Strike Back (6 page)

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.

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.