Suffer The Children

by Rossi

Chapter Three: Things That Go Bump In The Night.

The squat Craig had mentioned was one of many in the crumbling warren of abandoned warehouses down by the river. Another relic of the Thatcher era: the once-thriving manufacturing and export businesses had been flogged to death by the heavy stick of economic rationalism. Glass crunched under Constantine's feet as he walked along the overgrown road by the docks. There was barely a window left intact, and the walls were an archaeology of graffiti. Union slogans were overlaid with National Front racist taunts, which were themselves covered by the tags of the spray-can gangs. A fragment of an other-worldly landscape caught his eye, irritating something deep in his memory that he couldn't quite scratch. He left it -whatever it was, it would come of its own accord. Better to focus on the task at hand.

And quite the task it was, searching for one bolt-hole amongst the many. A right 'Mission Impossible', if not for the fact the cold air was thick with the greasy tang of magic. Strong magic, from pretty close by. Any stronger and sparks would have been leaping off his fillings. All he had to do was follow his nose.

The doors were padlocked and bolted, but it didn't take long to work his way around them. There were wards on the place too -the signature wasn't one he recognised, but the spellmanship was pretty good. Something to watch, along with the exploding people into tiny bits. With a shrug he slipped inside, without disarming the spells. What better way to meet the spell caster than to trip the alarms?

It was dark inside, blacker than Satan's underwear drawer. The cigarette lighter only accentuated the shadows, but at least he could see enough of the floor not to break his neck. The warehouse had been gutted, the floor an obstacle course of broken glass, half-burned chunks of wood, rusting metal and more rubbish than the Greater London Council could shift with an infinite army of dustmen. Used syringes splintered beneath the soles of his shoes. Bloody typical -the villains never had their secret hide-outs anywhere nice. It was always sewers and deserted buildings and the seedier pubs. It was getting so the municipal workers couldn't do maintenance on the pipes without stumbling across some secret society meddling with the forbidden and hatching plans for world domination…

Something banged metallically in the rising wind, drawing his attention upward to where a kind of mezzanine level had been built, not much more than rough platforms. Of course, the only way up was a series of rickety steps. Constantine cursed the Fates' slavish devotion to clichT.

"Sod this for a lark," he muttered, turning to go. Let Phil and his lads do the place over; they got paid for that sort of thing. Then a movement caught his eye in the dim flicker of his lighter, a lazy, swooping spiral, gleaming white in the dim light. As it reached his head height, he caught it in his hand. After glancing around for the inevitable ambush, of course.

It was a feather. Nothing particularly special, it could have come from any of the city's innumerable pigeons. Only it was familiar… Switching his lighter to the same hand, Constantine rummaged through his pockets, pulling out another feather that would have been a twin to this one, had it not been for the dried blood caking its fibres. Phil's forensic team had missed it in the carnage of Burrowes' flat, plastered to the floor underneath the bedside drawers.

"Bugger." He hated these sorts of coincidences.

The stairs creaked in suitably ominous fashion, but held his weight. Up on the platform the broken skylights and holes in the roof let in the weak orange glow of the city lights, casting warped shadows on the wooden floor. Unfortunately it let the rain in too, and Constantine grumbled under his breath as icy drops ran down his neck. There was a smell up here too, sort of musty and acrid, triggering a nasty suspicion. The toe of his shoe touched something soft and yielding; when he bent to pick it up, it proved to be a pigeon, its head hanging limply from a broken neck, the feathers stripped off its wings. Maggots squirmed in its empty eye sockets, despite the cold. He dropped it quickly, wiping his hand reflexively on his coat. There were others, lying where they'd been discarded; pigeons and seagulls and sparrows. Even a rook. Every wing was naked, goose-pimpled flesh exposed.

The floor creaked behind him. Too late, his innate sense of paranoia screamed that he wasn't alone. Power, lots of it, screamed along his nerve endings, scraping them raw.

"You shouldn't be here." The voice was a child's. Constantine caught a glimpse of hair so fair it was almost white, cold blue eyes, the hand not filled with dead starling reaching towards him…

'He can't do it without touching me.'

Instinct took over. Heedless of the fall, Constantine dove off the platform, trusting in his luck, the hand of Dame Fortuna holding his, the flame of Judgement licking at his heels. His last thought before crashing into darkness was that he'd seen the kid somewhere before.

Morning, and a crushing headache. Constantine groaned and stirred, sending new debris sliding on top of him. His hand came away from his forehead sticky with blood, and the usual mental inventory told him he'd narrowly missed breaking several bones. As it was, he was going to be a walking bruise for a while.

"Stupid bastard. Should leave the hero stuff to the bloody wankers running around in their underwear." Slowly he pulled himself out of the pile of boxes and crates, not questioning the quirk of Fate that left them undisturbed when all else had been pillaged. The game didn't work that way. Sceptics had no luck. It was all in the belief. When you rode the Synchronicity Highway, it wasn't a good idea to ask what keep the wheels on.

The warehouse had a cold, empty feel, no surprise really; the bird had flown the coop. He heaved a chunk of broken plywood off and began the arduous task of climbing out of the sizeable crater he'd left. Time to call a friend.

He finally found a working phone on the fourth try. It stank of urine and was papered with business cards advertising "Sexy Swedish Massage" and lap dancing clubs, but at least there was a dial tone. It was only after the ninth ring that Constantine remembered Chas had been working nights lately. The sleep-laden voice that finally answered did not sound well-pleased.

"Who the hell is this?"

"Chas? Sorry, mate, it's John."

"Fuck."

"And top o' the morning to you too, mate. Listen, I need a lift."

"What a bleedin' surprise. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"No idea. Me watch got busted leapin' off stuff in the dark."

"Too fucking early in the A.M., that's what time it is. I only got to bed a couple of hours ago, and I'm not in the mood to put up with your bloody hero crap."

"Hero? You must have me confused with someone who gives a damn. Look, Chas, I'm sorry about waking you up, but it's important."

"Ain't it always?" Chas' sigh gusted down the phone. "All right, where are you?"

"Chas, you're a prince among men. Down near the docks, in a phone box on…" He squinted at the sign across the street. "…Tailor's Lane."

"What the bloody hell are you doin' there?"

"Chasing delusions, Chas. See you in quarter of an hour."

"_Half_. I gotta get dressed yet."

There was a click as Chas hung up before Constantine could argue. Seemed the old dog had learned from experience. He dug in his pants pocket for more 10p coins and dialled Kingston's direct number. Might as well bring him up to speed. Besides, after last night his quarry would have gone to ground. And apart from the feathers, he didn't have much to trace him by, and those would be just as likely to lead him to Trafalgar Square. About time Phil did some of his own legwork -this business stank more than week-old fish, and he was only a 'consultant' after all.

"Baker Street CIB. Sergeant Kingston speaking."

"Morning Phil."

"About bloody time you showed up. I've been trying to get hold of you."

"I told you, Phil, I don't work for the old Bill. This is just a personal favour, remember? Don't get on me back."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But something's come up."

"There's been another death."

"Close, maestro, but no cigar. There's been two."

"Two? Getting a bit greedy, ain't he?"

"You tell me. Any hints on what we're looking at here?"

"I'll tell you when I see you. Where are they?"

"High St. Behind Roxy's CafT."

"I'll see you there."

Another damnable coincidence. Suddenly Constantine knew who he would find in the body bags. As he hung up he pulled out another cigarette with icy fingers, and lit it with a savage flick of the lighter.

"Shite."

[next part]

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