Tom Morrison checked his watch for a third time as he wove through London traffic. He had a tight schedule, four different pick-ups, through out the city, all within fifteen minutes of each other. He had plotted and driven his course several times over the last few days, to make sure nothing would interrupt the flow of the trip. He had a bonus riding on it. His boss had bet him that the schedule would be impossible to keep, but he'd been able to get it worked out with precise tolerance, even managing to give himself a few minutes, no more than three, at each location to allow for delayed embarkation.

Tom Pulled up at his first stop precisely at 17:28. He parked the car and stepped out, scanning the pedestrians for someone matching the description given to him for his first passenger.

Marco had only been standing at the pick-up point for two minutes when the car pulled up. By habit, he looked at his watch and then at the man scanning the people around him. That was quick, he thought.

With a slightly raise hand, Marco walked to the car. He introduced himself and then found himself being shuffled into the back with a mixture of grace and speed. The driver, Tom, was on a schedule, Marco thought.

In the back seat Marco found himself alone and watched the streets blur past. He was wearing a white shirt and black pants, and not for the first time Marco realised he would probably look more like one of the waiting staff than one of Duvalle's guests.; There were few options in his wardrobe though, so he had reluctantly gone with the black and white. Depending on the outcome of the dinner he was resolved to the idea that his attire may need to smarten up now he was in London. His hands were absently holding the invitation and as the car slowed for what was presumably the second guest, Marco fumbled with the envelope and slid it into his pocket. He didn't want to look overly anxious in front of the other guests, many of whom would no doubt be on familiar terms with Duvalle.

Malachi stepped outside the church and breathed deep preparing himself for this evening.  The class was covered, his spirits were high, and he saw the limosine pulling directly towards him.  Malachi tugged on his sweater and adjusted his pants by the belt.  He raised a hand as the vehicle pulled near and carefully climbed inside ducking his head and using both hands to pull himself into the back.

Spying the other passenger, Malachi smiled a broad smile and sat down into the seat feeling the cuchioning sinking beneath him.  He leaned forward extending a hand, "Hello, I'm Father Malachi Baptiste." 

"Padre," Marco said, taking the priest's hand and bowing his head slightly.  "I am Marco... Conti, and I must say your presence here has made this whole night seem a little less ..."

Marco couldn't find the word for what he was feeling, so he smiled instead as the car moved on.

"Less indulgent?  I hope not.  If someone out eats me at a free dinner I may be offended.  If the Lord blesses us with good company and food, then I will accept such blessings."  Malachi pats his belly, though he doesn't look like he too over indulgent it does look as though he has plenty of space to put away good food in his large frame. 

---
John Constantine slumped into a corner booth of the Chandos, two pints of bitter on the table in front of him. He'd debated long and hard about what to wear for the night, eventually settling on his only suit (charcoal pin-stripe), white shirt and a plain grey silk tie. Suitably smart yet anonymous. His trenchcoat was dumped on the cushion opposite him, a copy of the photograph of his grandfather in the pocket. His mobile sat on the table in front of him, propped against one of the pint glasses.

"Ring, dammit." His left hand toyed with a packet of cigarettes and he wished for the millionth time that they hadn't done away with smoking in pubs. If he went outside, he'd loose the booth and the anonymity of the corner spot. It wasn't six o'clock yet and he was already nervous about the dinner. This was ridiculous.

He sank the first pint quickly, savoured the second a little more. Always good beer in the Chandos. He was three-quarters of the way down the third pint, starting to relax when his mobile rang, Avantasia's "Devil in the Belfry" snapping him back to attention. Avantasia meant "Number unknown".

He tapped the screen, "Constantine."

"Mister Constantine? Tom Morrison. Mister Duvalle's driver. Car's outside, sir."

"I'll be right out."

John necked the rest of his pint, grabbed his coat and pulled it on whilst extracting himself from the booth. Halfway to the door, he wondered how he'd recognise the car they'd sent. Then he opened the door and spotted the limo. That'd be the one.  The driver held the back door open as John let the door of the Chandos close behind him.

"Good evening, Mister Constantine."

"Evening, Tom.  Am I the sole occupant of this battle bus?"

"No, no.  You're not the first and you won't be the last tonight.  We've one more pick-up to do."

"Best not hang around, then."  And John climbed into the back of the Limo.  Glancing around as he sat down, he nodded to the two men already seated.  "And then there were three.  Evening, gents."  He clipped on a seatbelt and settled back.  Comfy.  "Who's this Duvalle bloke, then?"

"Good evening," Malachi offered a handshake to the newcomer.  "Father Malachi Baptiste.  Our other acquintance here can introduce himself, I'm sure.  By your question, I can say I am as clueless as you are."

John shook hands with the good father.

"John Constantine.  And I haven't a scooby on this one."  John straightened his coat, flicking some stray ash from it then turned to the other occupant of the limo.  Maybe tonight would be a good night to have a namesake.  "And you are?"

"Also clueless, I'm afraid," Marco said with a smile and took John's hand.  "Marco Conti.  And although I don't know what a scooby is, I am certain I also have no scooby on tonight's goings on."  He hated to admit it, but Marco was enjoying the turn of events.  It was almost like a murder-mystery play, except no one had died.

?

---
It was nearly 6:30 and time for Duvalle's car to come and pick him up. Oddly, Jack felt nervous about the whole affair. Since when, he wondered, did people write to others they didn't know asking them to dinner? And bloody well send a car for them as well?

Still, he was intrigued enough to go along with it. He'd dressed in one of his better suits - dark grey and individually tailored. Together with a crisp white shirt and an orange and purple striped tie loosely tied about his neck, he was almost done. All that remained were his worn, but comfortable, leather gloves which he quickly slipped on before stepping outside.

Of course, he'd be missing his Friday night session with Don Swanson but he knew the DCI would be fine on his own. He'd also miss the England game but, for Jack, football was merely an excuse to drink. It was a different game now since when he was a lad.

Jack slowly plodded down the three steps to the pavement outside his flat and then realised that a limousine was already parked nearby. Was he that tired and distracted not to notice a bloody great carriage like that, he wondered. The driver stood next to the vehicle with a welcoming smile on his face, although Jack noticed a certain impatience about the man.

"Dr Hutchinson?" the driver called, beckoning him over.

Jack nodded and walked to the large car, whilst the driver - who introduced himself as Tom - opened the passenger door and bustled him in. Inside, the limo would've seemed sumptuously vacant if not for the three other gentlemen already within. He positioned his wide, but not particularly tall, body in an empty seat with a wheeze and nodded to the three others around him. Instinctively he tried not to touch any of them as he made himself comfortable.

"Evenin'" he said in greeting, but did not offer a gloved hand.

One of the men looked to be very young, perhaps still a teenager and a little nervous. Another was slightly older, and bolder, but still looked to have that youthful exuberance. The third man seemed notionally around Jack's age and had an air of calm wisdom that reminded him of his friend, Dan.

"So", began Jack, his London accent barely noticeable, "I guess we're all guests of this Duvalle chap, eh? Name's Jack by the way. Jack Hutchinson".

Marco was next to the new arrival so he smiled quickly and nodded in greeting. Since the others had been picked up Marco had felt a little more comfortable in not knowing exactly what was going on. It seemed that everyone was equally ignorant of the nature of the night's dinner.

"I am Marco," he said, with an obvious Italian accent. "The three of us seem to be in the dark about this Mister Duvalle. Are you, perhaps, more familiar with him?"

Jack rubbed the top of his bald head with one gloved hand whilst absently reaching into a jacket pocket with the other.

"Familiar?" He sniffed in derision. "Never 'eard of the chap until I got his letter. Still don't know anything about him or what this dinner's about. I'm guessin' we're all in the same boat here."

Out of his jacket pocket, Jack finally produced a half-empty packet of cigarettes. He flipped open the box and withdrew one of the contents whilst the other two gentlemen introduced themselves.

"I am Father Malachi Baptiste," Malachi said with a nod, noting that absense of the extended hand from Jack..

"John Constantine."  John nodded in greeting.

Jack nodded back to both but turned his attention towards Malachi.

"Father, eh?" he inquired, tapping the cigarette on the side of the box. "Still practising? Hmm... so it doesn't look like this is a job offer and you're not all rival GPs then"

He lifted his large, slightly chubby hand and popped the cigarette between his thin lips. Slightly muffled, he then asked, "Anyone mind if I smoke?"

"I practice every day of the week.  The good Lord will determine whether or not I'm succeeding.  And actually I do mind.  Such close confines an all, the smoke bothers a little." Malachi wrinkled his nose.

"Fair enough" Jack relented and put away the cigarette.

"I'll join you for some fresh air when we get there."  John patted his jacket pocket, smiled.  "This is like some twisted Agatha Christie book.  If we get invited into the library and told that one of us is the murderer, I won't be the least surprised."  Humour as a defense mechanism.  Nice, John.  Thought you'd grown out of that one.

Jack's eyes narrowed at the mention of a murderer. Frightening feathered thoughts flittered through his mind. Is that what this is all about, he wondered to himself. Have I been found out by this Duvalle person? But, in which case, what are these other people doing here?

"Yes!" Marco said, laughing.  "And I'll end up being killed off first, no doubt.  Unless, of course, I am Sicilian."

Malachi laughed whole heartedly, "Maybe if our number was decreasing instead of increasing."

Jack chuckled as well, although it seemed a little halfhearted and distracted.

"I'd heard from Duvalle's secretary that there were six invited to this dinner. So our number may be increasing further" he added.

"Never go up against a Sicillian when death is on the line?"  John smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.  If he'd been in Scooby Doo, he would have said there was something definitely hinky about this.

**********************

The privacy partition slid down as the car snaked its way through the unusually light evening traffic. "Gentlemen. I should have you at your destination within an hour." Tom's voice was crisp and professional. "We'll be taking the M3 to Bracknell. The estate is just north of the Windlesham  Golf resort and on the edges of Swinley forest. Please, enjoy the ride, the car is fully stocked and you're welcome to any of it's comforts. If there is anything you need please don't hesitate to ask."

At the mention of the car being "fully stocked", Jack rummaged around and found a small bar complete with a number of decanters of spirits and liquor. Sorting through these, he lifted out a small container of whisky.

"Aha!" exclaimed Jack, brightening considerably.

He extracted a glass and poured himself a healthy measure of the smoky amber liquid.

"Anyone else?" he asked, holding out the decanter towards the other three.

John shook his head.  "Three beers down already, mate.  Try not to touch the hard stuff."

"Wine only anymore, I'll wait until the meal though," Malachi put up a hand to pass.

Jack lifted the glass in his gloved hand to his lips and took a sip of the whisky. His worn and weary face had settled into its usual dour and introspective expression as he swallowed the liquid without appearing to taste it. With brilliant blue eyes framed by a low forehead above and dark shadows below, he looked across at John and Marco.

"So, Father Baptiste here is a holy man and I'm a doctor" Jack's low voice grumbled. "I'm not sure I caught what you two did for a living?"

John nodded at Marco.  "If you turn out to be a lawyer, this is the setup for a really bad joke."  Marco just smiled at him.  John turned back to Jack.  "You didn't catch because we haven't said.  I'm John Constantine.  I help people.  Let's leave it at that, doc."

Jack shrugged.

"Ok, fine. You help people". He wasn't going to push for more information. The man obviously wanted to keep his business his business, so to speak. "Seems like three of us... 'help people', in our own way".

After taking another sip from his glass, Jack then turned to Marco.

"What about you lad?" he asked. "Do you help people too?"

Marco felt uncomfortable.  Here he was, surrounded by people who had a direction in life, and he was an aimless university student.

"I don't know how to answer that," he admitted.  "I mean, I do not go out of my way to hinder people, so perhaps..." he shrugged.  "I am studying history and humanities at King's College.  I do not know exactly where I will end up, but I do hope to be useful one day."  He smiled wryly.  "Once I stop being a student, of course."

"Happy days."  John smiled wistfully.  "I remember being a student.  Shit, that was a long time ago.  So.  You're young, you're impressionable.  What the fuck made you choose humanities and history?  Doctoring?  Sure.  Good, solid, useful stuff.  And if you don't like medicine you can always go into comedy.  But, really.  What's the long game, kid?  You finish your studies, realise there's nothing you can do but study, continue on to a PhD and end up being a gopher on a BBC history programme?"

"I am not really sure I actually made the choice," Marco admitted.  "There were some, how do you say, 'extra' or complicated circumstances at the end of my school days.  I admit that my mind was not always on my future life, but the present life of others."

He didn't really feel like talking about it, but the other men in the car seemed to compell him to talk.

"In the end I took up history because it was the first option I looked at," Marco lied, although not completely.  There was no real need to explain the vivid dreams he had had of charging centurions and whispers from the past.  "And now I am in London almost about to embark upon my second year, and while you may be right about the lack of a future, I cannot deny that I am enjoying the process so far."

Marco took a beer from the fridge and cracked it open, hoping the sound and his good natured smile would distract the men from his past.

Jack listened to the boy tell them about his choice of university course. He was obviously an innocent, blurting out so much about himself with a need to fill the silence that he thought directed at himself. It passed the time but told them nothing more about what the evening was about. All seemed to be from different backgrounds and had differing vocations.

He gazed out of the window and watched the busy streets whizz past. The speed at which they were travelling unnerved Jack a little, as it often did. He took another sip of alcohol to calm himself and turned his attention back to the interior of the vehicle.

*****************************************
Everyone felt the car slow. The partition slid down noislessly and Tom called over his shoulder. "We've just caught the Bracknell exit. We'll be on the Old London road in about 5 minutes, from there it'll be about 10 minutes to Oakhurst Estate." 

"Great!" Malachi exclaimed glad that another voice filled the encroaching silence, "I'm famished.  The last dinner I attended was at Thanksgiving in which one of my church families invited me to come and carve the turkey.  'Never before,' they said, 'had they so few leftovers after Thanksgiving.'" Malachi patted his belly, "i do so hope they invite me back."

At the mention of Thanksgiving, Jack raised an eyebrow. "Colonials, were they?" he asked in a low voice, restlessly twirling the now-empty glass within his gloved hands. He was also feeling hungry, both for food and information.

"Yes, from a place stateside called, 'Milkwaukee'.  The gent's over here on a permanent work Visa.  And far be it from me to pass up free food."

He turned his attention to Marco, "You must be as excited as I am, then.  Surely this food will beat campus fare, or do you normally take your lunches out."

"I have not actually begun my course," Marco said.  "And I have only seen the university twice, and once was under the cover of darkness," he smiled.  "There have been some interesting parties so far, and my house mates seem nice enough, but no, I have not tasted the food.  You are probably right, though, it is most likely as bad as they say."