Ethan Justice: Origins

4: Saturday 24th September, 12:42

SAVANNAH JONES SIPPED at her cup of lukewarm herbal tea in a booth of a small Pizza Hut in Shepherd's Bush, wishing she'd changed clothes before arriving. She had thought her small, damp-ridden bedsit would not provide the uplift in spirit she so longingly craved. Instead she had spent the last four hours at Hammersmith tube station on a fixed stool making a tall 'Americano' coffee last well beyond its intended lifespan. The pimpled teenage boy who worked the concession stand had seemed glad of the company and hadn't pressured her to order more or to move on.

Savannah sipped again at her tea. It truly was disgusting. She allowed the liquid to fall out of her mouth and back into the cup without swallowing. Why hadn't she ordered a coffee?

The red plastic, high-backed double seats gave her some protection from the eyes of the few other customers who, sitting down for an early lunch, could surely tell how she made her unsavoury living. She looked and felt like a whore. Goddamn it, she was a whore, or a prostitute as John Smith had called her.

John Smith! She wondered why he'd withheld his real name. Maybe he'd known the bill for her services was his and blamed his friend to escape payment. Perhaps he'd rumbled her lack of confidence and figured she was easily cheated out of her fee. His place was big, and she knew that a Chiswick address didn't come without a big price tag. No doubt she'd screwed up. She had much to learn.

Savannah had known the world of escorting would be seedy, but her friend Amy, who had recommended Aphrodite's Angels, said it would soon pay off her debts and give her the chance she badly needed to work her life out. Work for a month and then jack it in, she had told her. One day and two clients later and she had collected the grand sum of fifty pounds, fifty percent of which she owed to her new boss, Christos the Greek, who was already over ten minutes late. Not much of a living from an hour and a night's work.

She banged the cup down harder than she meant to, splashing straw-coloured liquid over the red paper tablecloth. It smelt worse than it tasted.

"What's up, Sweetie?" said a voice from behind.

Savannah went rigid but somehow convinced her muscles to relax before Christos seated himself against the wall, directly opposite his latest employee. She needed to appear calm, collected and unruffled.

As always he was dressed completely in black: jeans, sweatshirt, trainers and brand new leather bomber jacket. For a forty-five year old, his look was not cool. He was of average height, stocky but not fat, with dyed black hair slicked back with a wet-look hair care product. He had a large broad nose on a chubby face which, along with his irregular shaving habit, had given rise to the 'Christos the Greek' moniker - at least that was Amy's version.

Apparently, his real name was Christopher, born and bred in East London, and he had never been overseas. He had a faint but distinctive smell about him which Savannah guessed was the hair gel, but could equally have been a deodorant failing to mask a hygiene issue.

She needed her wits about her, to act like it had all been a walk in the park. So far her boss had been nothing but kind, full of helpful advice, and she had no reason to think he'd changed overnight. After all, she was new and had to learn the ropes.

"So how'd your first night go, Sweetie?"

She looked into his eyes. They were dark slits on a face which yesterday had radiated red-faced joviality like an out of season Santa. Not today. Even the high-pitched, cheeky boy, Cockney patter had lost its previous charm and carried with it an element of threat.

"Not so good," she said. "I'm sure things will get better though."

Christos didn't move, his hands remaining under the table, his eyelids closing further until the slits were almost gone. "Helen told me you had two clients. I ain't great at maths but I reckon that makes two grand. A grand for you and one for me."