by Ryan, Chris
‘One minute, Phil.’ She turned back to Porter and sighed. ‘Look, I have to go.’
‘Come with us,’ Porter insisted.
‘You know I can’t.’
‘I’m only trying to help, love.’
‘I know, Dad.’ She smiled weakly. ‘It’s just that every time you try to fix something, you end up making things worse.’
The words speared through Porter’s chest. He took a step towards Sandy, looked at her with a pleading expression. ‘It’ll be different this time. I promise.’
‘Sorry. But I have to figure this one out on my own. I’ll text you later. Promise. I really have to get back to work now.’
She turned to head back to the kitchen. Porter reached out and grabbed her by the arm. ‘Sandy, please.’
Sandy tried to shrug him off. Porter tightened his grip around her bicep. I’ve lost her once before, he thought. I’m not going to lose her again. Not after everything we’ve been through.
‘Don’t do this,’ he said.
‘Let go of me!’
In the corner of his eye, Porter was conscious of the other patrons snapping their gazes towards him. He heard an angry shout from across the bar and looked across to see the mahogany-tanned landlord – Phil – storming over.
‘Hey. Get your hands off her.’
Porter glared at the landlord. ‘Stay out of this. She’s my daughter.’
‘I don’t give a crap. She’s my employee. We don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour here. This is a respectable establishment.’
Porter drew in a deep breath and released his grip. Sandy drew back from him, rubbing her arm. The landlord nodded at her. ‘Off you go, darling. One of the barrels needs changing.’
Sandy paused to glance at Porter, a look of intense sadness and disappointment in her eyes. Then she turned and ducked through a door at the back of the bar. Phil the landlord watched her go before sliding his tiny bloodshot eyes back to Porter.
‘You. Get the fuck out.’
‘I’m not looking to cause any trouble,’ Porter said, raising his hands. ‘I just need to talk to my daughter, all right?’
‘You’ve got something to discuss with her, do it later. Not here. I got paying customers.’
Porter stood his ground. ‘I’m not leaving without her.’
‘You deaf, sunshine?’ The landlord jerked his head at the door. ‘Leave right now, or I’m calling the fucking police.’
Porter caught a sudden movement. A few metres further along the bar, the two old boys in hi-vis jackets stood up from their stools and turned to face him. Sizing him up.
‘Go on,’ the landlord said. ‘Piss off.’
For an instant Porter was tempted to crack the landlord in the face. Knock out his gold teeth. Then the anger fizzled out and he unclenched his fists, shot the guy a final glare before he turned and headed for the door.
A cold chill blasted Porter in the face as he stepped outside. The evening was grey and damp. It had rained earlier that day, slicking the pavement and flecking the windows of the shops lining the sides of the road. At a few minutes before six o’clock, dusk was already gathering. Apricot lights glowed in the windows of the flats above the shops. Pockets of warmth in an otherwise gloomy landscape.
The voice in Porter’s head was deafening.
Have a drink. That’ll sort you out. God knows, you could do with one right now. What’s the point of staying sober if your own daughter doesn’t want anything to do with you?
Maybe Sandy was right, thought Porter. You can stay off the drink, follow all the rules, try to stay on the straight and narrow. But at the end of the day, you can’t change who you are.
Face it. You’re just a fuck-up. A sad old fool who can’t even have a relationship with his own daughter.
Porter gritted his teeth and trudged west, heading in the direction of Shoreditch. He didn’t know where he was going and didn’t much care. After fifty metres he passed a homeless guy sheltered in the doorway of a shuttered joinery business. He was gaunt and dishevelled and could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty. A sleeping bag was pulled up to his chest and bits of damp cardboard and newspaper were arranged beneath him as a makeshift mattress.
Fifteen years ago that was me, thought Porter. He fished out his wallet from the inside pocket of his leather jacket, took out a ten-pound note and put it in the paper coffee cup next to the guy’s sleeping bag.
‘God bless you, mate,’ he called after Porter.
Might as well do one good deed for the day.
Before I go and get steaming drunk.
Porter carried on walking.
A hundred metres further along, he found himself stopping in front of an off-licence. A pokey little shop with a glowing sign above the entrance and rows of dusty bottles on display in the window. His eyes rested hungrily on a bottle of Polish vodka.
The voice whispered in his ear.
Well? What are you waiting for?
Porter sketched out a plan in his head. He’d grab a bottle of the voddie, maybe a pack of ciggies, head to a nearby park. Find a bench and sit there and get pissed. Have himself a little party. He wasn’t expected back on duty again until midnight anyway.
Plenty of time to drink myself into oblivion.
‘Mr Porter,’ a voice said behind him.
Porter about-turned. Found himself staring at a burly-looking guy in a dark suit. He was standing a metre away from Porter, arms the size of pneumatic drills resting at his sides. The guy stood at six-four, a couple of inches taller than Porter. He had a face like a breeze block, with a square jaw and a forehead so big you could draw a map on it. With his drab suit, white shirt and polished black shoes, he looked like a retired boxer who had decided to take up accountancy.
A couple of metres further down the street, Porter noticed a silver Volvo SUV parked at the side of the road. The rear doors were open, the engine running. Another tough guy in an identical suit stood beside the passenger doors. He was shorter than the guy with the slab-like forehead. Had a long, thin neck, swept-back hair and black eyes like a pair of holes on a dartboard.
‘Sir.’
Porter slid his eyes back to Breeze-Block.
For an instant he wondered who this bloke was.
But then he knew the answer.
They know my name. They dress like they’ve got a group discount at Marks & Spencer. And they act like they’re the kings of the fucking universe.
‘Mother sends her compliments,’ Breeze-Block said.
Porter stiffened. Mother, he knew, was the codename for his handler at MI6: Madeleine Strickland.
Breeze-Block gestured to the Volvo. ‘Step inside the car, please, Mr Porter.’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Porter.
‘Mother will explain. You need to come with us, please.’
‘Now?’
‘If you don’t mind, sir.’
Which wasn’t true. Porter had worked for the security services long enough to know the drill. Six didn’t send their muscle to ask you nicely. This was an order, dressed up in polite language.
‘I’m on a job,’ he said. ‘I’m expected back at work.’
‘Alternative arrangements have been made. Your employer has been notified.’
‘I didn’t get a call.’
‘Things are moving fast, Mr Porter. There’s been no time. You need to come with us.’
Porter hesitated.
Right now, he just wanted to get pissed. Numb the anger in his guts and try to forget about the mistakes he’d made with Sandy. Instead, he was being ordered to go into the unknown.
But he knew he couldn’t refuse.
When Six came calling, there was only one answer.
‘Sir,’ Breeze-Block said.
Porter took a deep breath.
Then he climbed into the wagon.
SEVEN
They drove west towards Old Street. Porter sat in the back with Breeze-Block for company. The guy with the long neck and pinprick eyes rode sho
tgun. A third guy took the wheel. He had skin the colour of chalk and a grey suit that matched the colour of his hair. Porter didn’t ask Breeze-Block or the other guys where they were going or why Strickland wanted to see him. They were probably foot soldiers. Hired muscle, usually ex-Special Forces or from the MoD police, tasked with driving staff around and bringing guys like Porter in whenever they were needed. They wouldn’t know a thing about the op. Even if they did, they weren’t about to share any details with him. Instead, Porter settled back for the ride.
At six o’clock in the evening, the streets were choc full of pedestrians. Waves of commuters flocked towards the Tube station, some dressed in suits and carrying backpacks, massive wireless headphones clamped over their ears. Others were jogging or motoring along the pavement on electric scooters. In the distance, steel-and-glass buildings dominated the skyline.
The area had changed beyond his imagination. Porter was old enough to remember a time when Old Street had been a warren of rubbish-strewn streets, grimy pubs and abandoned warehouses. Now the tech crowd had muscled in. The greasy spoon cafes and kebab shops had disappeared, replaced by vegan foodie haunts and sleek office blocks. What they called progress. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. All he knew was that it made him feel really old.
They hit the main roundabout and looped counter-clockwise, then shuttled north on City Road. Several minutes later they hit Euston Road and got snared in the rush-hour traffic. They slow-crawled past King’s Cross and Great Portland Street and Regent’s Park, edging west towards Marylebone. After another mile or so they hit Baker Street and the driver made a left past the station, taking them south into Mayfair. Porter wondered where he was being taken. Vauxhall, perhaps. Or one of the safe houses they owned in the City.
They scudded south for half a mile. By now the light had faded and the lamp posts were burning, bathing the streets in a sickly orange glow. After a few minutes they hit a small square encircled by a neatly clipped hedgerow. Five-star hotels and elegant red-brick townhouses lined the square, most of them with blue plaques fixed to the walls. Almost every car they passed was a Bentley or a Maserati or a Tesla.
The driver steered the Volvo around the square and continued west down a long street flanked by limestone buildings and embassies. After a hundred metres he pulled over and killed the engine.
Breeze-Block debussed. So did the guy with the long neck. The driver stayed behind the wheel while his long-necked friend opened the rear passenger door and cocked his head at Porter.
‘This way, please.’
Porter climbed out of the wagon. He followed Breeze-Block and Long Neck towards an imposing four-storey building with an ornate portico and black iron railings to the sides. From the outside the place looked like an upside-down pint of Guinness, with a white stucco facade on the ground floor and exposed dark brickwork above it. Window boxes adorned the front of the building. Stone steps led up to a red-painted door with a brass knocker on the front and an intercom panel mounted to the side. There was no indication of who lived there, or what kind of business went on inside.
Porter shot Breeze-Block an enquiring look. ‘One of ours?’
He nodded. ‘The Branch runs it.’
Porter could guess at the set-up. Six had similar arrangements across the globe. First, they purchased a property through a shell company linked to one of their various legitimate business fronts. Then a team of specialists was brought in to soundproof the rooms and install signal-jamming equipment to make sure no one could listen in. The Branch used such places to safeguard assets, interrogate suspects and hold confidential briefings. They allowed the Branch to operate at arm’s length from the rest of the security services.
This isn’t an official op, he realised.
He followed Breeze-Block up the steps to the red door and waited while the guy jabbed a button on the intercom. There was a short pause, and then the door buzzed open and they swept into a marble-floored foyer with a chandelier hanging from a ceiling rose. A bored-looking flunky in a tight-fitting black jacket and shirt sat at a desk to one side of the room, observing a computer monitor. Another flunky with a crew cut and a mean-looking expression stood beside a walk-through metal detector just inside the foyer.
The crew-cutted flunky signalled for Porter and his minders to pass through the detector. He patted them down, then led them across the foyer to a solid-looking door at the other end of the room. The flunky paused in front of the door and looked up into a security camera mounted to the wall above. There was another brief pause before the door unlocked with a dull mechanical click. He guided Porter, Breeze-Block and Long Neck through the door and down a flight of stairs. At the bottom they hit a brightly lit corridor with grey-painted walls and hard-wearing vinyl flooring, with a series of doors on either side. Porter counted eight in total. All of them were closed.
The flunky carried on down the corridor before stopping in front of a plain metal door on the right. There was a biometric scanner fitted to the plate above the chrome door handle, Porter noticed.
The flunky pressed his thumb to the plate. Held it there for a couple of beats. A light flashed green, the door made a beeping sound. The flunky wrenched the handle and motioned for Porter to enter.
He stepped inside a sparsely furnished interrogation cell. There was a metal table in the middle of the room with a couple of chairs, a flat-screen TV fitted to the wall and not much else. The walls were painted the same industrial grey as the corridor. A pair of fluorescent lights cast weak pools on the concrete floor. Someone had left a jug of water and a plate of biscuits on the desk.
Hospitality, MI6-style.
‘Wait here,’ Breeze Block said. ‘Help yourself to drinks and snacks.’
Porter frowned. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Strickland?’
Breeze-Block ignored the question. He ducked out of the room and marched back down the corridor with Long Neck. The flunky closed the cell door behind him.
Porter planted himself down on the chair, poured himself a glass of water and grazed on a stale biscuit. He checked his phone. No reception. He put his handset away, flicked on the TV and watched BBC News for a few minutes.
There was the usual shit. The US president was firing off tweets threatening his enemies at home and abroad. Another high-street brand was going into administration.
In local news, there was a story about a hit-and-run in Fitzrovia. A security feed from a nearby betting shop showed a van bolting down a side street at speed, slamming into a guy in the road and ploughing into a cyclist before speeding off into the distance. One of the victims was a disgraced former journalist, apparently. The story cut to a detective standing in front of Scotland Yard, appealing for witnesses to come forward.
Translation: We don’t have a clue who did it.
Porter channel-hopped for a while.
Sixteen minutes later, the door clicked and beeped and opened again.
He looked up.
Two figures stood in the doorway. One of them was the flunky with the crew cut Porter had seen a few minutes earlier. A second person stood next to him. Not Strickland. But someone else he instantly recognised.
His old mucker.
Jock Bald.
The flunky closed the door again, sealing Bald and Porter inside the cell. Bald glanced casually round the room and frowned at the water and biscuits on the table.
‘No booze. Fucking shame, that. I could murder a slug of whisky right now.’
Porter stared at him for a long, cold beat.
‘What the fuck are you doing here, Jock?’ he said at last.
‘Six reached out to us.’ Bald dropped into the other chair and poured himself a glass of water. ‘Made us an offer.’
‘I thought you were out of the game.’
‘I was.’ Bald took a sip of water. ‘Then Mulder and Scully showed up on my doorstep, giving it the hard sell. Telling me Strickland required my services. Some sort of top-secret op she was running. So here I am.’
Port
er made an enquiring face. ‘What happened to making it big on Civvy Street?’
‘The plan’s on ice.’
‘I heard a rumour in Hereford. One of the lads reckoned you got into trouble with a couple of old Blades. Ramsey and Peake.’
‘We had a disagreement.’
‘That’s not the story I was told. I heard they set you up. Fleeced you for every penny you had.’
‘Fake news.’
‘So what happened, then?’
‘It’s in the rear-view,’ said Bald. ‘Ancient fucking history. I’m up north these days. Got myself a business there.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Bed-and-breakfast on the Isle of Islay. Nice and steady, like. Tidy income. Quiet as fuck.’
Porter grinned. ‘Maybe I’ll visit.’
‘I wouldn’t. Not with your history. The place is a drinker’s paradise. You can’t swing a cat without hitting a distillery. Your drunken arse should steer well clear of it.’
‘I’m sober these days, Jock. Have been for three years now.’
‘Could have fooled me.’ Bald regarded his mucker. ‘You look like a bag of shit someone’s reheated in the microwave. I’m surprised Six have still got your crusty arse on retainer. They must really be scraping the barrel these days.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Just telling it how it is.’
Porter shook his head. ‘I’m not the only one getting on. You’re not exactly a spring chicken yourself.’
‘Yeah, but I keep myself in good nick. Got the body of a warrior. There are personal trainers who would kill to be in this condition. You, on the other hand . . .’ Bald wrinkled up his face in professional disgust. ‘Frankly, I’ve seen corpses in better shape.’
Porter gave his mucker a dark look but kept his lips pressed shut. Bald had a vicious tongue on him, but there was a grain of truth to what he said. The many years of hard boozing – getting blackout drunk, sleeping on park benches and under railway arches, his cigarette habit – had taken a heavy toll on his body.
His hair, already thinning, was now completely grey. His face was heavily cracked. The skin on his neck was beginning to sag. Physically Porter was in better shape than the average bloke his age, but he was a long way from his peak. Sitting around the Sultan of Brunei’s house all day long hadn’t exactly helped.