Strike Back

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 remained 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.

Sandy looked straight at him, and Porter was taken aback by the affection in her eyes. It was so long since anyone looked at me with anything other than contempt I’d forgotten what it feels like, he reflected.

‘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.’

‘Bollocks,’ snapped Sandy. That anger again, noticed Porter. It was like sitting opposite her mother a lifetime ago. ‘No one’s better off without a parent. It doesn’t matter how useless they are.’

‘I’m the exception,’ snarled Porter.

‘No you’re bloody not,’ said Sandy. ‘Nobody’s an exception, not you, not anyone. You’re the only dad I’ve got. That’s probably bad luck on both of us, but we’re just going to have to live with it.’

Porter paused. She was looking straight at him, and he could feel the pride swelling up inside him again. But what was the point? he reflected bitterly. How could he have a relationship with her now? What was she going to do, come down for the weekend and kip down underneath whatever archway he found himself sleeping under? Trudge around town while he looked for some work washing dishes? Maybe meet some of his mates, like the Scottish blokes. Other divorced dads could take the girls skiing, whizz them around in their Jaguars and Land Rovers. Not me. I would offer her everything I have. Except I’ve got nothing, and how can you offer someone that?

‘It’s not going to work,’ he said flatly. ‘Life hasn’t gone straight for me, not for a long time. It’s not going to change now.’

‘It can change for anyone.’

Porter smiled. ‘You’re young,’ he said. ‘It’s easy to believe that. I’m forty-five years old. This is what I am. There’s nothing to be done about it now.’

Sandy was already fishing around in her handbag. She took out a crisp wad of notes and pushed it across the table. ‘Here’s a hundred pounds,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you that a good shower and something to live for won’t fix. Get yourself bloody cleaned up, and start being a proper father.’

Porter pushed the money away. ‘Where did you get that?’ he said.

‘I saved,’ Sandy said. ‘Holiday jobs. Now take it, it’s yours.’

‘I can’t.’

Sandy stood up, and put her coat on. ‘You can and you will,’ she said. ‘You’ve let me down once. Now don’t do it again. When you’ve sorted yourself out, you can contact me at our old address. We haven’t moved.’

She lashed the belt on her coat angrily into place, and started walking towards the door. A couple of guys looked over from the TV with leers on their faces, but then went back to watching the TV. Porter took the bacon sandwich, and ate it in a couple of mouthfuls. Sandy had only nibbled on hers, so he ate that as well. It was the first proper food he’d had all day, and it started to make him feel better. All I need now is a drink, he told himself.

He started walking. The café was round the corner from the station, and there were people pouring back into Waterloo even at this time of night. If you walked due south, there was a pub Porter sometimes went to, on the rare occasions he had money. The Three Kings stayed open to the small hours, and didn’t mind what you looked or smelt like. The place didn’t look or smell of much itself, so it could hardly start getting fussy about other people’s appearance. There was plenty of vodka behind the bar, and so long as you had money in your pocket they’d keep serving it to you until you fell over.

A blast of cigarette smoke hit him as he stepped through the door. When they got around to banning smoking in public places, the Three Kings wasn’t going to pay any attention. Nobody worried much about the law in here, and if the police ever raided the place, there would be a lot more than smoking bans to worry about. There were maybe two dozen blokes standing around the bar, a couple of whom Porter recognised: they were both ex-forces guys who, like himself, had fallen on hard times and spent their lives drifting in and out of hostels. Porter nodded in their direction, but didn’t say anything. Like most people at the Three Kings, he was here to get drunk. As quickly as possible.

‘A vodka,’ said Porter, looking across at the barmaid. ‘In fact, make that a double.’

He looked at the glass of pale liquid. I’ve seen the bottom of a lot of glasses, he thought to himself, but I’ve rarely seen anything as clear as I see this. There’s no way back for me. I just have to forget about Sandy, the same way I did all those years ago. And pretty soon, she’ll forget about me as well.

Taking a hit of the vodka, he threw it down the back of his throat. He felt the warm, smug embrace of the alcohol starting to take hold of him as the vodka swirled through his bloodstream. He could feel his muscles start to relax. And the questions in his mind started to beat less ferociously, like a storm blowing itself out. After all, he repeated to himself, how the hell could a guy like me get his life back on track? It’s all very well Sandy saying I can change now. But what does she know about life? She’s just a kid.

He looked towards the TV in a corner of the pub. At least a dozen guys were sitting around it, their beers in their hands. More Katie Dartmouth nonsense, Porter reflected. The whole country’s going crazy.

He took a step forward, his vodka glass still in his hand. The newsreader had already talked about how frantically the security services were searching for any clues to her location. There was an Arab guy on the TV. According to the strapline, his name was Hassad Naimi, and he was one of the senior commanders of Hezbollah who had taken Katie hostage. He’d been filmed on a webcam, and the footage had been broadcast by al-Jazeera. He was explaining how Katie was going to be beheaded on Saturday night. The execution would be broadcast live on the Internet. ‘Unless the British war criminals take the infidel invaders out of Iraq and Afghanistan by this hour, then she will die,’ he was saying, looking straight at the camera. ‘I say to the people of Britain, her fate is yours to decide. Tell your leaders it is time for your soldiers to come home. Or the blood of Katie Dartmouth will be on your hands.’

Porter watched him speaking. He was not even really listening. He was just looking at the man’s face. He watched his soft brown eyes as he spoke. And he watched the lower lip tremble and shake as he stuttered out each sentence.

The lip was deformed. Badly deformed.

Jesus, thought Porter. I know that bastard.

Heading back to the bar, Porter ordered another vodka. He threw it down his throat in one gulp then signalled to the barmaid to pour him another.

I know that bastard, he repeated to himself.

It’s the same kid I spared in that basement back in Beirut seventeen years ago. The kid who went on to kill Steve, Keith and Mike.

Porter gripped the third vodka but didn’t drink it.

Maybe Sandy’s right. The thought hit him with the force of a hammer. Maybe, just maybe, there is a way back for me.

He put the vodka back on the bar. Turning on his heels, he started to walk through the doors, and out into the cold, dark streets. The chords of ‘Someone Saved My Life Tonight’ were crashing through the pub as Sky News flashed up a picture of Katie Dartmouth and faded into the ads.

Just for once, Elton, thought Porter with a wry smile, you might be right.