickness of skin and looseness of morals. But he saw in his mind's eye those teeny-tiny handcuffs and was filled with a thin, burning anger. Seeing his face harden, Craig got defensive.

"Hey, I wanted no part of it. I'm th' sort wot fights 'is own battles, if yer know wot I mean. Givin' kids ter Callaghan… that's just sick." He grimaced a little. "Yer see, Simon's problem is he's almost nineteen, and on the junk. 'E has ter feed his habit, but his arse is getting' too old fer the punters. So Noel's 'is meal ticket. Anyone wot gets in Noel's way gets in th' way of Simon's next fix. Callaghan would give him crack sometimes, in exchange fer a kid."

"What 'bout you?"

"Me? I don't touch th' stuff. Seen too many mates OD. 'Sides, I ain't goin' ter die here, selling meself. I got meself a plan ter get out."

A Plan. All the street people, those who hadn't completely lost hope, had A Plan. Fool's dreams, usually -earn enough money to rent a flat, find a proper job, maybe start a family. But who would lease a place to someone who had the stench of the streets still on him? Who would hire a lad like Craig, who he could guarantee had no schooling and few skills?

"This kid. Did Simon pass him on to Callaghan?"

"He tried ter." The youth's face, which had been alight with the lure of his Plan only seconds earlier, darkened. "I woz hangin' around th' kid, keepin' an eye on him. I dunno why; sumfing about him reminded me of my little brother, I suppose. They all do, 'cept that little shit Noel. 'S why I usually try 'n' steer 'em away from our patch before Simon catches wind of 'em. Anyway, I woz workin' the High Street when I sees the kid talkin' to Callaghan, just as easy as yer please. Next fing I know, Callaghan's taken him by th' hand and is leadin' him away, towards his flat. I figgered it woz th' last we'd see of him. Callaghan doesn't play nice with his toys; he usually breaks 'em."

"Sounds like Simon was pretty successful in passing this kid on. What happened?" Craig shrugged.

"Not a fuckin' clue. Th' kid's back on th' streets th' next day, not a scratch on him. And then we heard 'bout Callaghan bein' found dead." Craig leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially. "I 'eard they had ter carry him out inna bucket."

"Sounds about right." Constantine mused on what Craig had said while the lad finished what was left on his plate, practically licking it clean. "This kid. He still around?"

"I saw him 'bout two nights ago, talkin' ter Rabbit. That's why Noel's got his knickers in a twist. Rabbit was _his_ punter, and he'd already told Simon 'bout this kid poachin' on our ground. He's 'bout ten, skinny, clean. Fairish hair. I think he's dossin' in a squat down near th' river." As if sensing his usefulness was almost expired, Craig asked. "Yer goin' ter talk ter him, then?"

"Maybe." Constantine fixed Craig's muddy brown eyes with his own. "Me business is me own, get it?"

Craig nodded, feeling himself being lost in that piercing blue stare. These were the eyes of a man who saw things no-one should ever have to see. Not if he wanted to stay sane. "I won't say nuffin."

"Good, kid. 'Course, it's not me you have t' worry about." Constantine's grin held no humour. "There's stuff more dangerous 'n' me out there. Whatever's killin' your punters, fer a start." He stood, pulling his battered wallet out of his inside pocket. "If I was you, Craig, I'd make meself scarce for a while. There's some very nasty shit going on around here. And I don't mean scum like Callaghan."

[next part]

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