‘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.’