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In some ways, she thinks, exorcism is just like prostitution. In the dead of night, you go to someone's house or hotel or, if you're unlucky: the back alley outside a McDonald's (she doesn't like to talk about it), and you perform a very specialised service for a very questionable clientele. It's one of the things she hates most about the job, which is why she's established herself as the absolute best of the best. And she's only slightly bragging, too.
Being top dog in the business gives her the ability to pick and choose her clients, and Johanna Constantine's are star-studded. As a general rule, the bigger the name, the bigger the fee, so her customers are a steady stream of politicians, celebrities and even the occasional royal who will pay her quadruple to keep schtum. If she were slightly more moral such a thing might cripple her with guilt, but business is business and business is good, no matter how badly she sleeps at night.
And business is good, which is why it feels so absurd that she's standing outside the door of an excruciatingly normal looking apartment in Islington, rain drizzling steadily outside in it's sickeningly persistent British way. The DeLaude's were good to her during her rather tumultuous early career, so when they rang to report a suspected possession in the flat above them, she could hardly say no.
See? There's even the emotionally manipulative element of prostitution present! A glamorous job indeed.
She may have been initially reluctant, but Johanna Constantine is no amateur, and if there's one thing (of many) that she prides herself on, it's her meticulous research. She knows that the man living alone in the top floor apartment of number twelve, Claremont Street is named Robert Gadling, that he's a history teacher at St. Michael's Prep and that his ancestors had extremely strong genes, judging by the stark similarity he holds to numerous minor historical figures. He donated an excruciatingly large sum of money towards the construction of 'The New Inn' in the late noughties, his relationship status on Facebook proudly displays 'It's Complicated' since 1389 (either a reference to something, or a monumentally stupid typo) and ever since he's moved in, he's been dubbed a supposedly textbook case of possession.
Admittedly, from what the DeLaude's have said, it does seem pretty textbook. The man's pleasant enough, in that slightly nauseating neighbourly fashion, but in the evenings after he's returned from work they hear all sorts: ancient tongues, a variety of thumps and bumps and a voice so low that it supposedly shakes the very foundations of the building. Do you hear sleigh bells? Because she's pretty sure that sounds like Christmas for exorcists.
The idea that she might actually get to do a straightforward job for once carried her across three different tubes and a through a lovely catcall from some drunk bastard but as she stares at the perfectly average door in front of her, willing it to do something, she can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment. No pentagrams burnt into the wooden panels? Not even a little bit of blood fissuring from the doorframe? What is this, amateur hour?
Still, she holds her crucifix a little tighter. Looks can be deceiving, after all.
In her head, she runs through the small-talk script that'll get her into the house as she knocks; something about a maintenance check mixed with some of her natural charm should do the trick, and fixes her smile to it's most delightful. As she stands and listens to the muffled expletives coming from the other side of the door, she can honestly say that she feels prepared for anything. Hubris in action.
Robert Gadling opens the door in a state of disarray; hair mussed, fly unzipped and shirt very obviously buttoned with extreme haste. She takes it in her stride, though, and is just about to launch into her maintenance-related tirade when his eyes widen in recognition.
"You!" he shrieks, and she takes a step back because what the actual fuck?
"Me?"
"He gave it to you too? And never told me? Even after you tried to fucking stab me? I'm going to bloody well stab him!"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" It's hardly fair he gets to ask all the questions, especially considering the fact that Robert Gadling is quite obviously insane.
"How did you charm him then, hm? Must've had to try pretty hard." Rude. "God, you're just like fucking Shakespeare."
Somehow ruder?
"Look here, mate, you're obviously not possessed, just a bit of a prick, so if you'd just let me come in and poke around so I can pretend I'm working, I can get paid and you never have to see me again. Win win, yeah?"
"Possessed-" Oh! He's seen the crucifix. Oh. "Hey, wait, bloody hell, were you going to exorcise me?"
"...No?"
"Yeah, wow, convincing. I'm convinced."
God, he's annoying.
"Can you just let me in?"
"Are you still going to exorcise me?"
"Are you going to keep being a cunt?"
He seems to be genuinely considering this, until a loud bang from inside the apartment shatters the silence and he jumps at least a foot into the air. Johanna's never seen someone look more shifty in her life, and she'd lived in Croydon briefly so, sure, it's partly work ethic that causes her to barge past Robert Gadling and race into his apartment, but it's mostly that most unfortunate curse: curiosity.
Robert Gadling's apartment is weird. And that's putting it lightly, it looks like something out of a very cluttered museum or a maximalist's wet dream, with every surface covered in all manner of knick-knacks that look as though they belong in deep storage and- is that a copy of one of Shakespeare's lost plays? She longs to scoop some of these artifacts into her pockets for later examination but time is of the essence and she can here Robert's desperate pleas for her to get the hell out coming closer.
It's a general rule in life that people hide what they don't want you to see behind closed doors, both metaphorically and literally, so she guns for the only unopened door at the end of the hallway. Just because he's not possessed doesn't rule out occult practices and if he's not getting payed for his, then it's his loss and her gain.
She opens the door with flourish and steps into what seems like a normal-looking bedroom; beige wallpaper, textbooks with colourful post-it-note annotations sticking out of them piled by the bed and- jesus fuck.
"Constantine?"
The Sandman is lying in Robert Gadling's bed, managing to look astonishingly regal considering that he's naked as the day he was born. If he was born. Johanna has a sneaking suspicion that he wasn't, but she's too busy locked in the staring contest of her lifetime with the Lord of Dreams to pay that particular train of thought any mind.
They're still staring at eachother as Robert Gadling jogs in, out of breath. He takes one look at the current situation, gulps, and mutters a string of swear words she's pretty sure haven't been used since the Medieval period.
"Calm yourself, Hob Gadling. She is a descendant, and not the lady you remember. We are acquainted." Dream holds her gaze, but speaks to 'Hob' in a soothing timbre, unlike any she's heard him use before.
"She came here to exorcise me!"
"Is that so?" the Sandman smiles, actually smiles, and speaks to her. "Is this true?"
"The demonic voice?" she counters.
"You wound me."
"The loud banging noises?"
He and Hob exchange glances, and look back at her.
"The- the ancient tongues?"
"He is quite... loud, sometimes." Hob says, and at least has the decency to blush.
"Oh God."
"I'm sorry-"
"Oh God." What could she possibly have done to deserve this. Was it that time she wore the priest getup because her ex said it turned him on? Or the time she definitely accidentally maimed her girlfriend's stalker? What sins has she committed that are so terrible that the Almighty deems this a worthy punishment?
"I have to go."
"You don't want... tea? Or anything?" Hob looks like he regrets even asking, and she can't really blame him.
"No, thank you. Stuff to do. People to see. Nice meeting you!" she lies, and flees from the room before the image of the Sandman is burned into her retinas.
It's only when she's out the door and back on the tube that she's able to collect her thoughts and establish that yes, that did just happen and no, she can't forget about it no matter how hard she tries. The memory plays over and over in her mind like a broken record as she walks back to Tamsin's place, and doesn't stop until she's tucked up in bed with her girlfriend's arm curled around her waist.
"How was work?" Tamsin asks, innocent as you please.
"I don't want to talk about it, love." she replies.
"That bad, huh?"
Oh darling, she thinks. You have no idea.