Suffer The Children

by Rossi

Chapter Four: High Society.

"You take me to the nicest places, John," Chas remarked dryly as they pulled up in a side street that ran alongside Roxy's Cafe. The laneway behind was swarming with police, uniform and CIB, putting up barriers, taping off the scene, telling onlookers to move along, postulating and posing and pontificating to the media. "A murder scene? This looks bigger than Ben Hur. Lot of fuss over a couple of street kids. Maybe you got it wrong."

"I hope so." Constantine caught sight of Kingston amongst the chaos, looking more stone-faced than usual. Their eyes met and Kingston nodded and began to extricate himself from the gaggle of Scene of Crime officers in their white plastic suits. "Do a couple of turns around the block, Chas. This won't take long."

"What d'you think I am? Yer own private taxi service?" The heavy door slamming shut was his only reply. Tit for tat. "Bastard." With a sigh Chas slowly moved on.

They met at the barrier, blue and white police tape flapping in the slight breeze. Up close, Kingston looked tired; baffled and beset, as the newspapers might say. Must be getting more than a little grief from his superiors over the latest killings. And his news wouldn't do much to improve things. "What's with the circus?" Kingston grimaced.

"Some bastard journo decided to join the dots and now we've got full page headlines about a serial killer in Soho. This is all a publicity stunt, so Joe Public can see we're taking this seriously."

"And what's the damage?"

"Two bodies. Or at least the SoCO lot think it's two. One of them's all over the shop. A right old mess. We've got a couple of witnesses who say they heard an argument and some kind o' a scuffle around midnight. _And_ we've got signs o' someone leaving the scene on foot, possibly injured."

"Any idea of who the stiffs are?"

"No identification yet. We're waiting on forensic, although that won't be much use for the poor sod decorating the walls. The other one..." Kingston's craggy face turned stonier. "He's just a kid. Between ten and fourteen. Only partially burned, so I'd say our friend got interrupted."

'By my visit, probably,' Constantine thought.

"We're going through the missing persons files now - he's probably a runaway." Kingston gave Constantine an almost pleading look. "I was hoping you might be able to help us on that front. As a favour, y'understand. No obligation."

"I might." Constantine offered the battered cigarette packet to Kingston, who took one after a moment's hesitation. Not a good time to give up. "I've got some possible names for your victims. An' the one that got away. They're street kids, rent boys, selling 'emselves to whoever has the cash an' the inclination. The young lad is called Noel, and the other one is either Simon or Craig. I'm betting Simon. Check your logs for prostitution arrests for those three names, I'm sure you'll come up with a match somewhere."

"Do I want to know how you got this info?" Kingston asked around the cigarette clamped between his lips as he scribbled the names down in his notebook.

"No ouija boards or sacrificin' cats, if that's what you mean. I had a chat with them yesterday. They knew Burrowes. And Callaghan. And they'd had contact with the killer."

"Contact? That sounds like you've got a possible suspect. Don't hold out on me, John. I need a break here. The top brass are starting to take more than a passing interest in this, with the media's help, and they're asking difficult questions. Like why we haven't caught a villain that's probably leaving the scene covered in pervert puree. These kids are going to make it worse."

"You're not going to like it."

"I already don't like this business - haven't since I got dragged into it. C'mon John, for once in your life just cut the mystical crap and give me a straight answer." Constantine noticed how Kingston's hands were shaking as he dragged on the cigarette, how his eyes flickered around nervously. A good man, for a copper. He didn't deserve to be the meat in this particular sandwich.

"Get your lads to watch out for a kid, about ten, white-blonde hair, blue eyes. He looks like any ordinary kid, but don't let that fool 'em. First sign, they keep their distance and you give me a shout."

"A kid? You're pulling me leg. A kid did that?"

"Something that looks like a kid, any way. Remember the size of those footprints? I'm telling you, Phil, this is serious stuff. I ran across him last night and nearly got meself barbequed. It's nothing to muck about with."

"Fine, warning taken. Here, take this." Phil pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and pushed it into Constantine's hands. "Welcome to the twenty-first century." At the magician's raised eyebrow, he added "How else can I tell you if we find your lad? You're a hard man to get hold of, John Constantine." His grin faded as he noted several uniformed men approaching. "Christ, the bastards came down for a tour. I'd better go. We can talk later. The 'Dirty Donkey', sevenish?"

"You're asking me out? What will your wife say?" Constantine pocketed the mobile and gave Kingston a brief slap on the shoulder. "Cheers, mate."

Kingston, a glassy half-smile fixed on his face, turned to face his commanding officers. Constantine didn't envy him one bit.

Chas, by mystic arts known only to London cabbies, had managed to find a park in High Street, not far from Roxy's. He was napping as Constantine slid into the back seat, but started awake when the door slammed closed.

"Get what you were after?" he asked blearily, rubbing his hand over his stubbled chin with a rasping sound. "Can I go back to bed now?"

"In a bit. Just one more thing; I need to go back to the docks."

"You what?"

"Call it a mercy dash. I've got a hunch someone is going to need it."

***

He didn't have the right materials for a proper locating spell, but the egg and the saltpetre were mainly for the look of it any way. With Chas on his heels, looking as set upon as only a maltreated mate can look, Constantine wandered once again through the maze of warehouses. By the morning light - weak and winter-feeble though it was - the buildings seemed to have somehow shrunk, collapsing in on themselves. Broken windows gave the deserted hulks the look of crow-picked skulls, the eye sockets empty and glaring.

"Do you have any clue where you're going? We could end up bein' mugged in a place like this," Chas complained in a low mutter. "If anythin' happens to my motor, I'm going to take it out of your hide. And don't think I can't, 'cause we both know I can."

"Chas? Do me a favour and shut up for a minute? I'm trying to concentrate."

"On what?"

"On..." Constantine circled an abandoned rubbish skip, and stopped. "That."

'That' was a human shape, slumped over itself, arms wrapped around his stomach, whether from cold or pain it was difficult to tell. He was also spattered with gore, his clothes stiff with brownish-red, flecked here and there with fragments of white that could only be bone.

"Jesus." Chas took an involuntary step back. "What a mess."

"Hell of a dry cleaning bill," Constantine agreed, crouching beside the still form. "Still breathin', at least." He gave the prostitute a small shake, then gently slapped his face. "C'mon Craig, wakey, wakey." When Craig's brown eyes slowly fluttered open, they were as full of wonder as a small child's.

"Daddy?" he croaked, and then frowned, blinking away the confusion. "Oh. 'S you, then. Worked it out then, did yer? I figured yer would." He shifted slightly and winced. Fresh blood leaked out from between the fingers clutching at his stomach.

"Not hard to. Those directions you gave me were too good for someone who didn't know the area pretty well. How long have you been livin' down here?"

"A bit. Got meself a nice little bolt 'ole. Pretty cozy in th' winter. I thought I'd lay up there fer a bit, only I got tired." He coughed, a harsh, wet sound, blood flecking his blue-tinged lips. "Shit, that bleedin' wanker's done fer me, I reckon."

"You mean Simon?" Constantine helped Craig adjust to a more comfortable position, propped in the corner formed by the skip and the graffiti-covered wall. "What happened?"

"Christ, John, this kid needs a hospital, not a bloody Q&A session. Can't it wait?" Outrage filled Chas' voice.

"N-no 'ospitals. Can't stand 'em," Craig rasped out, weakly grabbing at Constantine's coat. "No point now anyway. I gotta tell yer wot 'appened, right?"

"Fair enough." Constantine shot Chas the well-known 'don't interfere' look. "Tell me."

"'S hard t' remember..." Craig rubbed his hand across his face, and dried blood flaked off beneath his fingers. He didn't seem to notice. "When yer took off, I met up wiv Simon an' Noel again, down at Roxy's. Simon woz gonna do fer th' kid, th' one I told yer about..." He turned his bloody visage up towards Constantine. "Only he's not a kid, is he?"

"No, he's not."

Craig nodded. "I thought not. Simon woz sayin' 'ow someone 'ad ter teach th' kid a lesson, getting' 'imself really worked up. Wiv all the filth around, he couldn't get a fix, see? Th' dealers are all waitin' for fings to cool down. Simon blamed th' kid fer it." The words tumbled out in a feverish rush, as if Craig somehow sensed he mightn't finish. "Any way, who should 'appen past Roxy's but th' kid? Simon lost it - before I knew it, 'e woz out there, bailin' th' kid up and hustlin' 'im inter the alley behind. Me an' Noel followed - I fink Noel wanted ter see th' kid get 'is come-uppance. But when Simon started in on 'im, well, I just sorta lost me rag. I went fer 'im. Only the bastard managed ter pull a blade on me." A brief smile flickered across his blood-flecked lips. "He got 'is, orright. Well and truly."

"The kid?"

"Yer should 'ave seen it, mate, he was th' most beautiful fing..." A somehow transfixed expression crept into the blood-smeared face. "There was this light, like God woz lookin' down on us. And 'e had these wings..." Craig frowned slightly. "Simon screamed sumfing, an' then he woz... gone. Jus' like that. An' then I realised I woz covered wif... stuff, an' Noel woz tryin' to run away, only th' kid called 'im back. An' then 'e woz screamin' too, screamin' an' burnin'. Only th' light went out, an' it went all dark, an' then I hears this voice in th' darkness, high an' sorta pure-like."

"What did it say?" Constantine could see the boy's life slipping away, marked by each gout of blood that dribbled onto the stained concrete. "Hang in there, Craig. Tell me what he said."

"'E said..." Craig's voice trailed away, his eyes starting to glaze over. "'E said, 'None shall cross Raguel.' Then 'e woz gone, an' I woz alone in th' dark." The bloodied hand slipped from Constantine's lapel, landing on the ground with a meaty thwack. "Jus' like I am now." A tear dribbled down Craig's face, turning pinkish as it mixed with Simon's blood. Another bout of coughing sent blood gushing from his mouth, and then he lay still, muddy brown eyes still staring up into Constantine's.

"Aren't we all?" muttered Constantine, drawing his hand over the dead eyes to close them. He paused for a moment, and then straightened, knees popping. "Kingston's gonna love this." He shot a look at Chas, who was still radiating disapproval. "Feel up to making an anonymous tip-off?"

***

Simon and Noel may have been invisible to society while alive, but their deaths made headlines on the evening news bulletin. In the near-empty public bar of 'The Dirty Donkey', the sight of the bloodied sheet covering Simon's remains as they were carried out on a stretcher was the focus of much morbid curiosity.

"They reckon 'e was splattered all over the place," remarked one of the drinkers. "The plods couldn't keep their breakfasts down." The camera focussed on a young PC, face chalk white, stumbling from the scene. "See?" the man continued smugly.

"Less filth on the streets, if you ask me," said another. "Who cares what they do to each other, as long as it doesn't bother respectable folk?"

"They're all perverts," agreed a third. "This bloke, he's doin' the Bill a favour. Doin' their jobs for them."

"Since they can't do it worth shit themselves," the second man added, nodding.

"'Land of Hope an' Glory', eh?" Kingston muttered under his breath. "Bastards. Listen to 'em. Like to see them do better." He drained his pint and set it down on the bar with a small thump. "Same again," he told the barman.

"You're hitting it hard tonight, Phil," Constantine observed, adding with a grin; "Not that I mind, if you're buying."

"After the bollocking I got, you'd be trying to kill off your brain cells too," Kingston grumbled. "And your find today didn't add much sparkle to my day, I can tell you." He took a long draught of his fresh pint, draining half of it in what seemed to be one swallow. "You sure he was just a witness? It'd make things easier for me if I could pin all this on a dead bloke. A disgruntled prostitute with illegal explosive is a lot more credible than a ten year old avenging angel."

"Things that bad with the top brass?"

"You'd better believe it. The whole operation has gone decidedly pear-shaped. It's getting so I'm tempted to drop the whole thing into my guvnor's lap and be done with it. What I need is a suspect, an' your mate Craig is an unholy temptation."

"I won't tell if you won't." Kingston gave Constantine a dirty look. "Only jokin', mate. Anyway, I'm still not convinced the kid _is_ from the Bloke Upstairs. Wrong feel, for a start."

"So we have a kid with supernatural powers impersonating an archangel?" Kingston snorted and shook his head. "I can't believe I just said that seriously. You live in a pretty fucked-up world, John."

"Tell me about it," Constantine replied, nodding at the barman for another round. "Nah, I've met Raguel..."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"...And besides being a complete pillock, he's got a completely different aura, to borrow the hippy expression," he continued. "Besides which, he doesn't mutilate birds, as far as I know. Whatever this kid _thinks_ he is, he's not the Archangel of the Lord's Vengeance." He paused as the barman replaced their empty glasses with fresh pints, an eyebrow raised at their conversation. He quickly moved on at Constantine's glare. "The annoying thing is I can't help thinkin' I've seen the little twerp before."

"If you had, I'm sure you'd have remembered. Turning people into jam is pretty bloody memorable. Unfortunately." With a shudder, Kingston reached for his drink.

"It'll come to me." With only marginal unsteadiness, Constantine slid off his bar stool. "Back in a sec." The police sergeant nodded and turned his attention back to the news as the magician made his way to the 'Gents.' The barman had turned up the sound, so Kingston was able to hear the newsreader's commentary over a repeat of the footage showing the bodies being removed.

"...identity of the two victims is still unknown, but police have confirmed they were known in the Soho area. And in late-breaking news, a third body has been discovered in the riverside warehouse district, following an anonymous tip-off to police..."

"Bloody leaks," Kingston snarled, digging through his pockets for the spare mobile he'd commandeered. Considering Craig's death hadn't been an official press release, one of his team had to be involved. And while he didn't believe in taking out the grief his superiors gave him on his officers, this time he would make an exception. Yelling always made him feel much better.

There was another man standing at the urinals as Constantine came in. He barely drew a second look; in his early sixties, hair thinning and showing only traces of it's original dark colour. Mouth permanently twisted down, slightly puckered in apparent disapproval of the world in general. Beady dark eyes magnified behind severe black-rimmed glasses. He glanced furtively at Constantine as he tool up a position at the other end of the urinal, and then looked away again almost as quickly. Immediately Constantine's paranoia pinged a warning. This bloke looked damned familiar, in the same way the kid - 'Raguel' - did.

"Where do I know you from?" The little man jumped, almost dribbling piss on his shoes.

"Nowhere," he replied quickly - too quickly - and his eyes met Constantine's and flicked nervously away.

"Nah, I'm sure I've seen you before. It'll come to me in a minute."

"I think you must be mistaken. I certainly haven't met you before - I'm sure I would remember." In his hurry to be out of there, the man almost did himself an injury, zipping his pants with more speed than caution. He moved over to the cracked sinks, jerking the sleeves of his plain black suit up to wash his hands, revealing what seemed to be the tip of a sword, tattooed onto the papery skin.

Memory hit Constantine like a lightening stroke. Ten years ago. Heaven and Hell waging war on the streets of London. The Damnation Army, and...

"The Resurrection Crusade? I thought you jokers had gone out of business long ago." Constantine took advantage of the shock his words produced to place himself between the man and the door. "I remember now. You were that plonker at me sister's house when Gemma went missing." He shook out a cigarette, eyes never leaving the man, who was looking at him like a cornered rabbit, unsure of whether to freeze or to bolt. "_Now_ I remember. You're still a weasel."

"Well done." The Crusader's voice held no humour, finding courage in well-known bigotry. "And what else do you remember, Magician?"

"I remember Zed."

The Crusader ran a pale tongue over his dry lips. "You mean the Mary."

"She'll always be Zed to me. I suppose you got rid of her soon enough after she failed to meet her destiny?"

"Failed?" Surprise flashed across the weaselly face, soon replaced by amusement. "You think we failed?"

"You must have, after..." Constantine paused, suspicion curling in his guts like a live snake swallowed whole. "No, not even you lot could be _that_ stupid."

"'Stupid'? We'll see who's stupid, Magician, when Raguel comes to judge you, hmm?" The Crusader shouldered his way past and back into the pub; Constantine let him go, knowing he would show up again, like the bad penny he was.

Besides, he needed to do some serious thinking.

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