Ethan Justice: Origins

6: Saturday 24th September, 14:05

THE DISTRICT LINE tube train was mostly empty and yet it seemed like all eyes were on John.

Like a hot piece of coal, the unopened piece of paper bothered John every second of the short journey home. He had thought about pulling it from his jeans on the tube and once again when he exited the train at Stamford Brook station. Each time his fingertips wandered into his pocket he was overcome by the feeling that strange eyes watched his every move. But it was more than that. He had the oddest feeling that if he ignored the paper, maybe it, and the scene in his best friend's apartment, would turn out to be figments of his imagination.

The five minute walk from the station went some way to allaying his fears that he was being followed. As he examined every person he overtook or met, he realised that he still didn't know where Stamford Brook became Chiswick and vice versa, or if Stamford Brook was just part of Chiswick. His head was full of rubbish.

The closer he got to home the more space appeared between him and the next man. By the time he had turned two corners and reached the converted Victorian building, where he occupied the ground floor flat, there was barely a soul in sight. He leapt up the steps to his building, three at a time, taking one last look around him before entering.

He doubted that the two men he had evaded at High Street Kensington tube station could have stayed on his tail. And his home was the last place they would expect him to go - wasn't it? Besides, they hadn't asked him a single question before or after snapping the handcuffs on - not even his name, which meant they couldn't know who he was or where he lived. Who the hell were those guys? They sure as hell weren't regular police. Regular police did not turn and flee at the sight of their colleagues - armed or otherwise.

As he closed the main building door behind him with a shove from his heel, a veil of comfort tumbled over him like a warm, familiar blanket. At his own entrance, to the left of the stairs, he turned the key and barged open the door of his flat, letting out a long sigh of relief. It was good to be home. A hand tapped his shoulder from behind. Without thinking he lunged forward into his flat, turned and slammed the heavy door shut right in the tear-striped face of Savannah Jones.

John gasped for air. That was the second time today she had sent his heartbeat into orbit. Feeling somewhat foolish, he recovered his breathing and composure and opened the door again. She was in the same slinky mini dress as before, holding her high heels in her left hand and gripping her purse in the right. So that was how she'd crept up behind him. Her face was troubled, and her shoulders slouched. He should get rid of her quickly.

"I thought I had forty-eight hours." John looked at his Rolex Daytona. "It's quarter past two which means so far I've had about seven hours."

"I need it now. I can't wait any longer. It's a matter of life and death."

John put on his sternest face. "I still don't have it, and to be honest, it's no longer my priority."

John watched as Savannah's mouth drooped and tears welled up in her dark eyes. Her tall, slender frame seemed to shrink in front of him. How often did this girl cry? She closed her eyelids as if to halt the flow but instead sent a tear racing down each cheek. Part of him wanted her gone and another part of him welcomed the delay to his own, more serious concerns. When she wasn't crying, she was a pleasure both to look at and be around, and for someone so miserable and unwashed, she certainly looked incredibly good. For one of the few times in his life, he welcomed the company.

He took a step back and opened the door wide. "Come in."

Clearly not expecting the invite, Savannah needed a couple of seconds before the offer hit home. Once the penny dropped, she was quick to scurry inside. Savannah followed John through the second door on the left of the small entrance hall into the 'L' shaped lounge, diner and kitchen area.