Saturday Night
(John Constantine - Hellblazer - fan fiction. A version of this was published on 'Straight to Hell' back in 2000 or so)
(Setting: Jilly’s Rock World, 1998)
When it all started, I was completely speechless. I ended up asking myself the same question repeatedly – sometimes quietly, sometimes with more haste – all however with urgency and terror.
When it all started, and we all charged in, we were a rush of soldiers charging toward a united cause. None of us knew why Brickie threw that bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale over that skinhead’s head, I knew we would be in trouble, but we certainly weren’t going to let our friend get promptly murdered for something that wasn’t his fault. I didn’t know that skinhead personally that Brickie launched his missile at, but I knew his mate. Sad Paul. Yeah, Sad Paul whose brother Dirty Dan was one of the hardest, cruel ruthless bastards going. He was one of those guys who didn’t cross not for the fear he would launch into you without warning or reason – to be truthful, he was one of those sorts of guys who would push you twice as hard and probably in the process rip you in half without blinking.
But he did….
I’ll be truthful with you; I am not going to pretend we are angels or anything. We’ve all done things we aren’t proud off on Saturday Night. I remember one time seeing Dave accidentally while under the influence of about 12 pints of Strongbow stand on some young tosser’s toes while walking around the pool table at the City and the little bastard and his two mates swung for him, and Dave put the three of them in hospital after using the pool cue for things it wasn’t initially designed for.
But what I am trying to say, is we don’t go looking for it. When you are footie fans like us, sometimes trouble seems to come running to your front door when you least want it or indeed expect it. Over the ten or 15 years I’ve hung around with the lads, I can honestly say hand on my heart we have never once gone looking for it. Take that night like I said at the city, Brickie didn’t go looking for trouble but when he found it, he pushed back him and pushed back bloody hard. He used that pool cue like it was like a hand grenade or a bullet speeding out of a machine gun at the speed of light. It flew straight and true, or honest and blue depending on your point of view. It spun into the crowd, taken like a corner kick taken by an incredibly gifted footballer – clearly designed with a art that is or was shown by a truly great painter – all planned, all purposefully put forward so there was little or no room for error. Brickie knew what he was doing all right.
He knew what he was doing.
But he didn’t start it…
He just made sure he bloody finished it.
You’ve probably seen us out around Manchester most Saturday Nights. Me, Dave, Bob, Joe and whoever else we can usually drag out with us. There’s a large gang of us lads, but it always changes. Tony the Pony for example is married and has a few kids, so sometimes stops with his missus to look after the kids, but when he comes out you can often hear him coming a mile away, but he doesn’t go looking for trouble. None of us do. Most Saturdays, we can be found going down to the footie, City or United – usually taking it in turns as Bob and Joe are die-hard City fans while Dave and I follow United. Been going for years. When City don’t play at home, United are usually playing at home so we take it in turns, and then once we’ve finished, we usually head down to the Crown in Manchester to drink until we drop.
Bob and Joe usually hammer it on Carlsberg or Carling. Dave’s usually a Boddington’s man while Paul’s a major cider in particular Strongbow fan while I’ll drink nearly anything within reason. Don’t have a favourite – I like to drink whatever I feel like really. Last Saturday for example, I drank nothing but Jack Daniels and Coke all night long. My guts felt like they had been dragged through a blender the next morning, but like I said it’s all down to personal choice. You can drink whatever the hell you like when you are with us as far as I am concerned.
Brickie however is something different altogether. The rest of us love drinking believe me and are well known for spending all Saturday in the pub if the United or City match finished early but Brickie, he’s the sort of thing legends are made out of in the halls of drinking…. I’ve seen him knock back ten pints of lager after arriving in the Fletcher Moss at 9.30 pm in an hour and a half and then still stagger home reasonably sober.
That was Brickie…
But that night, it was something different altogether. We’d had ended in Jillys (which is called Rock-world for the younger people out there or people who don’t live in England) after spending most of the day and indeed evening up down Oxford Road. It had started off badly, both City and United had been turned over by poor opposition in City’s case, they had got stuffed 4-nil and United had done their usual at the end of the match when the defence fell asleep for just that vital second and gave away a typical scrappy goal.
I mean, speaking as a United fan we are pretty well used to winning everything nowadays, but when you see your team meekly give up like they did that day is nothing short of almost criminal. Brickie was sat there complaining for hours and hours “I don’t fucking believe it” was his cleanest reply of the day, I seem to recall.
It possibly explains his reaction later…
Chas for example was particularly shocked. He only hung around with us occasionally as he lived in London and only came out with us whenever he us up to visit Tony the Pony. Both had known each other for years and years. Went to the same school together or something, I seem to recall Tony telling us once.
“Jesus” was his reaction “What the hell is he doing? “He said as Brickie walked towards them. “They’ll bloody murder him”
“He’ll be alright,” I answered putting my pint down slowly on the nearby floor
“But is it what you want, squire?” A voice said from behind me.
“Who said that?” I answered turning around.
“John” Chas answered, “What are you doing here?”
“Saving your arse from the bacon, squire” He answered.
“And who are you when you’re alive?” I snarled eventually.
“John Constantine” He answered, his grey eyes eying me up and down very slowly, almost like he was considering everything that had been said before he would take any action.
He was perhaps a little younger than Chas, maybe in his mid-40s, but not much more. He had short, cropped blonde hair and green eyes and was incredibly for Rock World, dressed in a black suit which had seen better days, but had that sort of look in his eyes that you knew nobody would challenge him over it.
“You’re a scouser,” I answered, my temper rapidly getting to boiling point.
“Not anymore” He replied, smiling easily, reaching inside his long black trench coat for a cigarette “Once upon a time, squire but not anymore. Now I’m just a very interested observer.”
”What do you mean by that?” I asked sharply.
John laughed, “Perhaps you could also call me an advice giver, mate. “He answered afterwards. “What’s your mate called?”
”Brickie” I answered.
“It’s Barry isn’t it?” He countered. “Barry, Barry Miles.”
”How do you know that?” I asked completely surprised.
“I just know, mate”, He answered, smiling. “That’s all you need to know.”
“John, what are you talking about?” Chas asked worried.
“Listen, mate,” He said addressing me “You better stop him, you better stop him now.”
“You try stopping him,” I answered “When Brickie gets that sort of mood on him, it would take half a army to stop him.”
“Perhaps so, mate” John answered looking at him “but it isn’t him I’m concerned about.”
“John, what’s up?” Chas asked anxiously.
“Chas, have you seen who he is walking toward?” John hinted.
“Just a load of tossers to me” I answered.
“Just a load to me as well, but look at the eyes of that one on the left” He countered.
“They look at normal to me” I scoffed.
“I wasn’t talking to you, boy” He snapped “Chas, what colour are they?”
“I can’t tell” Chas answered “God, they’re Gold, they’re…”
“Bollocks” I screamed out “It’s the fucking light. Are you in or out?”
“I’m, I’m” Chas answered.
“They’re not human, Chas” John whispered.
“Fuck you, then” I cursed and grabbed a bottle and launched it as quick as I could at the one on the right with the odd leather jacket that I didn’t like the look off. There was going to hell to pay. We were going to splatter their skulls…
(STOP)
It didn’t last long.
It was like Custer in his last stand or the charge of the light brigade.
They had no fucking chance.
It was like boys against men.
They had no chance.
They were ripped to shreds.
“How did you know you knew all that would happen?” Chas said at the edge of the slaughter turning round to ask John.
But Constantine had vanished the smell of cigarette smoke drifting off for metres away.
“Who were you talking to then?” The Police Inspector said coming towards him.
“Long story” Chas said, but he wasn’t sure he believed it himself as he watched the Ambulance rush into the club.