Suffer The Children

by Rossi

Chapter Five: A Mugging In Memory Lane.

Wrapped in the living heart of the tree, they are so close he can smell the purity of her skin, overlaid with the intoxicating scent of incense. Just being near her breaks his heart all over again.

["I've come to break you out."

"No, John. I'm sorry, but I can't. I've decided I have to do it. It was what I was born for. Please don't try to make me."

"No, darlin', I won't try to make you. Huh, so I play fall guy to a starring role in 'The Son Of Man, Part Two'."

"Don't be bitter."

"I'm not. I'd probably do the same if I were you. What choice do you have? Queen of Heaven or drudge of Hell."

"Don't cry. I'll always love you, John."

"That's good. I'll always love you too."]

He is enveloped in her arms, his head upon her breast like a sleepy child's. She is so soft, and it feels so good…

…Then he smells the burning, feels the touch of holy fire. He shoves her away, and the air is filled with the greasy smell of roasting meat. 'Just like Ritchie.' She is incandescent, burning brighter than a star, and even as her flesh withers and her skin runs down like melting cheese, she reaches for him, the sightless eye sockets seeking him out.

"John…"

Constantine woke with a start, spilling the remains of a tumbler of whisky into his lap. It didn't matter; he reeked of the stuff any way. Besides, it drowned out the smell of burning flesh that still seared his memory. Christ, he hadn't had a dream like that for years. He'd left Kingston about two am, staggering back to his flat with his mind awhirl with fire and feathers and a pair of greenish-blue eyes looking up at him with misplaced trust. Not the first of his betrayals, or the worst, but it had niggled at the back of his mind like a psychic toothache. Like unfinished business. Eventually it had faded, but now it was back, with a vengeance.

"Fuck it," he snarled, thumping his glass onto the table beside his armchair and staggering to his feet. Eight years, and the Resurrection Crusade and the Damnation Army were reaching out for him again. Last time he had lost his remaining friends, unwitting pawns sacrificed in a doomed game-plan. He'd lost his mind too, for a time, harried by the ghosts of his conscience. The only doubtful gain had been the demon's blood-cure, the fires of Hell running through his veins, knitting bone and muscle, the blood which still seethed inside him. No, he'd paid his dues, salved his conscience. Phil was just going to have to manage this one on his own.

With that thought, he made his way to the bathroom, shedding pub-soiled clothes as he went. Yeah, that'd be the ticket, he decided as the water sluiced over him. It was lukewarm, as always, but the shower did him good. He'd call Kingston, have breakfast on the CID expense account, and then dump the whole sticky mess in his lap. Kingston wouldn't love him for it, but he could live with that. After all, it wasn't like he was winning any popularity contests… He turned off the taps, almost immediately noticing the abrupt chill in the air. The plastic curtain was slick with ice as he pushed it back…

Zed was standing on the bathmat.

"Jesus," he breathed, his skin crawling and humping itself into gooseflesh as if it was trying to escape. His breath fogged in the frigid air. Hers did not. "Are you real?"

She smiled at him in that lazy, mysterious way she'd had, reminding him of the Cheshire Cat. "As real as any of your ghosts, John," she said, reaching out to brush his chest with fingers no more substantial than wind or smoke. "You'll catch your death, standing there soaking wet."

Constantine reached out for the threadbare towel hanging on its rail, not taking his eyes off her. Zed - and she _was_ Zed, not the eerily serene Mary he had betrayed with something more than a kiss - watched him wrap the towel around his skinny hips, her not-quite-there face wearing a look of amusement. He drank the sight of her in like single-malt whisky.

"You're lookin' good for a figment of my imagination, kid," he said with a slight grin. "So, does this mean I'm losing my marbles again?"

"Probably, love." Again, that full-lipped smile. "Or I could be your unconscious, telling you not to be such a bloody fool." Her expression grew serious, the blue-green eyes turning dark. "The child is dangerous, John. People have died. And they're going to keep on dying."

"An' I'm going t' be one of them, if I go up against your Lords and Masters again." The words cut like a well-wielded whip, and Constantine's fingers itched for a cigarette. "I've done me bit. Let Her Majesty's Finest earn their wages."

"Even thought they can't possibly deal with it?" Zed's ghost - or his own - sounded bitter. "Then again, that's your style, isn't it? Using your friends as cannon fodder? A pity people don't come by the box, like tissues. You'd need the Jumbo Economy Size."

"Tell me something new, kid. It's all part of the bastard charm." Before she could protest, he walked through her unquiet shade and into the lounge. Dirty grey morning was filtering through the half-drawn blinds, the light unforgiving and mean. Hopelessness oozed from the overflowing ashtrays, the dishes heaped in the kitchenette sink, the clothes scattered on the floor. He turned, half-expecting, wholly wanting her to be behind him, happy to argue morality as long as she wanted, if only so she'd stay.

The doorway was empty.

"Shit."

The electronic shrilling of his coat was loud in the still flat. Stooping, he fumbled through the pockets until his fingers met the slick shape of Kingston's mobile phone. His resolution to back out loomed large, faltered, even as his fingers felt for the 'Off' switch. Then, he pressed the 'Start' button.

"Wot?"

"Who is this?" The voice was definitely not Kingston's. Not unless he'd gone for a sex change operation. And spent years at Oxford or Cambridge or another of those Institutions for the Education of Insufferable Gits.

"I'm a ma… an associate of Phil's. He's been consulting me on a case. Who th' hell are you?"

"Detective Inspector Robbins. DS Kingston is one of my people. How did you get his mobile?" Constantine couldn't help grinning. Poor Phil. No wonder he looked so put upon, with Madame Lash as his governor.

"He left it behind in th' pub last night. I picked it up for him - I was going to give it back to him today." The towel slipped, and Constantine had to hitch it up again, the mobile cradled against his shoulder.

"So you know where he is."

"At work, I would have thought. What's all this about?"

"Detective Sergeant Kingston didn't report in this morning. And as far as we can determine, he didn´t go home last night." Beneath the official façade, he could now hear the concern that laced DI Robbins' words, concern that was well-placed. Kingston was a good copper, and a good family man. It wasn't like him to not let someone know what was going on. He probably put in a report every time he went to the bog. "If you have any information about where DS Kingston might be, I strongly advise you to tell me, Mr…?"

Constantine hit the "End" button, neatly cutting her off. "Bloody idiot. Why the fuck didn't you call me?" He made to put the mobile down on the table, but then paused as something occurred to him. "Or maybe you did, only I was too bloody drunk to hear it." Somehow, he managed to get into the stored messages on the little device - machines had never been his thing, not like his old pal Ritchie, who had gone up in smoke while astrally surfing the information highway. He flipped through the half-dozen or so messages left my work colleagues (inadvertently wiping each one), until he reached the last one.

"John? John, ya stupid wanker, answer the bloody phone. What's the bloody point of giving it to you if you turn it off?" Kingston's voice sounded unusually strained, almost panicked, and the sound of it made the room temperature drop several degrees. Constantine's blood seemed to freeze. "Look, I'm down…" A swirl of static obliterated the policeman's voice for a moment. "…and he's here! That kid you told me about, I've seen him!" Again the voice faded, returned. "…to get down here, before…" Constantine resisted the urge to bash the mobile against the table. "…oh shit, I think I've…" The sound of traffic, a public announcement system making as much sense as Swahili, and then another voice, high and pure and chillingly clear.

"Are you a bad man?"

"Phil!" Constantine shouted, as if that would help.

"You have no more messages," the machine cheerfully told him. This time he _did_ throw the thing away, taking off to the bedroom at a dead run. First clothes, and then he had a mate to save.

[next part]

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