Hellblazer: Grime

[Star]

The plain clothes policeman took a drag on his cigarette, tossed it into the gutter and crushed it under his heel. He ambled over to where his two colleagues stood, their breath turning into steam on the cool night air, and looked across the street at the warehouse. A techno beat wafted out of the building, and across the street like a whispery sigh. Or a chant. The policeman wiped his brow nervously, then started as someone spoke from an alleyway behind them.

"Watford. 'Told you not to call me again, mate."

Watford turned and peered into the alleyway. For a moment, all he could see was a single red, flaring eye, floating towards him. The eye turned into a glowing cigarette butt, as a trench-coated man stepped into the evening gloom. The man took another puff of his Silk Cut cigarette and stood looking at the policemen speculatively.

"Jesus, John ... your flair for the bleedin' threatrical never gets old, son", Watford said. The other two policemen turned to look at "John", taking in the messy blonde hair, the lined face, the well-worn coat over the tie and rumpled white shirt. The bulge of a packet of smokes in the top pocket. The cold eyes gleaming over the smoking cigarette, and the tangible feeling of being scrutinised. Weighed. Evaluated. "Eddie, Bill ... you remember Constantine, I take it?"

For several heartbeats, no-one spoke. Then Eddie, the tallest of the cops, said: "It's a bit hard to forget that room in London".

"Robbery squad don't see much of that business, I'd imagine", Constantine said, moving into the street beside the men. "Matter of fact, no-one sees much of that business. Probably for the best, really."

The tempo of the music seemed to increase as Constantine stepped onto the road across from the warehouse. The street almost seemed to vibrate, as if a train was running underground. But there were no tube stations nearby. Nor was there any construction going on in the neighboring estates. Watford looked from the warehouse to Constantine. Back to the warehouse again. Watford ran his tongue over his dry lips. He was vaguely aware he was sweating on such a cool evening. The music had turned into a chorus of groans.



to be continued........