by Chris Ryan
As he lay on his side, Porter could hear the Scotsmen staggering down the alley, laughing drunkenly. He watched as a trickle of his own blood spat away from the cuts in his face, and, caught up in the lashing rain, swirled away towards the gutter.
Where it belongs, he thought bitterly, as he closed his torn and cut eyes and let consciousness slip away from him.
Groggily, Porter opened one eye then another. He was lying flat, his face down in a puddle of water that was crimson from his own blood. His whole body ached, and another of his remaining teeth appeared to have come loose.
Slowly, he tried to lift himself up. He had no idea what time it was, but it was already dark, and the lashing rain had been replaced by a slow drizzle. Porter looked around for the vodka bottle, but it was gone. So was the kebab he’d been eating. Reaching down into his pocket, he looked for the thirty quid he had left. Gone. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered.
Standing up, he wobbled a bit, then managed to find his balance. The pain in his left leg was hardly noticeable any more: every nerve ending in his body was screaming out in agony, overriding whatever was wrong with his leg. Got to get myself cleaned up, he told himself. I’m going to die if I stay out here tonight.
He walked slowly towards Vauxhall Bridge. The traffic was snarling past him, an angry, swelling chorus of horns and engines. A cyclist sped past on the pavement, shouting at Porter to get out of the way. He staggered forwards. Only half a mile, he told himself. Maybe the hostel will help me.
The Orchid Centre was the only place he could think of right now. Run by a charity, it provided beds for the night for the homeless, gave you a shower and some medicine, and a hot meal if they had any volunteers coming in to man the kitchens. It was financed by one of the big American banks in the City as part of their ‘corporate responsibility’ programme, and sometimes you’d get American bankers spending part of the evening there, helping out with the dossers, before getting their chauffeurs to take them back to their mansions in Notting Hill. Still, it wasn’t too bad, Porter had decided over the couple of years he’d been a regular visitor. At least they didn’t try and stuff any religion down your throat like some of the shelters. The only religion these bloody bankers knew was money, and there was no chance of any of the guys kipping down in the hostel catching that.
‘Have you got a place?’ he said, leaning up against the door.
It was opened by a young guy in black jeans and a sweatshirt. Matt, maybe that was his name, Porter thought, struggling to remember what he was called. He was OK, the way he recalled it from the last time he’d been here. Didn’t lecture you, and didn’t suggest you got a job. Just gave you a hot shower, and some antibiotics, and let you get some kip.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ said Matt.
Porter hadn’t looked in a mirror – it wasn’t a piece of kit you carried around with you when you lived on the streets – but he imagined he looked terrible. There was still some bleeding on his face, and some minor flesh wounds from the beating he’d taken. His clothes were cut and torn, and he was soaked through. Everything is relative, but even in a Vauxhall hostel for the homeless, he looked like crap.
‘I need a drink, mate,’ growled Porter. ‘A drink and somewhere to kip …’
Matt took a step back, and Porter followed him. The entrance hallway to the Orchid Centre was painted lime green, and smelt of disinfectant and boiled cabbage. Matt’s office had an electric fire, and a small TV. The clock on the wall said it was just after nine. ‘There’s no booze here, Porter,’ said Matt sharply. ‘You know that.’
Porter was wobbling, trying to hold on to his balance. There was still enough vodka swilling around inside him to make it hard to stand up straight. On the TV, he caught a glimpse of Perry Collinson. He was talking about Katie Dartmouth: it was a replay of the same interview he’d seen earlier in the day. As he finished his Churchill quote, the report cut to a blonde, smartly turned-out woman in her late fifties. It was an interview with Katie’s mum, from her home village in Hampshire. There were tears in her eyes as she said how worried they were about Katie, and how desperately they wanted to see her again. ‘We’ll be back right after the break with the all the latest on the Katie Dartmouth kidnap drama,’ concluded the newscaster. And the screen faded to an elegant picture of Katie Dartmouth, looking blonde and radiant, while the wistful opening chords of Elton John’s ‘Someone Saved My Life Tonight’ played on the soundtrack.
‘I need a fucking drink,’ Porter snapped, looking away from the TV screen.
‘Like I said, there’s no drinking,’ said Matt, turning angry. ‘We can sort you out with a bed. From the looks of you, we should probably try and get you to a doctor in the morning as well.’
‘It’s a drink I need, not a bloody doctor.’
Matt took a step closer. He was slightly built but he’d worked in the hostel long enough not to be intimidated by any of the guys who kipped down there. ‘You need to learn to play by the rules, mate,’ he said.
‘I’ll bloody pay you,’ Porter snapped.
He fished around in his pocket, and took out the two credit cards he’d taken from the woman’s purse that morning. The Scots guys had emptied the cash out of his pockets, but hadn’t bothered with the plastic. They knew that even the dodgiest off-licence in Vauxhall wasn’t going to let them pay by card. Porter shoved them at Matt. ‘I’ll pay for some booze.’
Matt glanced down at the cards. ‘You’re called Helen now, are you?’ he said, reading the name that was written across the thin strip of plastic. ‘Very fetching. It suits you.’ He looked straight into Porter’s swollen, bloodshot eyes. ‘We’re here to help guys like you, and we do a pretty good job, but we aren’t interested in bloody thieves.’
‘I need a drink, man,’ cried Porter. ‘Just one bloody drink. Look at the state of me –’
‘Get out of here,’ said Matt.
‘I’m bloody desperate, man. What’s one fucking drink?’
Matt pushed him back. Porter wobbled, but managed to hold on to his balance. ‘Get lost,’ he said. ‘We might be a charity, but there’s a fucking limit, and you just crossed it. Sober up, and we’ll help you. Stay like this, and you’re on your own.’
‘Fuck, there’s just no sodding point,’ Porter snarled.
His face was suddenly creased up with sadness as he turned round and started walking back into the rain. Behind him, Matt was turning the sound up on the TV. Porter could hear the strains of ‘Someone Saved My Life Tonight’ whistling through the cold air.
Turning left, he walked through the slowly falling rain. He was heading towards the river. No point going back to his old archway. The Scots bastards would just give him another kicking. There was a spot close to the bridge, next to a new apartment block, where some blokes sometimes kipped down for the night. Maybe I’ll go there, Porter thought. See if I can find some way of keeping warm. And see what tomorrow brings.
THREE
Porter looked down at the river. A dirty puddle of water was lapping up by the muddy shores of the Thames. He dipped his hands down into it. The water felt cold and refreshing, and he sloshed some across his face, trying to clean away the blood that was clinging to his skin. He’d already walked a mile or so along the riverfront, looking for somewhere to kip down for the night. One spot underneath the first arch of Vauxhall had already been colonised by some Macedonians who’d built a campfire and seemed to be heating up some tins of grub. Porter had gestured that he might join them, but if he didn’t already know the Macedonian for piss off, then he did now. An abandoned petrol station where guys sometimes kipped down had been taken over by a couple of brawlers, and Porter was in no mood for another fight. Just somewhere to rest his head until he could pick himself up and start again.
But there didn’t seem to be anywhere. In London, he couldn’t even find anywhere to sleep rough and not be disturbed by anyone any more.
Somewhere up above, a few beams of moonlight were trying to break through, but mostly the sky re
mained dark and angry. He sat down on a concrete ledge, looking out at the river, and felt a stiff night breeze blow through him. Just got to try to stay warm, he told himself. Until tomorrow.
‘John,’ shouted a voice.
It ran out across the empty stretch of concrete that led down to the water.
Porter hunched his shoulders, and looked out again over the river. When you were called John you got used to hearing your name, and no longer assumed they were looking for you. Who the hell would want to talk to me anyway? he thought bitterly. This or any other night.
‘John,’ the voice shouted again, drawing closer this time.
Porter glanced round. He recognised Matt’s voice now, and, looking closely into the murky, hazy light, he could see him. About a hundred yards away down the river, with someone at his side. A doctor maybe. I’m in no mood to see a medic, Porter decided. Not unless they’ve started handing out bottles of vodka on prescription.
‘Piss off,’ he said.
His voice was carried on the breeze, and moved swiftly down the river. He looked back at the shoreline, watching the slow progress of a barge moving towards the sea. The day had been bad enough already. All he wanted to do was to get it over with. Move on to the next one.
‘I’ve someone to see you,’ Matt shouted.
Porter glanced to his left. Matt was maybe fifty yards away from him now. The shape at his side was hard to make out. An overcoat was all he could see. Bollocks, he thought. It’s a trick. They’ve brought a doctor, or the social, or the police. They’re going to section me. Or arrest me. Or something worse.
‘Piss off,’ he said again, louder this time.
‘Just wait there,’ Matt said.
Porter stood up, and began walking upstream. His legs were exhausted and he could feel the bruising all over his body, but he still had the strength to get away if he had to.
‘This woman needs to speak to you,’ Matt shouted.
Porter turned round, looking straight at him. The shape at his side was moving closer now. Maybe thirty yards from him. She was wearing a long, blue overcoat, smartly tailored, and she had thick black hair that tumbled about five inches past her shoulders. Just a kid, really, thought Porter briefly. No more than seventeen or eighteen. A looker, though. She had sharply elegant features, high cheekbones and a strong mouth.
Not just any kid, he realised. My kid.
Sandy.
It shouldn’t be hard for a father to recognise his own daughter, should it? Porter asked himself. Diana had thrown him out of the house eleven years ago, when Sandy was just a child of six, and he hadn’t seen her since. She’d changed a lot, and so had he, but her face was printed onto his soul, and he’d no more forget it than he’d forget his own name.
‘Dad,’ she said, her voice hesitant and gentle. ‘Dad? Is that you?’
The words pierced Porter’s skin more painfully than any of the blows that had rained down on him in the alleyway earlier that day. Her voice settled in his ears and, for a moment, he wanted to run to her, and take her in his arms. Then he paused. It’s not me, is it? I’m not her dad. I abandoned that job eleven years ago. I couldn’t hack it, and her mum couldn’t put up with my drinking any more, and I can’t say I blame her. I can’t change that now. There’s no point in even trying.
‘I’m nobody,’ he growled.
‘It’s me, Dad,’ she said. ‘Sandy …’
He could hear the determination in her voice, and it reminded him of her mother. She was always the strong one: I might have been the soldier, but she was the one who knew how to fight.
‘Piss off,’ shouted Porter. ‘I never heard of a girl called Sandy.’
He turned round and started walking along the river. It wasn’t true of course. There wasn’t a day that had passed in the last eleven years when he hadn’t thought about her. Probably not even so much as an hour. But he couldn’t look at her now. Not like this. Nobody wants a dad who lives out on the streets, who doesn’t have a house to live in or a car to drive, who smells likes a sewer. What’s the point of a parent like that? Better just to keep on moving. She’ll get by without me. She has done so far, and it’ll only get easier as the years go by.
Suddenly he heard footsteps running down the pathway. The wind was blowing up stronger now, and the clouds briefly cleared, sending bright shafts of moonlight flooding out across the river. Porter felt a hand on his shoulders. He spun round. Matt was standing right next to him, his face sweaty. ‘For fuck’s sake, you old bugger,’ he snapped. ‘It’s your daughter.’
Porter paused. He could see Sandy standing twenty yards away, not moving.
‘She came to the hostel tonight looking for you,’ pressed Matt, fighting to recover his breath. ‘She’s been looking for you for weeks. She contacted SAFA, tried everything, and eventually she found someone who knew you kipped down with us sometimes. I guessed you’d be down by the river.’ He looked straight into Porter’s eyes, his expression piercing and harsh: there was a world of judgement in those eyes, and none of it was in Porter’s favour. ‘She wants to meet you. Just do that for her. It’s bugger all to ask …’
Porter nodded. It was a simple movement of the head, but it was harder than throwing the strongest punch. Glancing up at Sandy, he attempted a rough smile. ‘C’mon then, love,’ he said. ‘We’ll hit the bloody town.’
She smiled back and walked towards him. Porter felt embarrassed about the way he looked. Usually he didn’t care: when you lived out on the streets it made no difference to the people around you. Now he wished he’d found somewhere to wash, maybe even had a change of clothes. It would have been good to scrape some of the blood off his face. She probably wasn’t expecting much when she came looking for me, but this … Christ, nobody could be prepared for this.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, glancing down at his wet, filthy clothes.
‘It’s OK,’ said Sandy. ‘Let’s find somewhere to talk.’
Porter nodded. He walked alongside her, away from Vauxhall, up towards Waterloo station. He wasn’t sure what time it was. Eleven, maybe, or twelve. Most of the pubs would be shutting but there was café he knew where the cabbies went to get a coffee and a bacon sandwich before heading out on to the nightclub shift. They didn’t mind what you looked like in there, and they never shut.
Porter paused outside the entrance. He could hear the sound of bacon frying, and smell the comforting fug of grease and cigarette smoke. They had walked in silence, neither of them sure of what to say. ‘I’ll pay,’ said Sandy as he hesitated by the door. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
Sitting down, Porter watched as she sauntered up to the counter, ordering them two coffees, and two bacon sandwiches. A few of the guys in the place were following her with their eyes, and one of them looked like he was about to say something to her but then he noticed Porter glaring at him and quickly went back to reading his newspaper. There was a TV in the corner, tuned to the latest in the Katie Dartmouth kidnap saga, with a few people glancing occasionally towards it. An ultimatum had been issued, according to the newsreader. She’d been captured by Hezbollah terrorists who were demanding that British troops be withdrawn from Iraq and Afghanistan by eight o’clock on Saturday night, or else Katie was going to be beheaded live on television. Porter looked away. Why’s everyone so interested? he wondered. It’s not like there is anything they can do to help her.
Sandy put the coffees and the bacon sandwiches down on the table. He could see her better now, with her coat off, and in the proper light. She was a strong, powerfully built young woman, with none of the playful puppy fat that he remembered from the little girl he’d left behind. She had pale green eyes, and a seriousness about her that Porter wouldn’t have expected. Still, as he watched her move through the café, he couldn’t help feel a pride in her simple existence. I may not have got much right – probably nothing at all when you try and calculate it – but at least she is something to be proud of.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said.
‘Mum won’t ever tell me about you,’ she said, stirring a sugar into her coffee. ‘It’s like you never existed. But of course I remember you from when I was a kid.’
Sandy pushed a lock of black hair away from her face. ‘Mum wouldn’t give me any clues about where you were but her brother – Uncle Ken – said he reckoned you were down in London. He’d heard you were on the streets, that you’d been having a bad time, and there was a hostel where you went sometimes. He put me in touch with the Soldiers and Airmen Forces Association, and after I spoke to them on the phone a few times, they pointed me in the right direction. Ken made me promise not to tell Mum. Or Auntie Sally.’ Sandy wrinkled up her nose in a way that made Porter fall in love with her all over again. ‘I don’t think Aunt Sally likes you very much either.’
Porter laughed. ‘Women don’t like me,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’ll find that out soon enough.’
‘Anyway, I’ve got an interview at University College London tomorrow afternoon, so Mum gave me the money to get the train down from Nottingham,’ she continued. ‘I’m getting the eight o’clock train back tomorrow evening. It’s the first time I’ve ever been to London by myself. The first time I’ve had a chance to look for you. Mum would kill me if she knew but I don’t care about that. I went to the hostel, and talked to Matt. Nice bloke. He said you’d been in, and he reckoned you’d be down by the river somewhere.’
‘I can’t even look after myself, never mind a kid,’ said Porter bitterly. ‘You’d be better off without me.’