by John Shirley
Tonsell-by-the-Stream, a sleepy little village outside of London, is suddenly swallowed down into the earth through the hellish machinations of an ancient, ominous force. At the behest of an extraordinary supernatural agent—and in exchange for the life of his best friend—down-and-out and amoral occultist John Constantine must venture deep into underground shadows to investigate this cataclysmic occurrence. But unbeknownst to Constantine, something beyond his worst nightmares awaits below—the deadly and phantasmagorical realm of the Sunless . . . a terrifying world where the Gloomlord rules over all with a sadistic and merciless hand, and Tonsell-by-the-Stream was only his first target on the surface world . . .
CONSTANTINE HUNG HEAVILY IN DARKNESS, AS QUIETLY AS POSSIBLE.
The light was from far up the shaft. He could hear machinery clunking, grinding; felt the whisper of rising air lifting the hair on the back of his neck. He waited, dangling in a void, his arms aching.
The gripplers came. He could hear the fingers snuffling inquisitively around in the chamber he’d just left—he could picture them clearly, in his mind’s eye, four-fingered hands, like something on toads, tip-tapping their way along the floor, bloodhounds with their smellers in their fingertips, picking up his scent . . .
His arms throbbed; he felt like his shoulders were slowly, slowly dislocating.
He could hear them coming closer now, tippity-tap, slither, tippity-tap, slither, closer and closer, looking to grab his wrists, perhaps to fling him down the shaft to their fellows, where the other gripplers would pull him apart or, maybe worse, impregnate his skin with fungi that would send their roots worming into his flesh, his veins, and finally into his brain . . .
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
A Pocket Star Book published by
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Copyright © 2006 DC Comics. All Rights Reserved.
JOHN CONSTANTINE: HELLBLAZER and all related titles, characters, and elements are trademarks of DC Comics.
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All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 1-4165-0344-6
First Pocket Books paperback edition December 2006
Manufactured in the United States of America
Farewell my freends let playne simplicity
Be stil your guide to lead you in your race
So shal ye neare approch to Unity
And evermore obtayne from him his grace
For double dealers, false and treacherous men
Wil quickly be entrapt in Errours den.
—Robert Fludd (1574-1637)
“Sometimes, mate, the only way out of the devil’s claws is double-dealing the devil’s way, and right brisk, too . . .”
—John Constantine (1953—?)
From the Servants of Transfiguration
Dossier on John Constantine
Top Clearance: Eyes Only
John Constantine, a working-class British magus, is rumored to be a magical adept by some, a con man by others. He may or may not be problematic to the SOT. He was born in 1953 in Liverpool (making him a “Scouse”) to a family that can be charitably called “working class” and this class association has marked his personal style. According to hospital records he was a twin, but his brother was born dead, asphyxiated by an anomalous loop of umbilicus. The magic symbolism of this seems ambiguous, to say the least. Additionally, Constantine’s mother died in childbirth. His father, Thomas Constantine, apparently blamed the infant JC for this. Thomas was incarcerated for stealing women’s underwear, at which time the boy and his sister were sent to live with an aunt and uncle, a rather troublesome pair, in Northampton. John Constantine’s relationships with family members have been rocky at best.
In 1967, he was expelled from school. Eventually he moved to Portobello, London, where he was involved in some of the more extemporaneous “rock and roll” scenes extant at the time. Constantine is reported to have had scores of occult adventures—possibly misadventures is a better term—but our researchers find it difficult to separate out fact from legend. It does appear that Constantine had a particularly nasty interaction with a demon invoked at Newcastle, leading to an extended sojourn in Ravenscar mental hospital. Despite the notorious sadism of Ravenscar’s staff, he seems to have emerged from the hospital with his sanity largely restored, all things being relative.
Constantine seems to be almost entirely without conventional financial support. We have no record of his taking money for an occult investigation or activity. He appears to make some of his very modest living through supernaturally enhanced gambling.
Our researchers are unable to discover precisely when and where Constantine learned about the Hidden World and gained a proficiency in ritual magic. We note a number of Constantine’s ancestors with a reputation for the supernatural (see SOT files, The Inquisition), hence he may have inherited some magical ability. He also seems to have actively explored the supernatural from fairly early in childhood, quite on his own initiative. As an adult, he may well have had inspiration from some other well-known figures in the uncanny realm, including the voodoo priest known as “Papa Midnite” (see dossier entry, “Papa Midnite: an authentic personage”). There are rumors that Constantine was involved with the (mythical?) elemental known as the “Swamp Thing.”
His abilities are not known for certain, but John Constantine is understood to be capable of limited telepathy precognition, astral projection, and the successful invocation of elementals, demons, and angels. There are persistent tales of his having visited Hell itself, somehow walking away more or less intact. However, he does not seem to have been allied with Hell’s supervisory denizens, nor is he regarded as a diabolist. Indeed, in recent years Constantine has been known to seek out white-magic spiritual adepts in a bid for improved control over his abilities.
Constantine has his weaknesses, including bouts of drunkenness, but is to be regarded as a dangerous adversary He is not without allies and is influential amongst aficionados of so-called chaos magick. E.g., there are at least two “alternative Tarot” decks which include an image of John Constantine as one of the face cards.
SOT operatives interacting with Constantine should keep in mind that he is cunning and treacherous. Our psych profile on him suggests that he is not without loyalty and some peculiar code of ethics evolved according to his own lights. Unfortunately we have no reason to believe his loyalty could ever extend to the SOT. He must be regarded as a loose cannon, at best.
If the opportunity arises, John Constantine’s elimination would be advisable.
Dossier Addenda
About a year ago, John Constantine interposed himself into our War Lord project, causing the destruction of several principle Servants—including Dyzigi—and, more disastrously yet, derailing the ritual invocation of the War Lord N’Hept, thus effecting the undoing of the Grand Transfiguration. The meticulously planned and prepared-for world war and Apocalypse did not come about.
Since that time, the halls of the SOT have been overcast by a cloud of disappointment.
The Council has held our own Hierophant Magister, MacCrawley, responsible for this fiasco, and has summarily assigned him to a new project that will bring about our revenge against John Constantine and set the stage for a new Transfiguration.
MacCrawley has been advised that he fails this undertaking at his own peril.
Prologue
A fine misty rain fell on a street in an Irish city, on a late Saturday afternoon; it fell too on a man of middle
age, walking along, hands in his trench coat pockets, a Silk Cut trailing smoke stuck in a corner of his mouth. The asphalt was worn away in places to show the old cobblestones underneath; a drunk snored in a doorway; a taxi careened by, a bus rumbled and squeaked and hissed and was gone . . . and a boy rattled by on a skateboard, shouting, “One side, gobshite!” at John Constantine as he slouched slowly down the sidewalk.
Constantine was only faintly aware of all this. His mind was retracing the journey he’d taken from London to Wales, thence to Ireland and a heroin-addicted neo-druid on the outskirts of Belfast who had given him directions to a crumbling monastery on the Irish west coast—where a policeman had fined him for “vandalism.” He’d been digging under a cornerstone, marked with a complex interlacing of crosses, looking for a stone artifact, more pagan than Christian. Which, sod it, someone else had gotten to before him. The box was there—plundered.
Knew it was likely to be a waste of time, he thought. Squandered two hundred quid looking for the bloody thing. Threw away valuable time that could be spent fleecing sheep in the casinos, or drinking meself into a stupor. Ought to go to the dock—wasting more time wandering about.
Then something did catch his attention as he turned a corner—a familiar smell, a familiar noise. Guinness and sawdust, cigarette smoke, the ka-chunk of darts, a jukebox playing Flogging Molly, a band he rather fancied. It was a pub—a “boozer” the locals called it. Just the thing to cheer a man up . . .
Constantine went in, there was never any doubt of it, and found an empty stool. He ordered a Bushmills with a Guinness to the side, and had knocked back the first and was partway down the second when he saw her in the booth—and she saw him at the same moment.
“Oh shite,” he muttered.
It was Kit. Dark, wavy hair—she was wearing it longer now; slender; a humorous intelligence in her eyes; dressed today in a green military jacket twice too big for her, which looked odd with her ankle-length dark purple dress—never seen her in one of those—and high-top sneakers. Going for a piecemeal look, he decided, nothing goes with anything and that’s the statement. Perhaps it was a way of saying “I’m not here to meet men, so sod off.” Even wearing this hodgepodge, she was beautiful—a simple honest beauty.
She was looking back at him, reproachfully and wryly at once. He crossed to her, smiling, almost bowled over by a heavy-set drunk with tattoos up and down his arms who was dancing thumpily to Flogging Molly, and making the floor shake.
“Careful, you were almost run over by our human lorry,” Kit said as he walked up. “How are you, John?”
He noted a second purse, opposite her in the booth—she was here with one of her girlfriends. Did that mean she was available?
What are you thinking? You performed a spell to drive her out of your heart. You sent those feelings into your demon counterpart, in Hell. What are you doing, gaping at her like a schoolboy at the leggy substitute teacher? Those feelings are gone!
“Well I’m gobsmacked,” he said. “What a gormless bastard I am. Here you are. I just stopped in for a quick wet . . .”
“Did you now?” Her Irish accent was modulated by her time in Britain. “Don’t take me for an eejit, John. Just happened to wander into my favorite boozer, out of all the pubs in Ireland?”
He looked around and winced. He had been here before. He’d been blocking all that, he realized. He hadn’t walked here at random at all. Probably—
Probably his whole journey, his ostensible search for the Curse Stone, had really been about coming here, to this pub. He’d been aching with loneliness—and Kit had been the only woman he’d gotten close enough to, to really ease that ache. He had more in common with Tchalai on some levels, but that hadn’t worked out. He’d unconsciously gravitated to this pub to regain what he’d exorcised.
“How’s . . . every last little thing, Kit?” he asked, knowing he sounded feeble.
“I’ve got a new job, working in an office, but apart from that everything’s as arseways as always. Still—I haven’t got the devil to worry about, or not any more than most, these days . . . and it’s been a bit of a relief, that, John.” She said it not unkindly, and with a look of sympathy. But she’d left him because he’d been unable to leave magic alone, and her meaning was clear. I’m better off without you and your Hidden World.
“You know—I really could give it all up,” he began. “I mean, if you were to consider . . .”
“It’s good to see you, Johnny,” she said. “But no thanks, love. I don’t mind a man who comes with baggage. They all do. But your bags—open those and anything might come out. It’s just . . . good to see you.”
He nodded. “Right. Well. I was just . . . in the neighborhood. Can I buy you a drink—for old time’s sake?”
“No, thanks, love, I’m off the drink. Water for me. I was drinking too much. You might think about the wagon yourself.”
“Think about it all the time—got to stay alert for it. Only way to be sure I can avoid getting on it, thinking it’s a bus.”
She smiled. “Same old John. Oh, here comes my friend—she’s telling me her troubles, John. Her husband—”
“Right. I’m off. But . . . I suppose I was hoping to see . . . you know, see how you were. Can I send you a letter sometime, Kit? Just to say hello. I don’t reckon you have the same address.”
She looked at him for a long moment—the gentleness of her pity made him want to tear his hair—and then she fished in her purse, found a pen and paper, scribbled an address. “You can write to me, John—just a hello letter.” She handed it to him.
Her friend, a slouching, red-haired woman with a black eye, was hovering at his elbow, so he smiled and winked at Kit, and made himself turn and walk away.
And out the door. The rain had intensified, and he let it run down his face. Best that way. So no one would know. He hated to show weakness.
He lit a cigarette and walked toward the docks, thinking, Oh the glamorous world of magic. Doesn’t it just get you all the best.
1
SOME MIGHT CALL IT SHAMBHALA—AND SOME MIGHT CALL IT SHEOL
Setting out on his mission, eager to follow the stranger, Duff Duffel heard the soft-headed boys sniggering at him as he left the only surviving village pub in Tonsell-by-the-Stream, Cornwall. “Dee old Dee!” called the boy Bosky, as Duff clutched his old Navy coat about himself in the late afternoon May drizzle and shuffled past the alley where the young wastrels clacked their dice and their skateboards. The boy Bosky wasn’t such a bad sort; he had to give the old man a jeer or two, but he was never one to call him a stinking old drunk, like that Upson fellow. Duff gave the jeering no more thought than he gave the chattering of squirrels in Smithson Wood. He knew the locals thought him daft, called him Daft Old Duff, wrote him off as a senile guzzle-guts, and he cared not a speck, because in his time he’d seen marvels and dreams come to life, indeed he had. His soul had left his body and flown to the Palace of Phosphor; he had bestrode the rings of Saturn and he had seen dryads dancing in the circles of stone.
He belched a memory of the three ales he’d drunk—drunk them watching the stranger in the pub—and he picked up his pace, beginning to wheeze in keeping up with the interloper, who was now fifty yards up the lane, heading for the edge of the village. Mr. MacCrawley was this burly, sharply dressed toff’s name—so the pub keeper had called him, when he’d settled his bill for the drinks and two days renting the little flat out back of the pub.
Now this MacCrawley was striding away down the lane, but Duff had seen him in the smoky pub clear enough: a stocky man, wide-shouldered, with iron gray hair cut short, almost bald; black tufted eyebrows, pale gray eyes, and a jutting block of chin. He wore a fine Savoy Row greatcoat, the color of fog, and shiny new black shoes. On an index finger was a ring with a great red cabochon, on which was carved a symbol few would know: a dragon with its body curved into the shape of an S, twining the letter T. Duff knew that crest, for he had been the apprentice of a true magician in his time. Duff�
��s drinking and whoring had caused Master Scofield to turn him out, but it was Scofield who came a cropper—for he vanished into the Deep Barrow, and never did return. The magician was dead, surely, while Duff still tottered about, drawing the dole and getting by on odd jobs, doing his little castings now and then, just to keep his hand in, but afraid to go far with it. If a spirit did answer his conjuring, it was only to laugh at him.
Duff passed the flower and gift shop—it would scarcely survive, were it not for the American tourists, buying supposed “Celtic pendants” and the like—in the window of which was a placard advertising the “Flower Show and Jumble Sale in Aid of Preservation.” Up ahead, MacCrawley had turned the corner. “He’s off to that barrow in the wood, he is,” Duff muttered. “I knew it, too, did I not? I did!”
Duff hesitated about following MacCrawley into Smithson Wood. He had only a half pint of whiskey on him in his old Navy coat, and he was not sure so little drink would see him through a visit to the barrow, a place he had not visited these twelve years and more.
Still, it was Duff’s mission to protect this village from the likes of MacCrawley—from those who bore that sigil on their rings, and the dire disembodied who served them. Old Duff was not appreciated for his efforts, no not by half. More than once he’d driven away those harridan mists who fed on the bone marrow of old men and women, so that elders could not fight the sicknesses that came and died of pneumonia. The villagers laughed at him, as he ran through the village waving switches of ash wood at what they supposed were scraps of fog, but Duff forgave them, they didn’t know better, and more than one of them had given him the price of a bowl of soup and a drink on a cold night.
So Duff made himself plod onward, after MacCrawley; made himself continue on into the lengthening shadows of the wood.
~