Strike Back

TWO

Porter held the bottle of Asda own-label vodka in his right fist, twisted the screw cap with his teeth, then poured it slowly into his mouth. His throat felt like sandpaper, and the alcohol tasted rough and raw, but he could feel it taking him closer and closer to oblivion.

A bottle a day keeps the memories away, he reflected to himself. Hum it, and you could even turn it into a pleasant enough tune.

Some light rain was starting to fall. Porter wasn’t quite sure what time it was. He’d been sitting here for a few hours already, he felt sure of that. After taking the money from the purse, he walked slowly back in the direction of his familiar arch, stopping at the supermarket to pick up a couple of bottles of his favourite liquid. Even with fifty quid in his pocket, he stuck to the own-label stuff. No point in wasting the money. There was no way of knowing when he might see some more.

A half-eaten kebab was lying at his side. It was getting slight damp from the drizzle, but that made little difference to the quality of the grub. He’d collected it from the shop round the corner, the same one where the guys tipped the day’s refuse into the bins in the middle of the night. He couldn’t say there was much difference between the stuff they sold over the counter and the stuff they put in the garbage. But maybe my taste buds have just been shot to pieces, he thought. It was so long since he’d had a decent meal he wasn’t sure he’d know what one tasted like any more.

He took a slice of the stringy meat, unsure whether it was lamb or chicken, and chewed on it slowly before taking another hit on the vodka. There was still about thirty quid in his pocket, he realised. Enough to stay drunk for a week.

‘Hey, Jimmy,’ shouted a voice.

Porter glanced up. He could see two figures swaying towards him, but whether they were swaying because they couldn’t walk straight, or because his vision was gone, Porter couldn’t tell. Maybe a bit of both. I’m drunk, they’re drunk, everyone who kips down in this alley is drunk. Why the hell else would you be here?

‘What you got, Jimmy?’

They were getting closer now. Porter was sure he’d seen them before. A pair of Scottish blokes, he couldn’t remember their names. They used to kip down up by Waterloo station, but their old spot was being dug up while some new cabling was put down in the street, and they’d moved down to Vauxhall. They’d been builders by trade, or so they said, but from the look of them it was years since either of them had done a decent day’s work. What were the names again? Porter wondered. Bill or Bob or Bert. Something like that. Down here nobody really needed a name, he reflected. It wasn’t as if you were fending off calls all day.

‘Have you nae got a wee dram for yer mates?’ said the first man.

He was leaning into Porter’s face, and there was a nasty snarl on his face.

‘Just a wee dram,’ he repeated, revealing a set of rotting teeth, and a tongue the colour and texture of tarmac.

‘Piss off,’ muttered Porter, gripping on to the neck of his bottle of vodka.

The second, shorter man knelt down. He smelt of stewed meat and his eyes were like tiny black pebbles swimming around in pools of scabby flesh. ‘Piss off, yer say, Jimmy?’ he croaked, his voice harsh. ‘That’s not very friendly, is it, Jimmy?’

‘It looks like you’ve been doing all right for yerself, Jimmy,’ said the taller of the two men. ‘A nice drinky, and some food as well. All very lush, Jimmy. You’ve probably got a pair of lasses tucked underneath that pile of cardboard boxes as well.’

‘And you’ll be wanting to share with your mates, won’t you, Jimmy?’ chipped in the shorter man.

The rain was starting to come down heavier now. It was dripping into Porter’s hair, and he could see a small puddle starting to form inside his half-eaten kebab. He edged backwards into the archway, but the two men moved forwards, so they were both kneeling just a few inches from his face.

‘Because that’s how it works here on the streets, doesn’t it, Jimmy?’ persisted the shorter man. ‘One bloke has a bit of lucky, and he shares with his mates.’

‘And we’re yer mates, Jimmy,’ said the taller man.

‘Then get your fucking hands off my booze,’ Porter snapped.

‘But nobody’s taking your stuff, Jimmy,’ said the shorter man. His hand was reaching out for the vodka bottle. ‘Sharing, that’s all —’

Porter snatched the bottle away. He put its neck to his lips, and took a hit of the alcohol, relaxing as the vodka mixed with his bloodstream, dulling his senses, and easing the terrible aching in his left leg.

‘If we all shared, maybe the world would be a better place, Jimmy,’ said the taller man. ‘Maybe men like us wouldn’t have to live out on the streets.’

Porter suddenly snapped to attention. The rain was coming down harder now, lashing into his face. ‘The world is full of thieving, useless scum like you two. That’s why there’s blokes like me on the street. That’s why —’

The sentence wasn’t finished, but Porter knew he would never get to complete it. The first blow had landed straight in his stomach, knocking the little wind he had left out of him. The second collided roughly with his jaw, snapping his head backwards. The vodka bottle had loosened from his hand, and as his balance wobbled, the taller man had jumped up and taken it. He put it straight to his lips, drinking three or four shots in one go. The effect on him was as instant as it was ugly: his face folded up into a snarl, and his boot crashed hard into Porter’s side, breaking into his ribcage. ‘Fuck off, you Scottish bastards,’ yelled Porter.

The scream rose up through the alleyway, but he could tell no one was listening. You could run through the streets with an axe through your head in this part of town and no one would pay a blind bit of attention. Even the police didn’t bother to venture down these alleyways: they couldn’t stand the smell. I can scream all I want to. Nobody’s going to come and help me. Not now. Not ever.

The blows were lashing into him now, as hard, as relentless and as unthinking as the raindrops. Both men were standing up, handing the vodka bottle to one another, taking long, deep swigs on the pure alcohol. It was cranking up their aggression, turning a robbery into a beating. Their sturdy, leather boots, the one bit of clothing on them that wasn’t falling to pieces, smashed into his chest, into his face, and into his legs. He was absorbing the blows, rolling with each one, unable to offer any resistance. The vodka he’d already drunk dulled the pain, and he hardly felt the blows as they crashed into him, but he could tell how much damage they were doing to his already weakened body. There was blood everywhere, on his face, his hand, inside his sodden trousers, but still the blows kept coming. All I can do is wait for them to get bored of kicking me. And then see if I’m still alive at the end of it.

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.