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.
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.