Hellblazer 1 - War Lord Read Free

clasped his hands behind him and scowled at Constantine like a drill sergeant. “You forgot your duty. You were given a task by those you went to learn from, and you buggered it up royal. Let your appetites carry you here, didn’t you, eh? Wanted a drink, wanted a smoke, see London again. Your spirit carried away by old cravings. Classic spirit-Bardo tendency, of course—heard old Swami Vivekananda warn of it once. Only you’re not a dead soul. Not quite yet. You’re just bloody AWOL is what you are! There is yet a thin kind of connection back to your body—otherwise it would die, completely, don’t you know. But that connection’s fading, recruit, eh? You’d best come with me . . .”
    “And who are you, then, squire?”
    “Not a squire—I’m a colonel, full colonel, Futheringham by name. Was a colonel, I should say. Not sure if rank applies posthumously. Seems improbable: very little applies posthumously, truth be told. Only reason I remember who I was at all, don’t you know, is my mission. Special privilege, and all that.”
    “On a mission, are you, Futheringham? I was on a mission to get drunk. And you’re cocking up my mission.”
    “You’re not attending, recruit. You can’t drink—you’re not in a body.”
    Looking down at himself, seeing his own form flickering, Constantine had to admit the justice of this. He could see his trench coat, his slender hands, his crooked tie, his stained shirt and trousers, and his scuffed black shoes. But they weren’t quite there—they were a psychological construct. “Right. We covered that. Disembodied. I was forgetting. But look here, Colonel, why do you keep calling me ‘recruit’?”
    “Sent here to recruit you, was I not, eh? Indeed I am. You’re to join up—become a Peace Corpse. Do your bit to stop war like a good dead soldier.”
    “Become a—? Sod that game of soldiers, guv, I’ve no wish to be recruited. Only dead soldiers I’m interested in are the glass kind. I’m off to find my body and take it to the nearest bar in Iran—”
    “You don’t actually expect to find a bar in Iran, do you, Constantine?”
    “Right. Muslims don’t do pubs. Nearest country with a bar then.”
    “Come now—aren’t you even curious about what a Peace Corpse is?” Futheringham asked, raising his bristly, ghostly eyebrows.
    Constantine waved a hand dismissively. “Call me a fantasy-prone madcap but I’m going to hazard a guess it’s something to do with the ghosts of crazy bastards like you, mate, who died in war and don’t much care for it.”
    “Not far from the truth, old boy,” Futheringham said, stroking his mustache. “Died in the Bengali rebellions in 1909, I did—in Mandalay. The rebels killed me in retaliation, don’t you know, for the massacre I ordered. Only justice was my death, really. At the time I thought it for the best, that massacre. I was quite wrong. A massacre—indiscriminate killing of any kind—is never for the best, not at all. Terror leads to terror, Constantine. Violence to violence. Hard for a man to learn that, when nature shapes him for killing. I knew better, and I ordered the massacre anyway. Still making up for it. I’m a Peace Corpse myself. Need your help. Come along, have a natter with the other Peace Corpses . . .”
    Constantine patted his coat for a smoke, didn’t find any. If he could psychically materialize a coat, couldn’t he do cigarettes? Wouldn’t taste right, probably, if they had any taste at all. “I’m not interested in a cank with any kind of corpse—seen enough of them, I have—nor am I interested in becoming any kind of corpse, peaceful or restless, ‘old boy.’ Now bugger off so I can work out how to get back to that half-starved ‘vehicle’ I was shambling about in.”
    “Work it out, eh? Don’t remember how to get there, do you, hm? Used to be able to, Constantine. Not the first time out of your body. Missing something are you?”
    “Right, well . . . I do seem to be. Don’t