Chapter Text
Being in a bar still felt weird. Hiram was sure he was about to get arrested. He was still two years shy of the drinking age in the States, but that didn't really matter here.
"Y'lost, old son?" someone asked, Cockney accent thick with booze.
Hiram made a very undignified noise, going pink when he looked up. "Um - hi. No, I’m just… I’m not lost, no."
"Yankee." The man - he looked like he was maybe 40 and so did the woman next to him - nodded sagely.
"I'm not-" Hiram began to protest, but stopped. Yankee did mean something different here, and besides, he had a point to get to. “I’m actually in town looking for someone,” Hiram said as casually as he could manage.
The older guy arched an eyebrow. "Looking for someone, huh?"
"I was hoping you might know him?" Hiram grinned weakly. "Constantine. John Constantine?"
The older woman laughed, not meanly. "Constantine! Now there's a name I haven't heard in ages!" She patted her male companion on the knee. "Don't you remember Constantine, George? From Mucous Membrane, the blonde."
The man - George - laughed. "Do I ever! Had a mouth on him, we got into it a time or two. Right crazy, he was."
"Crazy how?" Hiram leaned in, eager.
"He was always talking about magic and stuff. Used to read these fuckoff ancient books about demons and shite." George shook his head, growing somber. "Went right off the deep end after he found that girl in Newcastle. Poor thing - him and the girl."
The woman nodded. "Alex Logue was a monster, but the human kind, unfortunately."
Hiram deflated. He knew all about the failed Newcastle exorcism - but these two apparently didn't. Still, someone who only knew Constantine as a musician was better than someone who didn't know him at all. "Oh, well… I don't know anything about all that." He took the Polaroid out of his wallet. "Constantine was a friend of my uncle."
The couple leaned in to inspect the photo - it was older than Hiram, but in good condition. It was a nice picture, his uncle Ezra with his arm around another young punk guy, kissing his cheek with blood dripping from Constantine’s busted lip. Hiram's father had refused to elaborate on how Uncle Ezra knew Constantine, but Hiram had a pretty good idea of the nature of their relationship.
"I remember him too." George nodded. "Remember Ez, Cleo?"
Cleo laughed. "Ezra the Ira?"
Hiram was surprised by the affection in her voice. He'd been a little worried his uncle's political leanings might have got him into a little trouble with anyone who remembered him, but it should seem not. "My dad was the Ira," Hiram corrected. "Uncle Ezra wasn't one for fighting."
Cleo looked over the picture, humming thoughtfully. "If you're looking for Constantine, you'd be better off in London."
“Thank you so much,” Hiram breathed, tucking the Polaroid into his wallet again.
“Why are you looking for him, anyways?”
Hiram paused. “It’s, uh. Complicated. Family stuff, you know how it is.”
Cleo nodded sagely. “Well, good luck, son.”
Hiram grinned, flashed her a little two-finger salute. “Thanks, Miss Cleo. You too.”