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Marvel Comics (and in this case DC too) and some of our own just for the 
hell of it. Don't sue us, we're not all as twisted as Alasdair :-)

Pete Wisdom #4
Writer: Alasdair Watson
Editor: Lady Amethyst

In which a friend is mourned, a friend is gained, and
Pete has to come to terms with an important lesson.

(Writer's note - As with last issue, there are portions of
speech which should be a drunken slur, but in the
interests of readability, I've turned them into something
understandable.)

---------------------------------------------------------

A steady drizzle was falling again.  It was just light enough to make it
possible to smoke, and Pete and John stood beside the grave with cigarettes
in their mouths, the smoke wreathing around their heads briefly, before
the drizzle yanked it away.  There had been no service, no other mourners. 
Neither of them knew how to get in touch with any of Matt's other friends,
or even if he *had* any, and a church service would have been hypocritical
at best.

The rain dripped steadily from their trench coats as they stood
contemplating the grave.  As one they turned and left the place, never
speaking.

---

It was about two weeks since Pete had returned, or rather, had *been*
returned from his attempt to save Matt, just as Matt had finished telling
John a rather fanciful tale of Pete's success, and most of the bruises
had faded, and the cuts had all healed.

Matt had been wrong.  Totally, utterly, and completely, wrong.  Pete had
failed.  He couldn't remember much of what had happened to him.  He
remembered breaking in to the building, much as Matt had described.  He
remembered heading for the basement, much as Matt had said.  After that, he
didn't remember anything, except that there had been darkness, demons,
pain, and terrible mocking laughter, until he had come to in Matt's
apartment, with John bending over him.

John hadn't shown Pete the note that had been pinned to his back when he'd
fallen through the door.  It was probably best that Pete never knew exactly
what had happened to him.

"Dear John and Matt,

I hope this letter finds you well, John.  I have to say that I'm terribly
disappointed in you both.  Did you not realise that sending someone like
him was doomed to failure?  And if you were going to send a useless
incompetent, could you not have sent someone female?  Had you done that, I
could have had my pets reproducing, rather than simply relieving sexual
tension, although we got a chance to try out some really inventive new
ideas.  Still, I suppose expecting consideration from you two is
pointless.  Expecting anything from you two is pointless, really.
Obviously, your fool failed to get the cure you needed, Matt.  See you in
hell, or something trite like that, that's what you say in these
situations, isn't it? I wouldn't really know, I've never been a great one
for the kind of crap you go in for.  I suppose you're wondering why I set
you up?  Of course I'm not going to tell you, don't be stupid.  Still, I
wanted to do it for my own reasons, and I did it.  I'd say I was sorry, but
I'd be lying.

John, consider yourself lucky it wasn't you I wanted dead.  One day
perhaps, but not today.  If I were you, I'd just stay well away from the
whole thing, and you might live a little longer.  But you never were very
good at taking advice, were you?

                         Laura."

No, Pete definitely didn't need to know what he'd been through.  His vague
recollections were bad enough, and he'd woken up every night for the past
two weeks with nightmares.  He could never remember what he'd dreamed,
but he was always terrified.  He'd taken to sleeping with the light on,
something he hadn't done since he was a kid.

----

Now Pete and John were down the pub.  It seemed like the appropriate place
to be, to mourn a friend.  Better than some pissy little churchyard, that
neither of them cared about.

Pete sat in silence as John got the beers in.  He lit a cigarette, and took
a long drag on it.  Better.  Not good, but better.  He had the horrible
feeling that things would never be good again.  He'd fucked it up with
Excalibur, he'd fucked it up with Matt, he'd let Matt down.  Wisdom, you
worthless piece of shite, you let your mate down!  You've never failed a
mate before, why did you fail Matt now?  Now, when it really counted!

John returned, and Pete forced those thoughts away.  He wasn't going to
crack.  Not now.  He took the pint gratefully, and downed half of it almost
immediately. John was tactful enough to say nothing.

John sipped his own pint, his eye's on Pete's face.  Pete had been almost
totally silent since he found out that Matt had died.  Matt had been
dead before Pete recovered, which was probably for the best.  But right
now, John was worried about the young man sitting before him.  He'd been in
a similar state before, and had spent long periods of time in an asylum,
having the shit beaten out of him, and another time he'd become a homeless
alky.  He wasn't going to let that happen to Pete.

----

Closing time.  Pete had drunk like a man possessed all afternoon, anything
to dull the pain.  He hadn't noticed that John had only had a couple.  He
hadn't really noticed much beyond his personal pain.

"'Night John.  See you around."

"Yeah, take care, Pete."

Pete walked off one way, John turned as if to go the other.  He gave Pete
thirty seconds, then turned and followed him, as discreetly as possible. 
He only had to walk a short distance.  Pete had turned down an alley,
and had fallen slumped against the wall, tears streaming down his face.

"C'mon mate, let's get you indoors."

Pete stared blankly up at John, tears still rolling down his face.  John
shoved one arm around Pete, and pulled him to his feet.

----

About half an hour later, they arrived back at John's flat.  John left Pete
sitting on the sofa, and went and made coffee.  When he came back, Pete was
no longer starting off blankly, but seemed to have collected himself a
little.  Pete reached out and took one of the mugs, and poured a small
amount of milk from the carton John had brought in into it.  He took a long
swallow, letting the coffee flavour roll around his mouth, and the
temperature sear his throat.  Anything to keep himself focused on the here
and now.  John took a sip from his own mug.  They sat there in the quiet
for a while.  John broke the silence first.

"D'you want to talk about it?"

"What good would that do?  Matt's dead.  No amount of talking is going to
bring him back."

John said nothing, he merely watched and waited.  Pete took another swallow
of his coffee.

"You're a know-it-all bastard, Constantine."

"That'd be me.  Now, what is it about all this that's got to you so badly? 
It's not someone dying, is it?  Your line of work, you must've been to a
lot of funerals."

"No, it's not that.  It's...it's..."  Pete paused to wipe away incipient
tears from his eyes.  He took a deep breath, and tried again.

"I let him down.  He was counting on me, and I blew it.  You did your part. 
If I hadn't fucked my end of it up, he'd be alive now."

"Pete, you did your best.  What more could you have done?  What you found
in there was nothing like anything you've even seen before."

Pete shuddered.  "I don't really remember much of that, you know that.  All
I know is that I *should* have done more.  Should have fought harder. 
Something.  Anything."

"Pete, mate, if you don't remember it, there's a damn good reason.  You've
been through so much shite, you brain doesn't want to think about it.  Same
thing happened to me once or twice.  If you can't remember it, then accept
that it was something you couldn't handle."

"But I *should* have been able to.  I've never let anyone down when they
really needed me.  Why Matt?" 

"There are some things, old son, that mortal man was not meant to handle. 
If this is the first time you've ever been beaten..."

"No, not like that.  I've been beaten before, but then it was only my neck
on the line.  I can handle defeat, if that's what you're thinking.  But
when my mates need me, I'm there.  I've never let anyone down like that!"

John was slightly surprised.  The mirror to his own past was startling. 
Only for Pete it was going to be ten times worse, if he didn't get his head
sorted out, and soon, if this was the first time he'd let someone down.
Only this time, Pete had someone to turn to who'd been there.

"Pete, stop a second and listen to me.  Forget what you've done.  Forget
what happened.  Just listen.  I've been where you are now.  I'm bloody
impressed that you've not folded up yet.  But you can't let yourself do
that.  You fold up now, and the nightmare is only beginning."

"How the fuck would you know?"

John took a deep breath.  He'd never really talked about this with anyone. 
But he'd laid that ghost to rest, hadn't he?  Time to find out.  Pete
needed help, and John hadn't met anyone he liked so much since Kit and
Brendan.  He needed Pete as much as Pete needed him.

Pete's eyes watched John's face, but his mind was elsewhere.  On a purely
logical level, he knew that there was nothing he could have done.  But
there was a pain in his gut that told him that it was his fault Matt was
dead.  And it was hard to be so cold and rational about it.  He'd just lost
a good friend, someone he had been able to turn to when it all got too
much, when the Hard Man front became a bit much to hold up.  And since he'd
buggered it up good and proper with Pryde, who could he turn to?  Then John
had helped him, had managed to bring him back to reality, when he'd been
slipping down into a black pit.  He could feel himself teetering on the
brink of it still.  He knew he could stay out of it, by slapping the Hard
Man exterior on again, but what would happen when that crumbled, as it
always did.  John might well be his last hope.

But didn't he deserve it?  He'd blown it!  He deserved to suffer.  Matt had
died because of his failure. 

"How would I know?  Fifteen years ago, I was about the age you are now,
when I blew it big time.  Up in Newcastle.  I wound up damning an innocent
child to Hell."

The words came out in a rush.  John tensed, waiting for the steel fist of
guilt to punch him in the gut.  Nothing happened.

"Jesus!  I think I see what you mean.  So what happened then?"

"I went through hell.  Two years in Ravenscar Home for the Dangerously
Deranged.  They beat the shit out of me every sodding night there, but the
worst part of it was - I *didn't care*.  Thought I deserved it.  It's not
the blowing it that really matters, Pete.  It never is.  It's blaming
yourself.  It's telling yourself that you aren't worth a damn, because
something happened to you that you had no control over.  Listen to me Pete,
this may be the most important thing you'll ever hear.  And if you don't
learn it quick, then it'll take you years to get yourself back together. 
Listen, a while back, I got some good advice, from a bloke named Matt.  He
told me something.  He said 'Regrets aren't worth a bugger'.  And he was
right."

(John didn't mention that it was a different Matt.  Pete didn't need to
know that.)

No.  No, he didn't deserve to suffer.  John was right, he'd done his best. 
Maybe he should've done more, but how could he have?  Pete took a deep
breath, and began to cry again.

John breathed a sigh of relief.  Those weren't the tears of hysteria they
had been before.  They weren't tears that presaged the death of sanity. 
They were tears of grief, tears of pain.  He let Pete cry himself out,
while he went to make more coffee.

When he came back, Pete was looking much more composed. 

"More coffee?"

"Got nothing stronger?"

"You sure you're up to it?  You've been putting it away all night."

"That was anaesthetic.  This is for fun."

John looked at Pete closely.  He seemed more sober than John would credit,
but then he'd been through a lot this evening.  He'd probably burned a lot
of it off by now. 

"Ah, fuck it.  Let's send Matt off properly."

John nipped back to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of Bushmills. 
He'd picked up the taste for it from Brendan and Kit.  He grabbed a couple
of shot glasses, too.

An hour or so later, both men were at that comfortably mellow stage, where
you say things you might not otherwise say, but retain enough self control
not to say anything you know you'll regret.  Pete chucked John the lighter,
and spoke carefully.

"John, thanks.  You hardly know me, but you helped me out."

"No charge.  I needed to talk to someone about Newcastle.  You see, I
recently sort of rescued the kid who I damned.  I've not said anything
about it since, not even thought about it, because I didn't want to risk
re-opening old wounds.  You got me to face up to myself as well."

"You did what?  You let me think you were still going through hell over it,
and you've rescued her?"

"She still spent years in Hell.  I'm never going to forgive myself that one."

"I suppose so.  Sorry, John.  But, listen, if you sorted the kid in the
end, then we can sodding well sort this Laura out as well."

"Pete, you don't want to go getting mixed up in all that again.  You
probably don't want to remember what happened to you, and seeing her again
might just bring the memories back."

"You know what happened, don't you?"

"Yeah, she left a rather insulting and graphic note pinned to you.  It was
fairly clear about some of the things that happened."

"Will you tell me?"

"No.  Not now.  Maybe one day, but not now."

Pete thought about it.

"Fair enough.  I'm not sure I want to know, anyhow.  The bloody nightmares
are bad enough when they're unclear, never mind if I knew what was going
on.  Anyway, I still want to get this Laura back.  She killed Matt, and
damn near did for me too."

"Fair enough.  But let me handle it, OK?  I know more about this shit than
you do." 

"I'll go along with that, as long as you promise to call me in when the
times comes to finish her.  I want to be there, memory be damned."

"Done!"

A pair of hands clasped, and a friendship was sealed.

"Now, pass me that bottle, will you?"

Fin.

-- 
Alasdair Watson.
"In order to find his equal, an Irishman is forced to talk to God."
"Thirty Five eggs are frivolous" - Andrew Wheeler

-- 
 *Lady Amethyst*  Keeper of the Labyrinth Flame and Holy Virgin of Scotland.
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