Ethan Justice: Origins

8: Saturday 24th September, 16:45

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER John and Savannah were standing in Savannah's East Acton, first-floor bedsit. John couldn't believe that anyone lived like this. It was damp, cramped and in need of complete refurbishment.

While Savannah changed, he used the communal toilet in the hall. Abundant mould grew around the window frame and ceiling and the air was thick with the smell of stale urine. Evidence of the residents' eating habits was ingrained on the sides of the toilet bowl. With a concerted effort, and breathing only through his mouth, John forced his aching bladder to empty. The soggy, stained towel, which hung beneath the cracked washbasin, had more dirt and germs on it than his hands had ever experienced. He rushed out without washing his hands.

"That toilet is disgusting," he said, re-entering Savannah's shoebox of a room. She wore tight blue jeans, scuffed white trainers and a thick red Adidas hoodie. She had tied her hair behind her head revealing her small ears. If you stuck a point on them, she'd look just like a sexy pixie.

There was a small, rickety wooden bed with a four-inch mattress in one corner, a small two-ringed stove next to a sink in the other and a wardrobe against the opposite wall which took up a quarter of the floor space. A two feet square window was covered by a single green curtain hung via a threaded steel wire. John noticed a clean-looking towel next to the sink and took the opportunity to wash his hands.

"I don't use the toilet here," she said. "I use the cafe toilet fifty yards down the road. They don't seem to mind."

John was glad to hear it. The thought of Savannah using the toilet made him uncomfortable. Even after washing his hands he still longed for his wet-room back at home. It would take a good ten minutes of steaming hot jets to make him feel clean again. It was a shame it wasn't safe to return there.

"Grab a few clothes and put them in a suitcase," he said, looking above him at the bare forty watt bulb that hung from a worn white cable. He couldn't wait to get out of there.

"It's all I could afford," Savannah said, giving him the piercing eyes, hands on the hips treatment which was becoming her trade mark. John didn't want to be judgemental, but surely if you lived like this then you did something about it. He'd hardly set the world alight with his achievements, but then he didn't need to because he didn't live in squalor. If he'd been put in a place like this one, he'd have soon pulled his finger out. He must remember not to have that conversation with his parents.

"Let's get out of here," he said, unable to take the scowl of disgust from his face.

"Screw you," she grumped. "I can't find my passport. I think Christos must have had someone swipe it."

"Well let's get busy." John grabbed her by the arm and looked her in the eyes. "If Christos is going to renege on his word, then we'd better not hang around somewhere he knows you might be."

She pulled her arm away from his grip. "Not until I speak to Amy."

"Who's Amy?"

"Follow me."

John followed Savannah up the stairs to the top floor of the converted building. He caught himself admiring the lines of her bottom and legs and felt sort of pervy for a while, especially after the Tibbett incident, but he was only human and she was wearing figure-hugging jeans. Besides, she would never know. It had been a hell of a day and perks had been sadly lacking.

There must have been nine bedsits in all but only one in the attic. It was the penthouse bedsit, so to speak. The cream carpet outside was thick-piled wool and not the threadbare grey synthetic material that graced the rest of the shoddy building. Savannah raced up and banged repeatedly on the metal-skinned door with the side of her fist, a look of grim determination and anger on her face.