by Chris Ryan
Porter knocked on the back door. The kitchens were run by a guy called Dan, a rough Ulsterman who claimed to have spent a few years in the Territorials, although he could never tell you which regiment. In truth, Porter didn’t much care for the man. He had a sarcastic manner to him, and he ran his pitiful little empire like he was commanding the household cavalry. There were three chefs, and six waitresses, and he bullied the blokes and hit on the girls, but he still skimped on their wages, and everyone said he kept half the tips for himself. Often he’d ask for a kickback of twenty or thirty quid before he’d give anyone a job.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ said Dan, as he opened the door.
For a few seconds, Porter just stood there. What do I want? he wondered to himself. He tried to hold on to the thought for a moment, but the splitting headache soon drove it away. ‘Some work,’ he said plaintively.
‘Nothing doing,’ snapped Dan. ‘Now piss off.’
Porter stepped inside. It was warm in the kitchen and the grilling of sausages and the frying of eggs filled the room with cosy warmth. Over by the sink, he could see a pile of dishes, at least fifty of them. ‘There’s work,’ he said. ‘I can see it.’
‘Which of the two words “piss” and “off” are you having trouble understanding?’ snarled Dan.
Porter stood his ground. Anelka, a Bulgarian or Romanian or maybe Ukrainian girl with dishwater-blonde hair and a sullen face, stared at him. There was a shudder on her face as a gust of hot air from one of the ovens caught Porter and carried his smell straight to her. ‘Maybe tomorrow?’ he said.
‘Forget it,’ said Dan sourly. ‘There’s plenty of Bulgarian blokes looking for work right now. They put in a full shift for a pound an hour, they don’t nick the grub, and they don’t stink of Special Brew. Now piss off.’
But Porter kept walking forward. Dan had already been distracted by a waitress shouting at one of the chefs that some eggs were overcooked, and was no longer paying attention. The words bounced off him, the way rain bounced off the windscreen of a car. It just gets wiped away, he thought. So many humiliations have been endured already, one more doesn’t make any difference. Maybe try Bulgaria, he decided with a wry smile, at the same time as he took half a sausage from a dirty plate. So many of their blokes are over here, there must be some work going spare there.
‘Hey, leave that food alone, you old tosser,’ snapped one of the chefs.
Without thinking, Porter kept on walking through the kitchen, and out into the lobby of the hotel: there were so few staff on duty nobody tried to stop him. A clock on the wall said it was just after eight. Nobody was checking in yet. Too early. One of the cleaning girls was arranging some freshly cut flowers in reception. She glanced at Porter suspiciously, then looked quickly away: she could tell he didn’t belong here, he realised, but it wasn’t her job to deal with him. Too scary.
In the corner of the lobby, a flat-screen TV pinned to the wall was tuned to Sky News. The half-sausage he’d just eaten had made Porter realise how desperately hungry he was. It was more than a day since he had eaten: yesterday’s calorie intake had consisted of half a pint of vodka. There was no money in his pocket, however. And little prospect of getting any, not now Dan had refused to give him work.
‘Now for the latest on this morning’s breaking news,’ said a smooth-faced young presenter. ‘The capture of Sky News reporter Katie Dartmouth in Lebanon. At one in the morning, local time, masked men stopped the Sky News van that was heading towards the border at gunpoint. The cameraman and producer were forced out, then Sky’s Katie was bound and led way. We now believe she is being held hostage somewhere in the Lebanon. More after the break …’
Porter paused, enjoying the warmth of the hotel lobby. The Lebanon, he thought. More hostages. It never bloody stops, does it?
A couple of ads flashed by, but Porter didn’t feel like moving. Where would he go, anyway?
The presenter came back on air, with an interview with Doug Freeman, the producer who’d been in the van when it was held up. It had been a short and terrifying experience, he said. They had been driving along a main road, when suddenly their way was blocked. There were six men in total. At first they thought it was a robbery – bandits were everywhere in the Lebanon once you got away from Beirut. But they didn’t want the cameras, or the van, or any of their credit cards. ‘They wanted Katie,’ said Freeman, looking straight at the camera. ‘They knew who she was, and they’d come to get her.’
‘Do you think they meant to harm her, Doug?’
‘I hope not,’ he replied. ‘Katie is one of the finest reporters I have ever worked with.’ He paused, wiping the sweat of his face. ‘Our prayers are with her this morning.’
Porter could feel a tap on his shoulder. As he turned round, a young girl was standing right next to him. She was wearing a Travel Inn uniform, and name tag pinned to her chest said Sarah. From the way her nose was wrinkling up, Porter could tell she was freaked out just to be standing next to him. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir,’ she said.
‘One minute,’ snapped Porter.
‘I –’
‘One minute, I said.’
He looked back towards the screen. The words ‘breaking news’ were flashing on the screen once again.
‘And now we can go over live to Downing Street, where Sir Peregrine Collinson, the Prime Minister’s special envoy to the Middle East, will be speaking live to Sky’s Adam Boulton. Adam, what can you tell us?’
Porter kept watching. Collinson, he thought. The last time I saw you, you were puking up in the corner because you were too afraid to carry on with the mission. You should have taken the rap for what went wrong on that mission. Not me.
‘As most viewers will know,’ began Boulton, looking into the camera. ‘Sir Peregrine Collinson is one of Britain’s most decorated fighting men, with a book of military memoirs still on the best-seller lists. Now we learn that Sir Perry has been put in charge of securing the release of Katie Dartmouth.’
Porter watched as the camera panned out to show a tall man, elegantly suited, and with his dusty blond hair just a touch longer than would ever have been permitted when he was still in the army. It’s been seventeen years, reflected Porter.
‘What can you tell us, Sir Perry?’ asked Boulton.
Collinson pursed his lips and furrowed his brow thoughtfully. He conjured up an air of seriousness. ‘There’s only so much we can say at this stage, Adam,’ he began. ‘We don’t know who has taken Katie Dartmouth, where they’ve taken her, or what they want. But the PM has asked me to take full charge of the investigation, and I can assure you that every muscle we possess will be strained to bring Katie back safely.’
‘And you really don’t have any clue where she is?’
Collinson shook his head. ‘At this stage, I’m afraid there is nothing firm to go on. All of our efforts, however, will be devoted to getting her back. There may be testing hours and days ahead, but together we will pull through them.’
As Porter watched the screen, he pondered how much better the years had been to Collinson than they had been to him. After coming back from the raid in Lebanon, he knew he’d never been able to get himself back on the level again. The physical damage to his hand healed in time, but the mental damage remained as fresh and raw as if he’d been wounded only yesterday. He’d done his best to reintegrate himself back into the Regiment, but all the men seemed to know that Porter was the guy who’d spared the life of an Arab kid who had then killed three of their men. They didn’t say anything to his face, but then they didn’t need to. He could see it in their eyes. He could feel it in the way he was shunned in the bar. He could sense it in the way no one was ever going to trust him again. When the chips were down, no one could count on John Porter. And the Regiment didn’t have much space for those who couldn’t be relied on.
Within three years, he’d left active service, and been put on firing-range duty: there was no more humiliating posting for a Regiment man. After
another couple of years, he’d left the army completely. The only career he’d ever planned for himself was over. How do you put your life back together after something like that? Porter wondered. If there was an answer, he’d never found it.
Porter could suddenly feel a hand on his shoulder. As he spun round, Dan was looking straight at him. ‘I thought I told you to piss off.’
‘I’m just –’ started Porter.
‘You’re just stinking the place up,’ snapped Dan. ‘Now scarper before I call the police and get you banged up for the night.’
Porter was about to say something, but the words stalled on his lips. The aching in his head was terrible, and the pain in his left leg was growing worse: a tingling sensation, that seemed to numb him all the way up to the knee. With his head bowed, he started walking.
‘The bloody back door,’ shouted Dan.
Porter ignored him, and kept on walking. He stepped out of the foyer of the Travel Inn into a murky, overcast street. There was a McDonald’s round the corner, and he glanced towards the bins, but so far as he could see they’d been emptied recently. No chance of getting a bite to eat there then, he reflected.
He walked slowly across the river. There was a hole in one of the old canvas shoes he was wearing, and it was letting in the dirt, but his left leg was already in such terrible condition, it probably didn’t make any difference. There were plenty of people around him as he walked across the bridge, and up the busy road that led towards the prosperous houses, shops and bars of Chelsea and Fulham.
‘Could you spare me some money?’ he mumbled to a man who was walking past him towards the tube station.
The man looked away, not saying anything.
‘Just a couple of quid to help me out,’ Porter muttered to another guy who standing right next to him.
He snapped something in what sounded like Polish, then headed past him.
‘A quid for a cup of tea, love,’ he said, trying to meet the brown eyes of a girl who was rummaging around in her handbag for a ringing mobile phone.
She said nothing, glanced at him once, then started smiling as she answered the phone.
‘Jesus,’ Porter muttered. ‘Doesn’t anyone …’
A woman brushed passed him, ignoring him as he wobbled on his feet. His head was spinning and he was having trouble concentrating. ‘Watch where you’re fucking going,’ he shouted.
She turned round and looked at him. She was forty or so, with dark brown hair, a well-cut black trouser suit, and a briefcase under her arm. ‘Piss off,’ she snapped sharply. ‘Some of us have got jobs to get to.’
Porter walked towards her menacingly. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He couldn’t even think straight. The splitting, beating noise in his head was getting worse. There were stars flashing in front of his eyes, and he was finding it hard to balance. He was swaying as he walked, unsure how much longer his feet would support him. ‘Watch your fucking mouth,’ he shouted, surprising himself with the strength and anger he put into the words. ‘You know nothing about me. Fucking nothing.’
He knelt down. She had already turned and fled, but as she’d moved swiftly away she’d dropped her purse from her handbag. Quickly, making sure nobody could see him, Porter slipped the wallet into his ragged, filthy jumper and started to walk away. He’d moved on a hundred yards towards the New King’s Road before he paused to check what was inside. Fifty pounds, he noted with pleasure. In crisp ten-pound notes. That and a couple of credit cards.
Enough money for a man to get plenty drunk.
Enough money to get through another miserable day.
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.
