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4:22 AM is the ungodliest hour for any man to be woken at. Even if John Constantine's sleeping pattern can be called anything but regular, he likes the few hours of rest he can find to be undisturbed.
Groaning for all the world to hear, he scrubs his eyes and rolls them a few times before they stay open long enough for him to check who the lucky soon-to-be murder victim is. Well, look at that. The name on the display is quite a surprise.
"Hello, Jonny-boy," he rasps into his phone, a sound like sharpening a cleaver. "Don't you ever sleep?"
"I didn't know who else to call."
"You know plenty of people who'd be more inclined," John pulls a fag from its box with his teeth and lights it, "to have surprise phone sex with you in the middle of the night. If you're willing to hold though, I'd be more than amenable to pick up this thread in a couple of hours."
Crane makes an impatient noise and John can almost feel him fidgeting over the line. "We have to meet."
"It's this urgent, ey?" he teases. It's no less than the tosser deserves for waking him. "Can't keep it in your pants any longer?"
"This isn't a joking matter, John. I can't discuss this on the phone."
"If you want to make this close and personal, fine by me, but does it have to be now? Unless you're bleedin' out or have murdered someone, there's no reason for me to step out of that door."
"I may have a job for you."
"Call back during my opening hours and I might just listen," he says, although he's intrigued. What kind of job could Crane have for him?
"Need I remind you of what you said when I saved you from the wheelchair?"
Bloody wanker. What could be so important as to bring this up now? "All right... but this is gonna be expensive, Jonny-boy."
"Will twenty sessions suffice?"
"Make that twenty-five and throw in a bonus up front. You can tell me all about it when I'm at your mercy."
"Fine. Can you meet me at my office in an hour?"
"I'll ride like the wind," John rings off and wonders what could have got Crane's knickers in a twist this time.
An hour later, John finds himself half-naked and flat on his stomach beneath a handsome bloke whose fingers are digging into the most unholy places. It's exactly what he asked for, yet he doesn't have to like the pain that precedes sweet relief.
"Breathe, John," Crane says and eases the pressure a bit.
"I would," John all but gasps (and swears he'll quit smoking if only air would fill his lungs again), "but some tosser is trying to punch a few more holes into me."
"Then I take it you haven't seen anyone else since our last appointment?"
"And cheat on you, love? Who'd want anyone else touching them once they've felt your magical fingers?"
"You were just complaining about said magical fingers."
"Takes a while getting used to them again."
"It would be less painful if you'd schedule more regularly. And if you'd do your exercises."
John grunts. "Can't always break off a hunt to do some quick jumping jacks."
"You do most of your hunting sitting in front of your computer screen. There should be plenty of opportunity for you to get up and stretch every once in a while."
"Well. You know how it is. Once you start with the work, you're hooked. You catch sight of a trail, you'll follow it wherever it leads, no matter how long it takes or what it'll do to you, until you've figured it all out."
"You're as single-minded as Eddie sometimes," Crane says and finally rubs a bit more gently.
"That's a lot better," John groans. His trousers are growing uncomfortably tight, but that's not why he's here. "Rather than comparing me to that sapiosexual boyfriend of yours, start telling me about the job you 'may have' for me. It's the new girl in your life, right? I suppose you want me to run a background check on her."
"When did you—? I never mentioned anything of the sort."
"I'm not a detective for nothing, remember?"
As it turns out, Crane fears his little angel of a flatmate might be working for the mob. Not an unfounded concern, given his background. John can relate. There are demons in his past, too. But to suspect every new person who comes into his life? A bit paranoid, if you ask John.
Something's off about her, Crane says. She might be lying about her job. From the description he provides, John can see the discrepancy between how one would expect someone from her profession to appear and how she represents herself on social media platforms.
On her Instagram, for example, she has uploaded a host of cute selfies styled to garner Likes from the adoring masses. Or, the drooling masses, anyway. John swipes through them. She's a real looker, that one. Blond hair in tight pigtails, ruby lips folding over a lollipop as though snogging it, tight clothes at least a dress size too small that leave little to the imagination. If she were his flatmate, he wouldn't be going behind her back to get to know her better, he'd approach her directly.
John isn't usually one for the schoolgirl type, but her latest picture gets to him, and this time it's not the gratuitous low neckline of her uniform. It's her gaze that shoots right through him and pins him like a caterpillar, as though she's caught him doing something immoral. As though saying I know you want to shag me.
Mob or no, John would definitely want to get to know her in person.
Crane doesn't see the appeal. Of course not, the wanker doesn't have an aesthetic bone in his body. But his logic is as sharp as ever – this is not the look of a psychiatrist, or any kind of doctor for that matter. Still, concluding she must work for Falcone or Maroni or some other crime family is a little premature even for John. For all he knows, she's just a lass out for some fun.
One thing's for certain, though: he's not delegating this job to Chas. No matter the drudgery involved, John will be the one doing it.
"Same time next week?" he asks as he stubs out his cigarette in the now overflowing ashtray. They've moved to Crane's cramped bureau – which is even tinier than his own – to have a smoke and go over the business at hand. It's nearing 8, his first clients should arrive soon. "Or would you rather I come by after hours?"
"Morning's are fine. It gets late sometimes in the evenings."
"Bollocks, you want to cost me my well-earned sleep." He shrugs into his trenchcoat, relieved at how much easier he can stretch his shoulders, and straightens his tie. "Anyway. Thanks, mate. That really worked out some tension."
Crane hesitates for a moment, then says, "Call me as soon as you find anything. No matter how small."
John cracks a smile and ruffles Crane's hair. He looks cuter with it mussed. "You're turning into quite the stalker over that lass. Though I can't blame you."
"I would have asked you regardless of the person," he says and brushes John's hand away.
"Whatever you say, Jonny-boy, whatever you say."
***
The lights are still out by the time Jonathan comes home that night. He's too tired to care if his roommate's already asleep or hasn't returned yet. Either way, he won't be finding much rest if the previous nights are any indication. He hopes she won't come stumbling back in the middle of the night. He hates the sound of keys rattling in a lock when he doesn't expect them.
If he could, he would be living alone somewhere far away from society. The only trouble is that he wouldn't know how to pay for that, if scraping together the money for rent and food is already an ongoing battle. That was the reason he had to take on a roommate in the first place, to divide the cost of living. His small practice doesn't yield much. He feels safe enough in the neighborhood and would like to avoid moving if at all possible, even if living quarters elsewhere might be cheaper.
He's held many interviews with potential candidates but none of them had made an impression as financially stable as Harleen had. Much to Jonathan's chagrin, he'd let himself be blinded by the quick solution to his monetary troubles instead of questioning her facade. She had been smartly dressed and well-spoken and her professional demeanor had made him partial to the lies she fed him – what he now suspects to have been lies.
Everyone is always hiding something, he should have remembered that.
Even during the interview there had been something that didn't sit right with him. Maybe she had been too polished to be real, maybe it had been the accent she was trying to hide, maybe it had been something else altogether. He'd brushed it aside as his natural suspicion because he needed the money and she was able to move in right away.
He should have listened to his needling doubts.
He should have gone to Constantine about his suspicions sooner too, but he has his reserves about the man. For one thing, Jonathan dislikes the sexual innuendo he dishes out like candy, for another, he cannot trust anyone who has no close relationships with other people. Then again, neither does Jonathan, so he is in no position to judge.
In any case, his misgivings were slow-growing. She made sure they didn't set in right away. She would leave the house in ladies suit and glasses, and come home the same way. All to be expected. However, he couldn't help but notice that sometimes she would return with bruised lips or swollen cheeks or an awkward gait, as though she had been out horse-riding for the first time in a long while.
At first, he wondered if she saw any violent patients. She never talked about her work, but then again, she wouldn't be at liberty to disclose particulars, anyway. Later, he wondered if she was some sort of prostitute, even if she doesn't work nights. But Jonathan has no idea about the industry, so it may well be that there is demand for day shifts as well. He wouldn't know, but he could imagine it would be a job to lie about.
Finally, last Saturday, a stranger asked for Harleen, which made all of Jonathan's alarm bells ring. The man was tall and muscular, with a good jawline, slicked-back hair, and an eyepatch. That gave Jonathan pause. Was he an enforcer of some kind? Did he want money? What shady dealings could she be involved in?
Even Harleen surprised him when he knocked at her door. Whenever he saw her on weekends, she usually wore baggy sweatshirts and trackpants around the house, no makeup or other embellishments. That day, however, she had on a short tank top and low-cut hotpants that showed off her toned stomach and long white legs. She was flushed beneath her foundation and breathing heavy, as if she'd been exercising, or was shocked he'd seen her that way.
Frowning, he informed her of the visitor and her face lit up. She thanked him for getting the door and rushed toward it in a cloud of too-sweet perfume, beaming over both ears. Left in his confusion, Jonathan moved to the kitchen to eavesdrop.
"Hey, D. What brings you around?" Harleen greeted the stranger.
"Here's your cut," he said and handed her a plain manila envelope. Jonathan surmised it had to be either money or drugs. Perhaps the guy was her pimp or her dealer. Though why he'd come visit her at home, Jonathan couldn't say. He just wanted him gone.
"Thanks, D. Wanna come in?" She opened the door wider, but he shook his head.
"Gotta get going."
"But you haven't seen my new room yet."
"Nice try, dollface. You uploaded pictures earlier. I saw enough of the background to know I don't wanna go in there."
"Aw, it's the plushies, right? I can pull the blinds, you woudn't have to see them."
"Still..." His eyes flickered to Jonathan for a moment, who looked away hastily.
"Oh, come on. When was the last time we watched anything together?"
"As if you that was all you wanted to do," he scoffed. Then, he nodded toward Jonathan and asked in a low voice, "Everything all right with him? He looks shell-shocked. Hope I didn't scare him too much."
"A big fluffball like you?" she asked, incredulous, and straightened his collar. "Nah. He's fine. Probably just surprised to see me like this. I dress like a slob most of the time. I'm sure it's got nothing to do with you, Buckshot."
"Right, because it has to be about you all the time. Maybe it's finally dawned on him where he knows you from."
"You think?" she turned her head to frown at Jonathan who was pretending to read his journal and drink his tea. He thought he'd detected a hint of wariness in her voice. "No, I hope not."
"You hope not? Since when?"
"Let's not discuss this here," she hissed. "You're either in or out."
"I'm out. You've been keeping me too long as it is. See you Monday?"
"Yup," she recovered her grin and drew him down for a kiss good-bye. "See you then."
Jonathan decided he must be a john, a boyfriend, or a lover. Whatever people had these days. His knowledge of romance ended with nineteenth century Gothic novels. Not the best field for data collection.
Once the guy was gone, Harleen skipped over to Jonathan. "I need to ask you something," she said. "You never mentioned anything about having friends over, and I didn't think about it until now. You are okay with that, right? As long as I confine them to my room?"
Jonathan hadn't mentioned it, because he forgot that it would be necessary. He'd prefer to not have any strange people in his house, but he couldn't ask that of her. She seemed like the extroverted type who needed people in her life and would be gone in no time if he denied her that. And then Jonathan would have to go through the process of finding another roommate again.
No, he couldn't have that.
"Of course. No problem," he lied.
"Great!" she said and threw her arms in the air, stretching until she remembered the length of her top and that she wasn't wearing any bra, thus offering Jonathan a free peek at the underside of her breasts. "Oh. I hope you don't mind me running around here like this."
"I don't think I'm in any position to prescribe what you can and cannot wear," Jonathan said and went back to his journal.
"I'm trying to be considerate."
"Why? You're free to dress however you like."
"Oh, okay. In that case. You know, for a moment there I thought you were one of the traditional types who think women should wear aprons and bloomers and sensible dresses."
Jonathan looked up again. "Is that what you think of me?"
"No, of course not! I just... Actually," she laughed, "I don't know what to think of you. You don't say much, so."
Well, at least they had one thing in common, because he had no idea what to think of her either, for all the words that came out of her mouth.
After that episode, guests showed up on their doorstep more frequently, which made Jonathan nervous. He didn't want them spying around. It made him feel as if they were checking out the area and planning how to take him out best. And if that hadn't been enough, he saw Harleen about the house more often wearing whatever she pleased, which, sometimes, was nothing more than bra and panties or a towel when she rushed to and from the bathroom.
He asked himself whether her behavior could be calculated to distract him from any inquiries he might want to make about her background. It was only then that he looked her up online and somehow ended up on her Instagram page, which might not display her real name, but if he could find it, her patients would be able to as well. That is, if she had any.
A day before their scheduled appointment, Jonathan receives the call he's been waiting for. He's still in his office, typing up his notes on his last client, when his phone startles him.
"May I carry you off to some deserted spot where us two lovebirds can be undisturbed?"
"John, if you don't have anything important to tell me, I'm hanging up. I'm still busy."
"Trust me, love. You'll want to take the time to see this in person. Which is why I'm already in front of your practice. Open up."
Jonathan wonders why he couldn't just have rung the bell like any normal person, but then again, Constantine likes things the complicated way.
"So, how's this week been treating you?" the man asks as he steps inside and shifts the folder he's carrying from hand to hand while he takes off his trenchcoat, throwing it over the chairs in the waiting area. "Shagged her yet?"
Jonathan has never understood what this preoccupation with another person's sex life is about, so he ignores the question. "What have you found out?" he asks as he locks them in.
"That you were right."
Jonathan pauses. Cold sweat forms on his brow. He knew it...
"About her not being who she says she is," Constantine continues and grins around his cigarette. "Though I couldn't find any direct connections with the mob."
Jonathan breathes out a sigh of relief and lets his head fall back against the wall. "Then who is she?"
"You'll want to sit down for this, mate."
Constantine waited for Jonathan to pull up his chair before throwing the thick folder he's been carrying onto his desk. Jonathan looks at it with apprehension.
"So, your flatmate Harleen Quinzel exists. It's not an alias or a fake identity. Her background checks out. But you were right. She's no shrink. Oh, she went to medical school and everything, even completed her residency. But she never took up a job in that field."
"Why?"
"Seems like she found something she liked better," Constantine says and slides over a disc. Jonathan frowns at it.
"What is this?"
"What she does for a living."
He takes out a couple of images from the folder and spreads them out, each more explicit than the rest. The first depicts Harleen in the schoolgirl outfit she photographed herself in, bent over a desk and being spanked with a ruler. The next has Harley, in a skimpy tennis dress, pressed against the wall of a gymnasium. In the next, she's elaborately bound and gagged lying on the floor of a dark room.
Jonathan can feel Constantine's gaze burning on him, trying to spot a flicker of emotion or interest. Jonathan has none.
There's one of her orally pleasuring a red-headed woman, another of her sandwiched between a black guy and a tattooed one, another of her tied hands and feet against a wall, numerous lashes striping her back.
He picks up that last one and has a closer look at her face, which is half obscured by her arm. The quality could be better, but it's enough to make out the tears gleaming on her pained expression. It has a strangely alluring effect on Jonathan.
The thought puzzles him. He has never looked at a woman in that way before.
"Seriously?" Constantine chokes and coughs up smoke. "That one gets you going? Who knew you'd be such a kinky bastard?"
Jonathan frowns at the other man, but he can feel heat rising to his cheeks. Is his body responding to the taunt or to the picture in front of him?
"In that case, you're gonna love the DVD I compiled for you. Lots of quality examples."
"Keep it," Jonathan says and watches Constantine's proud grin give way to a frown of his own.
"No bloody way, mate. These are hand-picked. And besides, I have copies on my own hard drive."
"I don't need it."
"So you're going straight for the source now, ey?"
Jonathan knows Constantine's words are all in good fun, but he's growing tired of them. He schools his features and hopes his humourless face conveys enough disapproval for the other man to get a clue.
"What a bloody waste, mate." Constantine presses the heel of his palm against his forehead, as if Jonathan's blatant stupidity was causing him physical pain. "You're living together with a pornstar! It's every bloke's wet dream. And you're not even making use of it."
Jonathan laces his fingers together. "Precisely because I'm living together with her is it best for me not to know any more about what she does. I imagine it's in her interest as well, otherwise she would have told me."
"No offense, mate, but I'm sure she didn't tell you because she didn't want to tempt you. 'Oh, and by the way, I get shagged on camera for a living.' That's not the sort of thing you tell your new flatmate, unless you're eager to give out freebies."
"By now, I can hardly be considered a 'new' roommate. And yet she's been going out of her way to give me the impression that she's a psychiatrist."
"Yeah, I wonder why that could be. You're the most sociable person I know. I'm sure you two are having little heart-to-hearts every night."
"Thank you for making light of my dilemma."
"Which dilemma are we talking about? Whether it's morally acceptable for you as her flatemate to get into her knickers?"
"Whether or not I should reveal to her that I'm aware she's an actress."
Constantine stubs out his cigarette in the pile of ashes and extends his hand. "Give me your phone."
***
Harley's surprised when her phone buzzes with a text message from Jonny. He rarely contacts her, and if he does, it's about dinner. He knows she can't cook and is often sweet enough to include her in his plans. She hopes his plans don't involve her tonight though, because she's already gone through her carton of Chinese takeout while watching the Simpsons.
There's no Do I need to cook for two? or Would you prefer risotto or pasta? or Can you check if there's still cumin on the spice rack? that she's come to expect, only the question if she's home already, nothing more.
Does that mean he wants to bring someone over and be alone with them? Harley would like to see that. It's hard to imagine Jonny with someone else, he's so closed off. She doesn't know if there is anyone in his life, but then again, she knows so very little about him. Even when he cooks for her, they usually take their meals separately, and if they happen to end up on the couch together, watching something they can both agree on, he remains tight-lipped despite her best efforts.
He doesn't seem to be interested in getting to know Harley at all. It's a bit sad, because she was hoping to make a friend here, but it's only been about two months since she's moved in, and she has to give him some more space. He'll come around eventually, she's sure of that. Right now, he has to adjust to sharing his home with a virtual stranger, so it's no surprise he's a bit reserved.
Trust issues, she suspects, brought on by a lack of understanding and acceptance. He might well be a closet homosexual – it would explain why he never batted an eyelash when she nearly flashed her boobs at him. That was, well, not embarrassing, but a little awkward. She'd been filming herself when Lawton showed up, and after he'd left again without lending her a hand, she'd been preoccupied with her lingering arousal. It's a state of mind she often has on set, when they're waltzing around butt-naked, waiting for the next shot; Harley forgets that not everyone is as comfortable around nudity as she and the crew are.
Halfway into the second episode of the Simpsons, Jonny comes home with a stranger in tow. She covers her mouth with a napkin as if wiping it to suppress the squee building inside of her. She knew it! She knew he was gay. But oh, hello, gorgeous. What a fine boyfriend he has.
Gleefully, she jumps up from the sofa and greets him with a bear hug that gives her the chance to whisper in his ear: "Who's your friend? He's pretty."
She laughs and winks at him, but he just looks at her curiously.
"Hi there," she chirps at the newcomer and shakes his hand. "I'm Harley, Jonny's roommate. Though I'm sure you've guessed that already. Pleased to meet ya!"
"John Constantine, the pleasure is all mine," he greets back and my, isn't he charming. And the accent! Harley could melt into a puddle right in front of him, but wait. What did he say his name was again?
"Another Johnny?" she claps her hands over mouth before the giggles overtake her. "How do you talk to each other and keep a straight face?" She's already picturing it.
"We usually avoid it altogher," John says and makes a face. So, they're the quiet types who converse with soulful gazes? She looks back at Jonny, who's still staring at her as though she has something on her face and he doesn't know how to point it out the politest way. Is something going on here she doesn't know about?
Oh, of course. He's probably thinking about how best to get rid of her. Get a clue, Harls.
"Well, um... I better leave you two alone then. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." She winks at them and rushes to the coat hooks by the door.
"I don't think we'd go quite as far as that, Ms. Quinn."
Harley freezes with her hands reaching for her coat. "What did you just call me?" she asks and slowly turns around, her blood turning to ice, a nervous giggle freezing in her throat.
"That's your name, isn't it? Harley Quinn?" John says as he lights a cigarette.
"Jonny, what is going on?" She backs up against the wall, frowning.
"I know, Harleen," he says softly, eerily. "That you're not a psychiatrist."
"Shit, I'm sorry, Jonny." So that was what his stare was all about. He was reevaluating his opinion of her. "I'm sorry I lied to you."
"Why would you lie?"
"It's just..." Harley slumps against the wall. Great, now he's gonna wish her to leave. Well played. "I liked this place so much and I wanted it, and I thought if you knew what my job is you'd never want me here."
"Because you're ashamed of what you do?"
"Huh? No," another nervous giggle. "I quite like my job. But I thought it would be embarrassing for you or something. You're such a decent guy and all, I didn't think you'd want someone like me in your house. The nice ones never do, only the giant assholes. Pammy warned me of them." She sighs and regards him with her most distressed look. She is an actress after all. "But please don't throw me out now. Please, you can't. Not so soon. I have nowhere else to go."
"Calm yourself, Harleen. Breathe," Jonny says and shakes her gently. "I may be angry that you lied, but I'm not going to throw you out because of it."
"Really? Oh, thank God." Harley slumps against Jonny's chest. This was a bit too much excitement for her. "Oh, thank you," she breathes, and feels the needs to express her gratitude in kisses, but settles on squeezing him hard. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"Yes, all right, that's enough now," Jonny protests and tries to shake her off.
A few paces to the side, John clears his throat, visibly amused. His presence sends another shock through her. She totally forgot about him!
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," Harley apologizes yet again, hoping this won't become a habit, and pushes Jonny away as if burned. "I didn't mean to look like I was trying to snag your boyfriend."
Hearing this, John guffaws, bending backwards with the force of it. "Boyfriend? Oh, love, that's the funniest thing I've heard all day."
"What do you mean? Aren't you two, like, together or something?"
"What made you think that?" Jonny frowns at her as she's gone completely bananas.
"Um... uh..." How do you explain a hunch when it's suddenly refuted?
"Don't worry, love. You're not too far off." That comment earns John the same are-you-bananas stare. Harley has to keep herself from bursting into hysterical laughter, it's all too funny. "What?" he addresses Jonny. "Don't look so surprised. I never made it a secret that I wanted to shag you. It's your own bloody fault for not being interested."
God, are they adorable. This is like an episode of Queer as Folk.
Jonny takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Would you two please excuse me?" he says anticlimactically. "I need to be alone right now. Today was... taxing, to say the least."
With that, Jonny turns around and vanishes down the hallway.
Harley tilts her head. "Do you know what that was about?"
"Don't worry about him. He needs his space sometimes."
"So I gathered..."
"Do you have some beer here? I could use a pint."
"Or several. Unfortunately, we don't have any."
"Well then, love," John says and rests a hand on her shoulder. "What do you say you and I go get sloshed? My treat."
Harley looks up at him, trying to figure out if he's a bit heartbroken over Jonny's rejection, or if he's asking her on a date. Either way, she could use the company, and she's certain he could use hers as well.
"I think I know just the place."