Constantine - The Novelization - Whoa is (Not)

eginning to crack....The demon was starting to come through, fighting to get its body into the material world. Andthat, Constantine thought, was against the rules."Pull that rope, now!" Constantine shouted.One of the men jerked the dangling rope end so that the mirror swung toward the window -and instantly got stuck in the jamb."No you don't," Constantine snapped.He jumped up and pushed the mirror free, shoved it out the broken window so that it fell freeof the rope, plummeted toward the street, turning end over end.He had a glimpse of the demon staring out of the cracked glass at him as it fell away, andConstantine flipped it the finger. "For your boss!"And then the mirror fell directly onto the hood of Chaz's cab, denting it deeply, the mirrorglass shattering on impact, showering into countless glittering pieces. A repellent rattling soundreverberated away from the fragments... carrying with it a reptilian stench... away, away, thedemon's astral form flitting invisibly into the city's gathering night.In the cab, Chaz stared at the broken glass, the smashed wood - and his dented hood.In the girl's bedroom, Constantine was untying the bloody remnants of the straps when hermother came in."Mama!" Her mother gathered the child up in her arms, rocking her.Constantine checked on the man who'd looked into the demon's face: he was lying on .hisback, staring, twitching, muttering. Something broken in his mind.Hennessy had crowded in, too, and was clearing his throat. "Ma'am - about the money..."Constantine picked up the stub of his cigarette, no longer burning. Feeling like he might fallover if he didn't keep moving, he put on his coat and went into the hallway, to the kitchenette.His stomach was churning, seething. He hadn't eaten today. Just something, anything, so hedidn't throw up.There, a quart of milk in the fridge. He sniffed at it, drank deep. A soothing hand covered theinterior of his stomach. He put it back, closed the fridge, and found himself staring at children'sdrawings held by refrigerator magnets. All the same. A crude figure, arms outspread, anotherfigure poking at him with a stick. Stabbing him in the side. More on the walls. The mother,though she must have been puzzled, had put the child's obsessive art up as a point of pride. Hepulled one of the images off the wall, tucked it in his coat, and pushed past the tenants again, outto the corridor, coughing as he went.Downstairs, Constantine leaned against the front wall of the apartment building, watching thescene:Chaz, cussing a blue streak, cleaning off the dented hood of the cab; people staring andpointing at the apartment window. Weak though Constantine was, his feelers were still out, andhis perceptions heightened - he could see ghosts among the crowd. He didn't like seeing ghosts.At least, not the ones trapped on this plane - the ones who hadn't even made it to purgatory. Likethat pasty-faced old man with the torn-open throat, his wife beside him, still clutching thebutcher's knife she'd used to cut that throat - and the bullet hole the old man had put in herforehead as he'd died. The two ghosts gazing mournfully at Constantine. Condemned to sticktogether, Constantine supposed. As he watched, a cop walked through the old man and his wife,oblivious to them.And that one, near the fire hydrant - Constantine nodded to the specter of the greasy-hairedthin man with the pockmarks on his face. He tended to follow Constantine around. Probablybecause Constantine was the reason he was dead.The thin ghost nodded gloomily back and melted away, as Constantine made the effort to shutoff his psychic vision. It was best to keep it shut down, most of the time. Sanity had to beprotected.He lit the stub of the cigarette as Hennessy joined him.