Ethan Justice: Origins

1: Sunday 18th September, 13:30

JOHN SMITH WAS sitting alone in his parents' dining room, a shrine to designer opulence. What was taking so long? Where were his parents and sister? Where was the delicious smelling roast lamb?

Three loud raps at the front door aroused his curiosity.

Adelaine House was at the end of a two hundred yard gated driveway which required authorised entry. John would have heard if the intercom system had been used, so it had to be somebody with the code - Uncle Michael perhaps ... or his best friend, Mark Bradshaw.1

Thank God. Now he would have an ally at the table, and his parents would lay off the subject of his career, or more correctly, the lack of one.

John heard his father greet Mark at the door.

"Good to see you, Mark. How's the world of finance treating you?"

"Pretty good, thanks, Adam. Is John here?"

"Yes but..." his father's voice dropped to a whisper. As still as he could be, John strained his ears but was unable to hear. He had an uneasy feeling that he was being kept out of the loop on something.

"Got it," Mark said finally, in a failed attempt at whispering in baritone. "We'll put him straight."

John's stomach sank, and his appetite plummeted with it.

*

Thirty minutes later a thick and heavy silence blended with the smells of the steaming cuisine laid in front of John. He had so far parried every attempt at small talk with short, sharp, not-to-be-followed answers. The others shared knowing glances when they thought John's attention was elsewhere. He had hardly touched his appetizer and was equally unable to appreciate the main course.

John rested his head on his hand as he guided a roast potato around a lamb island and through a moat of gravy with his silver fork. He raised his eyes from his plate.

"Come on then," he said. "Let's get on with it."

City whiz Mark, wearing a dark power suit as always, was sitting opposite John and next to Rachel, John's sister. Rachel had left home over a year ago when she was twenty-two. She had purchased her own property with an obscene mortgage, met by a more obscene salary at one of the larger prestigious fashion houses. For the life of him, he could never remember which one.

Mark looked to his left, past Rachel to John's father at the head of the table. Adam Smith nodded, and Mark cleared his throat as if addressing a board meeting.

"Listen, John, we're all a bit concerned about you."

Here it was. Time to duck out. John stood up and glared at Mark. "Not you too. I thought you were my friend."

"That's why we asked him here." His mother, sitting to his right, tugged his shirt, and he half expected her to tell him to tuck it in - but she didn't. "Don't blame Mark. He took a great deal of convincing to come here today."

His mother was such a drama queen. "Look, Mark, forgive me if I don't want to be a super-preened city stiff like you. I can't believe you've let them rope you into this."

Rachel, dressed in a figure-hugging, high-fashion, pink dress of her own design, dabbed her matching lips with her napkin. At least she wasn't wearing a ridiculous hat today. "Jonathan, Mum and Dad just want the best for you. For Christ's sake, you've got a maths degree from Oxford, and you're working as a clerk in an office."

"Don't call me Jonathan." Pretty and successful, Rachel had it all. Why did she have to be such a huge pain in the arse? "What the hell use are your services to the world, Rachel? Created any new designs for the third world recently? Let's give the starving some street cred, why don't we?"