London
19981998 Mood MusicJohn Constantine was in love. He’d never admit it to anyone, especially to himself, but how else could he explain the feeling he got when he was with Kit Ryan? She was some kind of conceptual artist John had met at a party thrown by his mate Brendan Finn. Brendan had eyes for Kit and was going to use the party to make his move. But the second John and Kit locked eyes Brendan's plan was shot all to hell. The two of them spent the rest of the night in their own private corner of Brendan's flat before going back to hers. They'd been seeing each other for nearly six months now. It was a personal best for John.
“What do you think of this?” Kit asked in her lovely Irish brogue.
The two of them were in Soho at an open air market. Kit had a silver necklace in her hands with a matching ankh dangling at the end of the necklace. John smiled and took it from her, examining it while Kit looked on with a smirk.
“You’re the expert,” asked Kit. “Go on, then, tell us what it means.”
“Life,” said John. “Of sorts. While the Christian cross was a symbol of death that was co-opted as a symbol of resurrection, the ankh has always been about the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. There’s a reason all the Egyptian gods were drawn holding it. It encompasses everything.”
John looked at the old lady behind the jewelry booth.
“How much?”
“Fifteen quid.”
“I’ll take it.”
John paid the lady and clasped the necklace around Kit’s neck. He felt her hand slide into his as they made their way through the market.
“I didn’t say I wanted it, you know.”
“Didn’t have to, love, I read your mind.”
“Oh?” Kit asked with raised eyebrow. “So you’re a mind-reader now? On top of an exorcist, occult detective, and magician. A man of many skills.”
John pulled Kit into his arms and he stared into her eyes. There were flecks of gold in her green eyes, and the flecks seemed to dance when she was in a good mood like she was today. They were in the middle of bustling Soho, but to John they were the only two in existence.
“Haven’t you heard?” he asked with a laugh. “I’m bad news, ‘Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.’”
“Easy there, Lord Byron,” Kit said, leaning forward to kiss John.
“Keep kissing me like that and you’ll find out about another skill of mine.”
“Steady on, you cheeky bastard,” Kit said, pushing John away.
The two of them shared a laugh before starting back through the market, hand in hand and Kit’s head resting against John’s shoulder. Later, they would go to a pub where John would hustle a snooker player out of two hundred pounds, and even later they would back to John’s and make love.
Looking back it would be one of John’s favorite memories. He’d think about it from time to time, especially when they buried Kit, and again when he took a last glimpse of London on the freighter out of town. That day, like his first in the city, was one of the many examples of the magic of London and what it held for its people.
I met my love by the gas works wall
Dreamed a dream by the old canal
I kissed my girl by the factory wall
Dirty old town
Dirty old town---
Slough
NowJohn came to with a start. He moaned and tried to remember exactly where he was. His entire body seemed to ache, every muscle burned. It was as if he had run a marathon and got hit by a bus right at the finish line. He shifted, realizing he was on top of the sheets of some rickety bed. The room he was in was a small one-room flat somewhere. In the corner, Jack Hawksmoor clung to the wall, his bare feet sticking against the cheap wallpaper like glue.
“You look healthy,” John mumbled. “Christ, I could kill for a smoke. What happened? Where are we?”
Jack came off the wall and started to walk gingerly towards John.
“We’re in Slough.”
“Why the hell are we in Slough?”
John pushed himself up off the bed. He regretted it instantly. The room seemed to spin and his head pounded out a steady rhythm. It was like being hungover without all the fun of getting drunk beforehand.
“What happened down there?” asked Jack. “In the Underland.”
“I fought and killed Brutus of Troy, or at least something based on him. He said that people from the future gave him the power to kill you. Something about…,” John sighed and rubbed his temple. “Fuck… something about gods not yet born. Any of this making sense?”
“More than you realize,” said Jack. “There’s been talk among the intangibles, the lesser gods like myself who aren’t at the same level as the religious deities, that someone somewhere is planning on making a move on us. There's some prophecy. It's all complex and mysterious. I’ll have to convene the council.”
“Fascinating, squire.” John reached into his jacket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He sighed and tossed the pack to the floor. “Now, why the fuck are we in Slough? What happened after I was pulled from the Underland?”
“You’ve been cursed, John. There’s no way to get around it. I had to bring you to Slough because if you get any closer to London, you’ll burn alive.”
John thought back to just before he lost consciousness. Brutus was on the ground and dying. He did something with his last act. John remembered hearing words and seeing hand gestures right before it all went to black. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall the bed was situated against.
“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck-fuck-fuck. And the cunt did it right as he died.”
“I’m afraid so.”
After several minutes of silence, John stood on shaky legs, limping past Jack and towards the flat’s door. Hawksmoor called to him as he started down the hallway towards the stairwell. He found the roof access and found himself out on the ledge of the building, staring through the dark in the direction of London. You could see lights, but Slough was far enough way that he couldn't make out any of the landmarks. Even still he could feel it out there, beckoning to him as it always did since he was sixteen. London. Lady London. Now she was a true siren beckoning him to smash himself upon the rocks.
John knew enough about Brutus’ curse to know that it was nigh unbreakable. The spirit had been something more powerful than a simple mage, and he had cursed John with the very last of his energy. A curse bestowed at the time of death was much more powerful than a standard one. All that combined to leave John--
“Fucked. Proper fucked.”
“To put it bluntly,” Jack Hawksmoor said from behind him.
“I was just a boy when I came to London,” John said, ostensibly talking to Jack but not really caring if he was listening. “Thought I had the city in the palm of my hands. I was wrong, I got knocked down and chewed up and spat out by this city. But I got back up, I made something of myself. I became a legend and fell in love, met my mates and watched them all die. And I ran away from it all. And now that I want to come back...”
John turned away before he prattled on any more. When he looked at Jack, his eyes were shining.
“Take me back to L.A., Jack. There’s nothing here for me.”
I'm going to make me a good sharp axe
Shining steel tempered in the fire
I'll chop you down like an old dead tree
Dirty old town
Dirty old town---
[b]London[b]
“Another one, Chas?”
“I’m good,” Chas Chandler said as he slapped his money on the bar. Jim took it and quickly settled his bill. “I been here long enough. I need to get going before the missus starts calling.”
Chas took one last glance at the door before turning back to the bar. He shook his head. After all the shit he’d put up with over the years he should have known better. He was only the footman, the sidekick, the hired help. Why did he rate any sort of consideration from the Laughing Magician? The only thing you could count on John Constantine to do was let you do. Jim raised an eyebrow at Chas before taking his empty glass away.
“Sorry, mate.”
“It’s okay,” Chas said he stood. “What’s the old saying: fool me once shame on you, fool me sixty thousand fucking times then shame on me.”
“Something like that.”
“Just do me a favor? Never trust people.”
Jim grunted as Chas started towards the door. Without a second look back, Chas disappeared through the door and into the night.
Dirty old town
Dirty old town 
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