Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (3 page)

“You set me up with a prost ... a girl.” Phew, that was close. “Now she says I owe her a thousand pounds.”

“Yes. Your parents are right. You’re a waste of space. I thought this might give you the kick up the arse you so badly need.” Mark hung up.

John’s head thumped like his heart was inside it. He stared at the handset open mouthed. Mark had never spoken to him like that before. Yes, he’d made fun of John’s adversity to success and yes, he’d turned up at his parents’ house last Sunday in an intervention style attack on his lifestyle - but this? The voice was Mark’s, but the behaviour was not that of his best friend.

“Told you,” she said.

John shook his head and exhaled. His head didn’t appreciate the movement.

“Arghh! This can’t be right.” What was up with Mark? He let out a huge sigh, holding his head with one hand to ensure it didn’t move. Mark could wait. John had more immediate issues. “How much do I really owe you?”

“A thousand, like I already said.”

John shook his head slowly as he looked her up and down, sizing up the threat. She seemed way too nice for this situation. It was all just a big joke. Had they even had sex? He had been way too drunk to remember, and he’d yet to manage drunk and penetration at the same time. She was something else though. In her case, he may well have just gone the extra mile. None of his thoughts made any difference because he didn’t have a thousand pounds, and what could she do about it anyway?

“I don’t have it,” he said. He held out his upturned palms as if this proved how poor he was. The duvet fell to the floor leaving him totally exposed.

“Nice,” she said, taking her time to look John up and down, “but I’ll still need the cash.”

He fell to the floor and pulled the duvet up to his waist. “I really don’t have it,” he said, trying to appear unruffled as he looked up at her. He hesitated before saying, “You really liked what you saw?”

She bit her bottom lip and rolled her eyes. “Look, John Smith, I don’t do the threatening, I’m just the talent.” She reached into a small black purse, which John hadn’t noticed against the matching dress, and passed him a business card. “Call me within forty-eight hours when you’ve got the cash, or my boss will break your legs.”

John stared at the card blankly. “But...?”

Before he could form a coherent sentence, Savannah Jones of Aphrodite’s Angels had left the building.

3: Saturday 24th September, 08:00

John could not get back to sleep. He was dog-tired, but his spinning mind prevented a return to slumber. What had Mark got him into?

For three hours he paced around the spacious flat in a pair of black boxers, swearing under his breath at his predicament, kicking anything in his path. Damn Mark. John never lectured him about the thousands he blew on gambling, so what gave Mark the right to interfere with his life? Some bloody friend. Where could he get a thousand pounds in forty-eight hours? He wouldn’t be paid for another six days and there was a salary advance and an overdraft to cover, leaving a few hundred over for essentials at best.

Recent events with his family meant they were unlikely to assist without a good explanation, and no matter how many ways he played out the scene in his head, it didn’t end well. Besides, the thought of begging his parents or Rachel for money turned his stomach. His sister was daddy’s girl through and through. The voice might be shriller but the message would be the same: you got yourself into this mess, so you find a way to get yourself out of it. No, it had to be Mark or a local money lender, and as a loan shark would put him effectively back to where he was, he reckoned he was stuck with Mark.

His huffing, puffing and expletives were scarily interrupted by the occasional thought of the long-legged Savannah. He couldn’t recall ever having been so taken by a person’s natural beauty before. And those eyes! Had she really liked what she saw, or was it all part of the service? Why had he asked? He must have appeared so lame. She had seemed incredibly nice for a prostitute. He guessed people expected a lot for a thousand pounds - and why shouldn’t they? Some of them might even work hard for it. He wondered how long it would take him to save up for another night and whether she would agree not to sleep with anyone else until then? Probably not, he concluded.

At 11.00 A.M. he gave up thinking and headed to the wet room for a shower. After ten minutes of sixteen individual jets of hot pressurised water massaging his every muscle, he was a new man. He admired himself in the full-length mirror. Not bad for thirty-two, considering he hadn’t exercised since university. A little muscle mass had deserted him, but at least it hadn’t turned to fat. He jumped on the scales which measured him at just over twelve and a half stones with eighteen percent body fat. At half an inch over six feet, he reckoned they were pretty good stats. Savannah could do worse.

John changed into a pair of tatty old blue jeans, a red t-shirt, baggy green GAP hoodie and a pair of Nike black Air Max trainers bought recently on his credit card. They had been a steal at just under a fifth of a night with Savannah. As usual he skipped breakfast.

*

Two tubes later he was standing outside Mark’s apartment block in South Kensington. The streets were bustling with the rich and the even richer. Most pedestrians carried designer umbrellas of varying lengths and colours despite the predictions of the weathermen for a late summer day. Not surprisingly, the sky, grey and overcast, threatened rain or worse. Did anyone believe the weather forecast anymore? John glanced along the line of residents’ neatly parked cars which followed the curve of the avenue, and as usual didn’t spot a car that cost less than fifty thousand pounds.

Doormen in various uniforms, complete with hats, many like the trained monkeys sat on top of the barrel organs of yesteryear, stood outside blocks of exorbitantly priced apartments. This wasn’t the most expensive post code in London but it was right up there. Of course, Mark’s apartment was the penthouse. How much did a flat have to cost to be considered an apartment? Wasn’t an apartment just an Americanism for flat? The rich and their obsession with labels, John mused as he dialled Mark’s mobile. The pickup was immediate.

“Where are you?” asked Mark.

“Outside,” John said. “Can you tell the concierge to let me up? Last time he refused and told the doorman to never let me back in.”

Mark sounded pissed off. “Why are you here?”

“Come on, you posh bastard. You owe me after that stunt you pulled.” John put on his best aristocratic accent. “Tell Parkes that Lord John Smith is here.”

“You’re such a child. I’ll instruct him when I’m done.”

“Or you could say, ‘let my friend in’. Try talking like the rest of the human race, why don’t you?” John disconnected the call. They were like chalk and cheese all right. Sure they’d gone to the same elite school, but they were worlds apart in every other way. And yet the tie between them was strong, and neither one had ever managed to explain it. It was what it was, and despite the possibly bone-threatening position Mark had left him in, John would do just about anything for him. Once he’d coughed up the thousand pounds, of course.

John watched yellow leaves fall from the oaks, beeches and silver birches which were prevalent along the exclusive avenue. The light breeze seemed distinctly autumnal, carrying a chill which his hoodie failed to deflect. As the leaves fell in a lazy, pendulum-style motion, he was reminded of his failure to take hold of his own life, which too seemed on a downward path to nowhere.

Five minutes later, Parkes emerged from the building and headed towards John at a brisk pace. This didn’t bode well. He wore the same bus-red uniform as the doorman but had a more elaborate hat. Perks of the job, John supposed. As he approached, he opened his mouth to speak but John beat him to it.

“All right, Parker?” John said.

“It’s Parkes,” he said. “My name is Parkes.”

He was a tall, muscular man of about forty years old with a pronounced black widow’s peak which he hid beneath the hat. The head gear was a half-height, black top hat with a bus-red band to match the uniform, giving him the appearance of a circus ringmaster. Parkes had been a thorn in John’s side since Mark had moved into the block fifteen months ago, always making entry to his friend’s apartment difficult for him. Mark had told John that Parkes was ex-military, but he didn’t believe a word of it. John had never taken to orders well: at school, at home and especially from a steroid-pumped attendant.

“Wasn’t that what I said?” asked John.

“No.”

“Nice hat. Got enough saved for the hair transplant yet? Can I come in now?”

“Mr Bradshaw is unavailable.”

“No, he isn’t,” John said. “I spoke to him less than ten minutes ago. You were supposed to be telling the doorman to let me in. What the hell is going on?”

Parkes rubbed his mouth with a white-gloved hand and leaned forward so his face was close to John’s.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Smith,” he said through clenched teeth. “I could break you like a twig.”

What was with all the threats today? Parkes seemed overly nervous and antagonistic. John pushed Parkes away, both palms thumping into the bigger man’s chest. Parkes grunted as the air left his lungs and stumbled backwards to keep from falling, arms rotating like two erratic windmills as he sought balance. Passersby turned their heads as they continued to walk, interested, but not wanting to be involved. While the concierge considered his next move, John called Mark once again - it went straight to voicemail - strange.

He redialled Mark’s mobile again as Parkes cursed under his breath at the numerous passersby with nothing better to do than stare. Voicemail again. John considered taking a run at the entrance to the apartment block, but Parkes was built to block, and it didn’t appear an even contest. But Mark could be in trouble, and John needed the money to keep his legs intact. Looking into the concierge’s eyes John shrugged, turned on his heels and started to walk away.

Five short paces later, John spun around and charged.

The diversion had worked. Parkes was already heading back to the entrance. Unfortunately, Parkes’s colleague, the doorman, had spotted John and screamed. John reached the concierge at full pelt, just as he turned in reaction to the warning. Dipping and turning his left shoulder, John caught Parkes full in the chest sending him backwards for the second time, only this time directly into the doorman. Both figures tumbled to the paved ground beneath the maroon cloth canopy of the apartments in a tangled heap. Onlookers gaped in astonishment, but John didn’t hang around to explain, continuing forward from the collision, on and into the apartment building.

John ran through the overly large reception area where Parkes should have been on duty and launched himself into the single lift which was open, waiting like a sideways mechanical mouth to swallow him. He stabbed the top red button for the penthouse several times, and after a few ‘come ons’, the doors closed smoothly and the lift began its ascent. He bent over, hands on his knees for support, gasping for air as his cardiovascular system struggled to provide his muscles with sufficient oxygen. Perhaps he should have taken a bit better care of himself.

The lift chimed and opened, revealing Mark’s solid wooden doors directly opposite. John immediately picked up the cylindrical bin from inside the lift and placed it between the doors, just like he had seen in a movie. He rolled the cylinder sideways into position so it sat in the crack between the lift and the adjoining floor. Anyone who followed him would be forced to take the stairwell. As expected, the lift doors chomped repeatedly on the bin and failed to close. John jumped over the obstruction and made for Mark’s doors. He rang Mark’s bell with his right hand and banged on the doors with his other fist.

“Mark! Mark! Are you there, Mark?” John shouted, not caring who heard him. He paused and put his ear to the cold wood of the door. There was a definite sound of a door closing. With a two-step run up, he rammed the same shoulder he had hit Parkes with, into the doors. Pain shot through his shoulder as his bone collided with the hard wood, and he rebounded from the impact.
God that hurt.
He wasn’t going to get through the door as easily as he had gone past the concierge.

He looked around for something heavy enough to use as a makeshift battering ram, but there was nothing but a fire hose in the tall, narrow corridor, and the lift’s bin was in use and far too light. While searching, he noticed the red ‘break in case of fire’ box to the left of the lift which he promptly smashed with his elbow, sending an ear-piercing, two-tone wail throughout the building.

Resisting the urge to cover his ears, John charged the door once more, again bouncing back in pain like a rubber ball off a brick wall. He leaned with his back against the door, panting from exhaustion and the adrenaline rush. Jesus, what was he supposed to do? Where was an axe when you needed one? He felt rather than heard the click from the locking mechanism behind him, and the right-hand door twitched slightly inwards. John kicked the door as he turned and rushed into the spacious entrance hall. Empty.

“Mark, where are you?”

John eased his way along the high-ceilinged hall. Nothing looked out of place. The Chinese art from several dynasties, which John disliked, was perfectly hung on maroon walls. As always, the place looked spotless and smelt of disinfectant. This was clearly no robbery. All of the doors were shut, which again, was not unlike Mark. Maybe he’d left by the fire escape. But why?

John ran straight ahead to the far end of the hall and flung open the solid oak door to the lounge. An instant draft hit John, telling him that the window to the stairs on the outside of the building was open. He dashed to the window and leaned out. The metal staircase vibrated with the sound of hurried footsteps.

“Mark, is that you?”

John stuck his head out further but the staircase hindered his view. Rather than wait to see who appeared at the bottom, he decided his time would be better spent checking the rest of the flat. If it was his friend descending the outside stairs, then Mark was safe and if it wasn’t, then John was safe. He didn’t give it another thought and took one quick look around the lounge before heading for Mark’s study.