Strike Back

EIGHT

The cream leather upholstery of the Jaguar felt luxuriously comfortable as Porter sat back into it. He was wearing the charcoal-grey suit they’d left for him in his room, and he was surprised by how well it fitted. The shoes were comfortable, and even the tie wasn’t pinching his neck too badly. Last time I wore one of these, I was being turned down for a nightguard job at a Tesco depot, Porter reflected. Maybe I just didn’t know the right people.

The driver pulled the car away from the kerb, and started driving across Vauxhall Bridge for the short journey up to St Pancras station. I could get used to this, thought Porter. The food, the cars, the money. Shame I’m almost certainly going to die in the next few days.

He glanced over at Big Ben. It was already twenty to eight. Only a little more than twelve hours since he had stepped into the headquarters of the Firm, and less than twenty-four hours since Sandy had found him by the edge of the river. It seemed a lifetime ago already. His world had spun on a coin, and he couldn’t be certain how long it was going to take him to get used to it.

‘Step on it,’ he told the driver. ‘I have to be there by eight.’

There was some traffic up past Trafalgar Square: the Katie Dartmouth vigil was gathering strength, and from the windows of the car Porter could see several hundred people carrying banners, and singing Bruce Springsteen’s retooled version of the Pete Seeger Vietnam classic ‘Bring ’Em Home’.

The driver put the blue siren on top of the Jag, and managed to push his way through the stationary cars, and cut through Russell Square to take them through to the Euston Road. He pulled up sharply outside the station, with just a few minutes to spare. Porter climbed out, walking quickly through the evening crowds. He was sure Layla had some policemen following him, but decided to ignore them. He just needed to see Sandy once more.

His eyes scanned the departure board. The Nottingham train was leaving from Platform 5.

In three minutes.

Porter ran towards the platform and the waiting train. Walking swiftly along the platform, he scanned the passengers as he went. His eyes flickered across them as they took their seats, hooking their iPods into their ears, and opening up their books and newspapers. But he couldn’t see her anywhere.

Where the hell was she?

He looked along the platform. There were people streaming towards the train, trying to decide which carriage to climb aboard. Porter pushed his way back through the throng, muscling his way past the suitcases.

‘Sandy,’ he shouted.

Porter could see her running towards the platform. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her coat was wrapped tightly around her. She was carrying a small leather holdall, and there was a magazine tucked under her arm.

‘Dad,’ she shouted back.

He swept her up in her arms, lifting her clean off the ground. She gasped as the strength of his embrace squeezed the air out of her chest, then kissed him on the cheek. I might not look like a million dollars, but I at least look like a couple of hundred, he thought. A lot better than I did last night anyway.

‘How’d it go?’ he asked, putting her back down.

Sandy shrugged and pulled a face. ‘I hate interviews,’ she says. ‘I never know what to say.’

Porter wished there was some kind of advice he could give her, but nothing came to mind. ‘We all do,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I’m sure it will be fine.’

Sandy pulled away.

‘You look …’ She paused.

Cleaner. That’s the word you’re looking for, Porter thought with a twitch of shame.

‘Better,’ Sandy continued.

Porter took her holdall, and started walking with her along the platform, looking for a carriage where she could get a comfortable seat for the journey home. ‘You helped me out,’ he said. ‘And now I’ve got myself a job.’

Sandy looked at him, the surprise evident in her eyes. And maybe a touch of pride as well? wondered Porter. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself about that.

‘A job? As what?’

Porter knew he had to brush the question aside.

‘Just advising some guys,’ he said. ‘A consulting type thing.’ He grinned. ‘Pays pretty good though.’

He could tell Sandy wasn’t going to press him. She was just pleased to have made a difference.

Up ahead, passengers were slamming doors shut on the train. The station announcer was telling people the train was ready to leave. Sandy was standing by a door, ready to climb aboard.

‘I just wanted to say thanks,’ said Porter, putting the holdall back in her hand. ‘I may be just about the worst dad in the world, but you are probably the best kid.’

He pressed an envelope into her hand. Inside were the details of the account the Firm had set up in their names. There was already £250,000 in there, and Sandy could take it out as easily as he could. ‘If you don’t hear from me in a week, then open the envelope,’ he said. ‘There’s something in there you should know about.’

‘But Dad —’

‘Don’t worry, I’m going to be just fine,’ said Porter. ‘I’ll call you next week, OK?’

She smiled weakly. The guard was walking briskly along the platform, slamming any remaining doors shut. Suddenly there was a few inches of steel and glass separating them, and Porter was painfully aware that he might never see her again.

‘I love you, Sandy,’ he said, as the engine started to pull out of the station.

It took all his willpower to disguise the choke in his voice.

Even if I die on this mission, at least I’ll have done something for her, he told himself. That’s enough.

He waited for a minute, watching as the train disappeared along the dark track. Another train was soon pulling into the platform. Doors were swinging open, and people were starting to pour out of the carriages. Porter turned round, and started walking back towards the main part of the station. Ahead, he could see a couple of policemen watching him. Sent by Layla, no doubt, he decided. To keep a watch on me, and make sure I don’t do a runner with their two hundred and fifty grand and the new suit. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea, he thought with a wry smile. But then I wouldn’t be able to look at Sandy without feeling ashamed of myself. That’s what this is all about.

Someone was thrusting a free newspaper into his arm. ‘KATIE RALLY TO BRING LONDON TO A STANDSTILL’ blared the headline. Porter pushed it aside, and the paper dropped to the ground. At his side, a man was shoving him. Porter shoved him back. You expected more respect than that when you were wearing a suit as smart as this one, he told himself.

He walked swiftly across the concourse. Even after eight it was still thronging with people. He glanced a couple of times at the station pub, and the guys with beers in their hands milling around outside. No, he told himself. They’ll smell it on your breath. Don’t blow it.

Out on the street, a blast of cold air hit him in the face. The Jaguar was waiting for him across the road, the driver sitting reading the sports pages. Porter stepped onto the road, glancing left. He could see a black Vauxhall Astra pulling out of a parking space. Suddenly he heard a roar as the driver gunned the engine. For a second, Porter caught a glimpse of the man’s eyes. An Arab, late twenties, with a stubby beard.

The car was picking up speed.

And driving hard. Straight into him.

Instinctively, he pulled back, crashing into the man behind him.

The car kept coming. The driver veered left, pushing the wheels up onto the pavement, still heading straight for him. In the same instant, Porter dragged his foot away.

The car missed him by only a couple of centimetres. Porter watched as the Astra sped away. Someone just tried to kill me, he thought.

Porter tried to concentrate, struggling to make sense of the attempt on his life. But his brain was too groggy to focus. The drugs were still playing havoc with his system, leaving him dizzy and confused. Just get back to base, he told himself.

He straightened himself up, and climbed into the back of the waiting Jag: the driver had been too engrossed in his paper to even notice anything had happened. The drive back to Vauxhall didn’t take long. Layla was waiting for him in the entrance foyer. She asked how his daughter was, but Porter just brushed aside the questions, telling her that he needed some rest.

Back in the room, he splashed some water onto his face. He rummaged around in the bathroom cabinet, but there were no bandages or plasters, not even any disinfectant. They hadn’t even left him a razor blade, just an electric shaver: they obviously didn’t want him getting his hands on anything that could be used as a weapon.

‘You need a jab,’ said Danni.

He spun round. She was standing in the doorway, still dressed in the nurse’s uniform, a syringe in her hand.

‘I need a drink,’ said Porter.

‘We all need a drink after a day in this place,’ said Danni, striding towards him.

‘What’s in that?’ he asked, nodding towards the syringe.

‘More antibiotics,’ said Danni. ‘The doctor says you need them for another twenty-four hours. There’s still a lot of rubbish to clear out of your system.’

He lay down on the bed. ‘You’re going out to rescue Katie Dartmouth, aren’t you?’ said Danni, as she prepared the syringe.

Porter nodded.

‘Poor girl,’ Danni continued. ‘It’s terrible what those bastards are doing to her.’

For a moment it struck Porter that he hadn’t really thought about it. He’d been so focused on doing something for Sandy that he’d hardly thought about Katie Dartmouth’s plight. And better not to, he told himself. Because there is probably sod all I can do for her even once I’m out there.

‘There was a picture of her strung up against a post,’ Danni carried on. ‘She looked terrible. And I saw her mum being interviewed on TV. I felt so sorry for her.’

Her touch felt soft and gentle to Porter, and he couldn’t help noticing that a button was still undone on her crisp white tunic, revealing a few centimetres of her pink bra. The needle jabbed into his arm. Porter winced briefly, then let the medicine hit his bloodstream. He could feel his eyes closing drowsily. ‘You’re a brave man, John Porter,’ Danni was saying softly. ‘If it’s any help, I’ll be rooting for you.’