Ethan Justice: Origins

23: Monday 26th September, 10:25

SAVANNAH SLUMPED IN the far corner of the downstairs coffee house facing the window.

It was still a little early for the mid-morning caffeine seekers, and a couple of elderly, respectable-looking ladies were the only other customers. By positioning herself with her bottom just past the edge of her cushioned chair, she could rest her elbows on the seat to prevent her slipping further down. This awkward pose permitted her sight over the top of the chairs on the opposite side of the table. From there she could see if anyone exited the building via the adjoining stairs from the office above.

"Can I take your order, Miss?" said a smartly dressed young woman with a whiter than white apron. Her straw-coloured hair was cut short and neat, adding to her aura of efficiency. She showed no sign that Savannah's awkward pose, halfway down a chair, was anything but ordinary.

"I'm trying to avoid an ex-boyfriend," she said, not particularly caring whether the waitress believed her or not.

"We get that all the time," said the woman. "I find that an Americano goes down well in these situations."

"Okay," Savannah said, annoyed at the distraction from her vigil. The woman winked in what might have been an attempt at female solidarity before walking back towards the nearby kitchen, leaving Savannah to ponder her options.

Her first instinct was to try and contact Johnson until she realised that she had no way of getting in touch with the Earthguard agent. Added to this was the uncertainty as to Johnson's agenda. There was every reason to assume that Wilson's partner was not on their side. She wondered if John had reactivated the watch this morning. Wilson had not mentioned that he should, but Wilson may well not be taking orders from Johnson anymore.

The only person she trusted one hundred per cent was John, and he might be in immediate danger if not already dead. Could John be believable as Varushkin for any length of time? To Christos, a muscle-bound idiot over a phone, John's Russian accent was believable, but face to face with a more intelligent psychopath, she feared the worst.

Two minutes later, with numb buttocks and aching back, she could no longer bear the thought of John coping alone. Standing and stretching, she pulled out a five pound note and walked up to the counter. The short haired waitress was chatting with the two ladies about the possibility of them sharing one of the fresh cream cakes and pastries displayed beneath the cooled glass counter.

Savannah strained her ears for sounds that might suggest a struggle above her, but the absence of any noise did little to allay her fears. Finally, the cake sale fell through, and the friends elected to settle their bill. Swapping her attention repeatedly between the window and the waitress, wishing the elderly women, who both insisted on paying half each, would hurry up with their spindly fingers and fiddly coins, Savannah could no longer wait. She fished out a fifty pound note from her skirt pocket and threw it at the waitress.

"I'll get those and the coffee I never had. Give the ladies a cake each on me. I'm going upstairs, and if I don't come out in the next hour, please call the police."

The two old ladies remarked on what a kind young thing she was as the waitress tucked the cash into her own pocket. She nodded and looked at her watch. "One hour, got it"

Savannah ran to the door, up the stairs and back into the lion's den.

*

Pedestrians veered off at either side as Wilson carved his way through the morning hustle and bustle of Twickenham's streets, making his way to the car. Johnson had left Wilson the phlegm-coloured Mondeo and hired himself another vehicle. No doubt it would be a petrol-guzzling, turbo-charged German sports car of some description.