Byrd Man — Roleplayer Guild

Morden
1998

“C’mon, Jer, don’t be a pussy!”

Jerry Lambeth cursed to himself before he started down the tunnel. His two mates were already halfway down the corridor and were rapidly fading into the dark. Jerry hurried after them, worried his white trainers would be stained by whatever the hell that was covering the floor. The three boys had found the little passage a week earlier on one of their many adventures through Morden. Today, after school, they had finally worked up the nerve to go through the door and see where it led.

“I heard a story about a bloke who went down here,” said Rob. “Supposed to be a bank robber or something, innit? They said he got eaten by rats. He could have gotten away, but he refused to drop the money he was carrying.”

“What a load of shite,” said Brian. “It’s just an urban legend, mate. Like the West Ham van.”

“What’s that?” Jerry asked, huffing and puffing as he tried to keep up.

“You never heard that story?” Brian asked with a snort. “It’s as old as the cobweb’s in your mum’s fanny!”

“Fuck off,” snapped Jerry. “Least the boys ‘round the way don’t have to take a number to shag my mum like they do with you!”

Jerry and Brian started pushing each other, daring the other one to take the first swing like young boys always do. Neither one of them bold enough to actually make the first move.

“The story is this,” Rob said as he stepped between them. “Supposedly football hooligans drive around in a shitty van and ask people if they support West Ham. If you answer no, they chase you down and slice your face open with a knife.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Jerry. 

“It’s true,” replied Rob. “My brother’s best mate’s sister’s cousin said it happened to a schoolmate of theirs.”

“Well, there you go,” Jerry said with a harsh laugh. “Concrete proof, innit?”

“Fuck you,” Rob said with a hiss. He pushed Jerry, knocking him to the ground.

Jerry felt the back of his head connect solidly with the concrete floor. His vision blacked as he lost consciousness. Jerry's body seemed to be floating on air. He felt his consciousness sinking down to somewhere below. Through the dark he could hear the sounds of laughter, high-pitched and shrill. The laughter faded. It was replaced by off-key singing. It was loud and close by.

“I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air/They fly so high, nearly reach the sky, and like my dreams they fade and die./Fortune's always hiding, I've looked everywhere/I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air!”

When Jerry snapped his eyes open, he was standing on a deserted street somewhere in Morden. It looked to be day, but he wasn’t sure. The sky above was a sickly pale green. In front of him was a van, its grey paint rusting and in the process of flaking off.  The driver revved the van’s engine while a man with a skinned head leaned outside the passenger side. He wore a sleeveless shirt, letting Jerry see the large tattoo on his forearm. It showed a castle with two criss-crossing hammers  He flashed a grin at Jerry, showing off two rows of cracked and broken teeth.

“Oi!” he shouted. “You support West Ham?!”

Jerry screamed in terror and ran as fast as he could. He heard the hooligan cackle and start singing the West Ham fight song again. The van’s engine roared as it barreled down the street towards him.

---

The Tate Club
Now

The tuxedo and evening dress crowd of the Tate Club were gathering in the club’s cleared out ballroom. Clarice and Albert were busy instructing them on their part of tonight’s ritual. Among them were Jack Hawksmoor and Map, making themselves ready to play their part. Off to the side, John and Chas watched.

“So what is it, exactly?” asked Chas. “This Underland nonsense you’re all prattling on about.”

“It’s a realm,” John said, expelling smoke as he spoke. “It’s where London’s urban legends and myths live. You ever heard the story about the rock star who had a gallon of semen pumped from his stomach at a London hospital?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Well, he’s down in the Underland with a belly full of baby batter. Every half-remembered story or whispered tale you heard from a friend of a friend’s uncle. It all gets filtered down there. Not just today’s stories, but every story for over two thousand years.”

“Fucking hell,” said Chas. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

“You said it,” nodded John. “But it’s a double-edge sword. All that myths and residual psychic energy that comes from belief, it’s the stuff that powers the magic of London. That's why guys like Map and Jack can't go down. It'd be like a fucking feedback loop for them. So... that's why I god own. Someone or something is down there, throwing a spanner into the works.”

“Should I start heading to the dispatch then?”

“Yeah,” said John. “If it goes to hell, then they'll give you a ring so you can play your part. But for now you’re just on stand-by.”

“Got it.”

Chas started to leave. John reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait,” he said. "I meant what I said earlier, Chas. We’ll go for a pint once all this gets settled.”

“Right,” Chas said with a nod. “You know my pub, right?”

“Sticks and Stones,” said John. “You’re as predictable as the weather, mate.”

Chas smirked and winked before he left the ballroom behind. John turned and saw Map looking at him.

“We’re ready for you,” he said. “The question is, are you ready for us?”

John laughed and flicked the stub of his cigarette away. The elderly members of the Tate Club sat in a circle on the ballroom floor, their hands interlocked. John stepped over them and walked into the circle. Map and Jack were inside the circle, standing and facing each other with their arms out.

“Tonight, we invoke the spirits of London herself,” John said as he drew a pentagram on the floor in chalk. Chalk made specifically from the London soil. “We seek to call forth a bridge to that mystical and sacred land underneath the city itself. The place of myth that has existed since the time of Londinium.”

The members of the Tate Club began to chant in Latin and started to call forth the bridge and invoking the old city just as John had. Map and Jack shut their eyes and brought their hands together, both men drawing from the power of London to give Constantine strength. Suddenly, John could feel something tug at his chest. It was hard and sharp and it took his breath away. He let out a gasp and his body collapsed to the floor.

---

???

John’s eyes opened. He was standing in the middle of a deserted London street. He looked up in the sky and saw it was an emerald green hue. He was in the Underland. John walked over to a shop and looked at his reflection in the shop window. His face was smooth, his blonde hair a shade darker than it was today and the bangs done up in spikes. His rumbled shirt and tie was replaced by an immaculate pinstriped three-piece suit and a pair of snazzy white gloves. 

“I’m back,” he said with a grin. “The big, bad magic boogieman of London.”

The sound of a roaring engine drew his attention away from the glass. He spotted a gray van racing down the street towards him. A terrified boy of about eleven ran ahead of it. A football hooligan hung out the van window, chanting some fight song and waving a knife. John reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a brand new pack of cigarettes and a fresh lighter. When he had the first drag off his smoke, he looked up and saw the kid and van were almost to him.

“Bloody hell,” John sighed as he stepped forward. ”No rest for the wicked, then.”

Joe was in a bad mood. 

These Russian/German fucks had killed one of his business associates. The doctor broad could have been a real big asset to both the Boston end of operations and what they were doing out here in Vermont. But that was a moot point now thanks to these Communist bastards and their fucking police lapdogs.

"I want to cave your goddamn head in with my gun."

Joe loomed over the tied up state trooper. He kept his eyes downcast on the ground as Joe talked to him.

"But my friends would frown upon that. They think you're innocent. But you and I know the truth. They killed that lady in there and you just stood by and let them. The only thing I hate worse than a cop is a cop without a spine. Look up at me."

The cop looked up, shaking in fright. Joe showed him his phone. On it was a picture he'd taken of the trooper's driver's license. He swiped the screen to show the cop photos Joe had taken from his own phone, photos of his children.

"If you don't forget what you saw here tonight, rest assure we will remember where you live and what your kid's look like."

"Whatever-whatever you say," the cop croaked. "Just let me live."

"You got it," Joe said, smacking the guy on the back of the head with his shotgun butt.

The trooper crumpled to the ground. Joe stepped over him and raised his shotgun when he saw Dan had a bead drawn on some nearby movement.

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