I admit, cruising Canal Street probably wasn't what Reverend Duncan had in mind when he asked me to help him exorcise his church.But magic sometimes works in mysterious ways and all that.
Chalk it up to one of my brief moments of charity, then. I suppose in a way it was sort've my fault, seeing as it was that bugger Rick the Vic's spirit who was noisily haunting his old parish, flinging the Host down unsuspecting women's blouses and all sorts've nonsense. He could at least have had the decency to move on after topping himself, y'know?
So his successor Reverend Duncan, who isn't the type to appreciate Rick's angel-foreskin Bible (good job he thinks it's Moroccan leather), asked me to "see if I couldn't do a little something about the...unpleasantness." And I said, sure, mate. Why not?
Good for a laugh, if nothing else.
Canal Street is dark, even with all the neon lights and tiki torches and lighters flicking to life like mating fireflies. It's got that sort've underlying darkness that most of Britain does; bogged down by too many years of blood and sweat and runoff human effluvium soaked into every inch of its green hills and grey cities. But despite that, there's a smell I recognize, one that brings almost painfully to mind a time ages ago in Camden. Gigging at the Electric Banana, singing up there and generating enough raw sex magic to turn the entire room on its ear, each and every one of them horny as all fuck.
That's what it's like here, a sort of energy in the air that forces all the pretty boys to walk faster, talk louder, fuck harder than anywhere else. It's a bloody whirlwind of sex energy and I can feel it setting into even my oul' bones.
Babylon looks good.
. .. ... .. . The fucking stupid "Shag Tag" comes right off my coat and into the bin. I might be getting on in years, but John Constantine doesn't need any shiny bit've sticker to land a shag. The day I do, I might's well wrap a Zimmer frame 'round me neck and be done with it.
I wonder briefly what Chas would've thought of this place, this Babylon. Last time Chas went somewhere fancier than the corner shop was his anniversary, when he and the missus went out for Indian. Real upscale night out, flock wallpaper and all. Poor sod. He'd probably be completely mind-wiped by all the sexual energy and snog me in the toilets, like he's been wanting to do for more than a quarter century now. But that's neither here nor there, issit?
Right. First things first.
Two G'n'Ts later, I'm up on the balcony, scanning the crowd. Christ, but they're all kids — tight shirts, tighter pants, all designer drugs and hair gel. This isn't my usual place, not my usual crowd. I'm more the local pub type than the nightclub type, and it shows in the looks I'm getting for the usual slept-in shirt and tie getup. It's getting on my nerves. Quickly.
But then I see what I'm looking for, and it all clicks into place — the way things do for me.
. .. ... .. . His name is Vince, Shag Tag #221. He's a shortish, quiet type of bloke who looks like he'd apologize for denting your fender if you hit him with your car. Which isn't to say he's ugly — he's got these angelic blue eyes that convince me that he's perfect.
I move up next to him at the bar and pay for his drinks. He looks up, startled, and launches an instant flurry of protests.
"Oh, no, that's fine, I couldn't —"
"Already done." I turn on the charm, ordering myself another gin and tonic. Nodding at the two bottles and one orange and voddy he's clutching, I continue, "You look like you got stuck with the shite job, anyhow."
He smiles back, relieved and disarmed. "No, not really. I mean, we take turns fetching the drinks."
"Here." I smoothly appropriate the orange from him, balancing it easily with the gin while he rearranges his fingers around the two bottles. "I'll give you a hand."
"Right. Thanks," Vince says belatedly. Poor git looks dazed. "We're right over this way —"
"John."
"Oh, yeah...my name's Vince."
"I know."
That covers him with confusion — am I some sort've stalker? — and he marches off determinedly in the direction of a tall blond poof who's practically vibrating with excitement.
"Oooh, Vince, I've just spotted me future husband! I can already picture 'im polishing me — hello, who's this?"
"Alexander, John. He got us our drinks." I stifle a chuckle at Vince's transparent attempt to diffuse my attention onto Alexander, who's giving me the eye and is clearly not impressed. The feeling's mutual.
"Well, I'm off then," Alexander trills in his Northern accent, grating down to the marrow of my Scouse bones. I practically cheer when he grabs a bottle and bounds away, leaving it just me and Vince.
He gives me another Nervous Nellie smile, those little-boy eyes flitting around, resting on nothing for more than a second. I watch, knowing my stare is unsettling him as he presses his pointy mouth to the bottle and takes a few swallows, hoping I'll be gone by the time he finishes the lager. No such luck, Vince. The devil doesn't leave so soon after you invite him along. Haven't hardly had a chance to get what I want out of you.
Realizing he can't suck on that bottle forever, Vince lowers it and is about to try and initiate friendly, pointless chitchat with me when suddenly his eyes light up, fixed on a spot over my shoulder, beyond me.
"Stuart!" he exclaims, and that one word tells me the whole story.
"That's the last time I wank off anybody under the age of nineteen — they don't last a minute," a new voice says disgustedly, an Irish voice, and for a moment I can't speak. He pushes past me and embraces Vince, this Stuart, and all I can see is the ghost of black black hair, green eyes, milky skin — Miss Ireland.
But of course, he's not Kit. In fact, he doesn't even look all that much like her — he's darker, more fine-boned. Stuart finally turns and looks at me, with some prompting from Vince, and flashes me a smile that would give a eunuch a hard-on. "Hullo," he says, eyes flicking over my old tat of a trench. "Dirty movie cinemas all full, then?"
I'm wrong — he's not Kit, he's the son Kit and I would've had while God looked down and laughed his bollocks off. He's perfect, too. I've found what I needed, all in one tightly-bonded packet.
Vince reprimands him gently, through a fit of laughter, and Stuart settles down, now that he's made the requisite sarcastic overture. They talk together, fast and lively, finishing off each other's sentences, and I can see the bond between them as they decide what to do with me. Vince looks unsure as Stuart turns back, tucking his chin down and fixing me with a come-sort-me-out look before giggling with Vince again.
I don't mind. I can afford to let them have some fun at my expense because I know this dance, boys. I reckon I was doing it before you were nasty thoughts in your fathers' heads. And what's worse, I've got the power to make it real.
. .. ... .. . A glamour is an easy thing to put into effect, if you've got any nerves at all. Even easier if the two you're using the shimmer on are high or drunk. You can imagine how piss-easy it is when they're both.
They follow willingly enough — well, Stuart does, in any case. Vince needs some coaxing, but he can hardly stand up to the combined wiles of his friend and me, and in the end, he comes 'round. Nobody had any doubts that he would, but I suppose he had to put up a token show of resistance.
Poor oul' Chas being called into service again, I find it in my heart to ride up front with him for once. Stuart and Vince giggle and carry on in the back, worrying Chandler no end.
"They'll rip the seatcushions, John," he repeats over and over. I smoke fag after fag and try to resist the urge to stub them out on his broad, bovine forehead while those two mercilessly kick the roof and the windows and the backs of our seats.
I suppose the only reason Chas put up with it is due to the ten-quid tip Stuart gives him (under my gentle suggestion, of course), and the final destination. He's rather an old-fashioned sort that way, the soft-hearted git; still goes on odd Sundays and bank holidays. But that doesn't stop him from speeding away after he lets us out've the cab.
Work to be done.
"Come on, boys," I announce, wrapping an arm around each of them. "To church we go."
. .. ... .. . Shite, but Rick's done a number on the place.
For starters, the crucifix is not only upside down, but festooned with a paperchain made from Bible pages and scrawled on in large, obscene handwriting. The statue of the Virgin Mary is liberally smeared with some of the angel spunk I'd gotten for Rick in the good oul' days. The whole place smells of pot and whiskey.
"It's a church!!!" Vince notices, his voice echoing loudly in the vestibule.
"Fucked up church," Stuart adds, skidding to a wobbly halt beside his friend. They turn to look at me as I drag the doors shut and bar them.
"Don't worry, boys — I'm not gonna hurt you," I tell them quickly. Vince looks like he doesn't quite believe me; being in church clearly holds certain bonds and restrictions on him. Stuart, on the other hand, is getting excited, doing a writhing little movement with his hips that says only one thing.
So I lean over, pull him close, and kiss him, hard.
Vince makes a startled, shocked noise. He's probably making the Sign of the Cross or genuflecting or flagellating himself or something, he's that type. Stuart molds his body against me, opening his mouth, grinding his hips against mine. He's a right little slut, this one. I congratulate myself again on my choices and good luck, Constantine, y'oul' shitter, and reach out to haul Vince into our embrace.
He stumbles against us with another squawk of fear, but Stuart and I hold him fast, and Stuart's mouth leaves mine to lay claim to Vince's. It about does the poor bloke in; one swipe of Stuart's tongue and he's melting in our arms. The aura of sex surrounding us is so strong I wonder it doesn't blow out the windows, burn the air, scream to the heavens.
They look dead gorgeous together, Vince's openness and light and Stuart's dark, cavernous sexuality. But that's why I chose them, to play off each other, water and wine, Vestal Virgin and Sacred Prostitute, Madonna and Whore. Joined by love and made One.
I hang on a bit longer, stroking their backs and heads and firm young arses until I'm sure they're not letting go of each other. Then I disentangle myself carefully, step back, pick up one of the bud vases sitting among the leaflets and hymns on the inside table and dip it quickly into the holy water. Stuart slides his long-fingered hands up Vince's shirt, hiking it up to display a nicely-muscled back and throwing his head back when Vince kisses his throat. They're oblivious to me, now; caught up in their own magic, they don't notice me heading up to the altar, mixing the water with sacramental wine.
Look, I never said magic wasn't corny on occasion.
The old formulas tend to work best, especially in cases like this, where the ghost isn't some hard-arsed demon who's been forged in the pits of Hell. It's Rick the Vic, for fucksake. I could've got him out of here using party hats and hamsters, frankly — but this is a bit more permanent, and I might's well do it right for oul' times' sake.
Vince is doing his part as the Virgin with rather more enthusiasm than I would've given him credit for; it's like he's posessed by the spirit of the original Virgins, who weren't, actually. They were just picky about who they gave themselves up to. Stuart, on the other hand, seems born for the part of Sacred Prostitute, treating this like some sort of holy ritual between them. I light up a self-congratulatory fag and give the bud vase and its contents a good shake.
I sprinkle the water-wine mixture around them, on the altar, in the four corners of the church. Then I sit on the front pew and wait.
Behind me, Stuart drops to his knees and Vince breathes his name.
. .. ... .. . "It's time to move on, Vic."
He sits next to me, making that funny rustling noise ghosts sometimes make, knees together, hands folded on them. I know the body language — he's pissed and he's trying to rein it in, keep it under wraps. I'm not surprised. After all, it's because the First of the bloody Fallen wanted me dead that Rick killed himself and ended up damned. I do feel responsible in a way.
But then again, fuck — if he didn't remember that suicide barred your entry into Heaven, he weren't much of a bloody vicar anyway.
"I've got no choice, now," he says tightly, his voice sounding rattly and thin. "After what they're doing —" he jerks a slightly transparent thumb in Stuart's and Vince's direction, where I can quite clearly tell that Stuart's riding Vince something fierce, "— I can't come back here. I'll be sealed out. My own parish."
"It's a bit sad-sack, to be honest," I tell him. "There must be better places to hang 'round."
"I suppose." He stares at his feet, at the grain of the wood on the floor that he can see through his feet. Then he looks at me, and I get a tiny flash of guilt, because it's like old times and I've cocked that up forever, just like I always do with the people I doom by calling 'friend'. "Just one question, though, John."
"What's that, then?"
His voice turns plaintive as the boys' moans and gasps get louder, the pressure of the potent sex magic they're working being unleashed, turning Rick a filmier transparent as it builds to its crescendo.
"Why them as the Virgin and Prostitute? Why not a pair of women, preferrably with big, bouncy bosoms?"
I can't help a grin as I light a fag.
"Because, Rick-me-lad, I knew this would piss you right off."
"Fuck you, Constantine," he says, and then Vince wails and Rick shines brighter, brighter, until he flashes white-hot...
...and he's gone.
. .. ... .. . They wander up to the front eventually, straightening clothes and rearranging hair with sheepish pleasure (for Vince) and smug satiation (for Stuart).
"Wha happened t'yer friend?" Stuart asks, lilting that Dublin accent mercilessly my way. I shrug, my trencher rustling against the pew and sounding uncannily like the whispering noise Rick made.
"Got better," I say shortly, tapping another Silk Cut out've the pack.
"Uh...could I nick a fag off you?" Vince asks. I give him one and he beams, accepting a light and ignoring a pointed look from Stuart. Mildly surprised, I turn to Stuart as Vince drags on the ciggie like it's a pint to a dying man.
"You don't smoke?"
Before Stuart can reply, Vince answers, an affectionate smile in his voice. "No, he doesn't do anything like that. Not Golden Boy."
"Fuck off," Stuart grins back, and I just about crap me trousers.
Golden Boy?
The two of them head towards the doors of the church, not bothering to say goodbye, which is fine by me. By tomorrow morning they'll have forgotten all about the strange oul' bloke in the tattered trench coat, and they'll forget that they had the most incredible sex of their young lives on the floor of a haunted church.
And with any luck, I'll have forgotten the twin who I strangled in the womb, the one who was going to be so much better and brighter than I was. The Golden Boy.
Mysterious ways, and all that shite.
