Ethan Justice: Origins

5: Saturday 24th September, 13:15

OUTSIDE THE KENSINGTON apartment building, the cold breeze had dropped and a few gaps had appeared in the cloud cover, giving the day a brighter feel. However, as John Smith could attest, there was still a definite chill in the air.

He sensed that all was not as it should be.

Perhaps his initial reaction at being found at a murder scene had rose-tinted his perception of the two men who escorted him outside. In retrospect, they had been very keen to remove him from the scene of the crime. He was glad he hadn't divulged his name or carried any identification.

"Aren't you supposed to read me my rights?" he asked, hands cuffed behind him, an officer on each side guiding him along the crowded street at a steady pace.

"We'll take care of the paperwork back at the station," said the taller of the two, on his right side, in a thick American accent. Since when did the Metropolitan police force take on Yanks? He shoved John hard in the back with the palm of his hand.

The message carried with the shove was clear: shut up and walk. But John didn't feel compliant today. A part of him hurt. The pain was geographically obscure, deep in a place where pain carried emotions as well as physical symptoms. There was a monster ball of grief inside him which swelled and yearned for release. But now was not the time for self-pity. He pushed away the thoughts that fed the ball and swallowed the pain back down.

He regarded the two men in turn, from head to toe. The long, thick, navy blue coats covered everything from their shoulders to their knees. Beneath the knees, both men wore black suit trousers and black shoes. Stooping to look more closely, John realised that the spotless shine came from boots, not shoes, and tell-tale stitching indicated steel toe caps. Were they standard issue for the police? The man on his left was the eldest, and John placed him in his late forties, a good ten years ahead of his partner, who he reckoned was a year or two older than himself.

Both men had short mid-brown hair. Neither man wore a discernible expression, but the taller man had a look about him, a glint in the eye perhaps, which exuded job satisfaction. He also had a Bluetooth device in one ear, which he occasionally pressed as if he was straining to hear something. If these guys were CID, John was next in line for the throne. Thoughts for his own safety suddenly occupied his mind.

"Nice clothes," he said to no one in particular, looking forward again, smiling warmly at those who had the nerve to look him in the eye. Pedestrians parted like the Red Sea, nervous that he was a threat to their safety. "How come you didn't park nearer? Surely, they give you a special permit to park anywhere when on the job?" John asked.

"Shut up and walk," the shorter one said, without a discernible accent, tonally similar to Mark but without the exaggerated drawl that belonged to those with a privileged lineage. John felt an elbow in his back. That hurt. Elbows from the left, hands from the right, he noted. MI5, CIA, Mafia perhaps? No, not stylish enough for the mob. There was something almost military about their behaviour. He needed to push a few more buttons.

John turned to the captor on his right. "Your partner's not very tall, is he? Have they relaxed the height requirements for entry?"

Another elbow thudded into his back, sending John stumbling forward.

"I'm not sure you can do that," he complained, as they quickly caught up to him. John looked down to his left, where the shorter man's head bobbed along a good five inches below his own. "You've got some serious shoulders on you. Did they allow you to add your shoulder width to your height for entry purposes?"

Another dig in the back from the left but this one was sharper and harder, and it remained pushed roughly into his spine just above the waistband of his jeans. A gun! Instinctively, he froze, almost bringing them to a standstill.