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.