Ethan Justice: Origins

22: Monday 26th September, 08:45

TWICKENHAM WAS A hive of activity fifteen minutes before most people started their working day. The pavements were bustling with pedestrians and the roads crammed with slow-moving buses and cars. It turned out that Justice Investigations was above a coffee house on the busy London Road, opposite Twickenham Railway Station.

Horns sounded so frequently that the sounds overlapped each other as motorists took their frustrations out on vehicles in front that they couldn't even see. The tension generated by the need to be somewhere was clear on virtually every face John observed. Many pressed phones to their ears or spoke into Bluetooth devices wrapped around their ears as they attempted to sip boiling hot coffee from takeaway cups. Even Wilson looked tired and ruffled today.

Upstairs in the small, brightly lit office, John and Savannah made themselves at home. Two desks were pushed together in the centre of the room, directly between the door to the back office and the entrance. Savannah would have her back to the window and face John. A rectangular table with three chairs was beside the main door. Wilson assured them, not convincingly, that he could be out in a second, and he would be perfectly positioned to take Fisher down. Wilson could hear and see the stairwell and the main office by way of hidden microphones and cameras in the ceilings.

John found himself watching Savannah in her supplied office clothing of knee-length black skirt and white buttoned blouse which Johnson had brought to the safe house earlier. It seemed a little stereotypical but apparently it was the best Earthguard could do on such short notice - more like he'd had to go and buy it himself.

John wore a smart charcoal grey suit, light blue shirt and yellow tie. Savannah said that he looked important and sexy. John blushed. Occasionally he would catch her looking back at him, and her whole face would light up, and he would question the reality of the night they had shared. It was surely an omen of the disaster to follow. Today, one or both of them would die a most grisly death, and last night was God's way of softening the blow, a last mortal treat sort of thing. Nothing good lasted, not that he had much by way of comparison to this sort of good.

Wilson wandered about like a bear with a sore head, occasionally glancing at Savannah and muttering to himself. The agent approached John with a scowl that etched lines deep into his forehead like the cracks of a crumbling conscience. "Smith, stop staring at Savannah and get ready. If Fisher shows we need to be ready."

Not even on first name terms anymore? The agent looked every bit as stressed as the hundreds of frantic commuters outside. Either Wilson reckoned that they were in grave danger or maybe Johnson had been wrong and his interest in Savannah was not as innocent as the tall man had suggested.

John sat down at his desk and went through his drawers as he'd been instructed.

"What are we supposed to do other than sit at our desks and look busy?" asked Savannah, staring wide eyed in apparent disbelief at the agent's attitude. Her hands were on her hips and John knew that aggressive stance well from their discussions at the Ritz. Boy, but what gorgeous hips they were. Every part of her, which had already looked perfect before, was amplified tenfold by feelings he could only guess at being part infatuation and part lust. He was tempted to consider love, but he was too much of a cynic and death was too close around the corner for him to allow it room in his thoughts. Maybe if they were together next week?

Wilson approached his girlfriend. His GIRLFRIEND!

"I'm sorry, Savannah," Wilson said, throwing a case file onto John's desk. "I'm tired and I'll be glad when this is all over. Don't worry yourself unduly. Fisher won't turn up."

John guessed that the agent sounded sincere, but he was definitely spooked about something and getting tetchier by the minute. Wilson wasn't finished.