‘But he did, didn’t he?’ said Pemberton. ‘And three good men lost their lives. I can’t discipline you, Porter. In this Regiment, every man makes his own decisions in the moment of combat. We don’t have a lot of officers analysing them afterwards.’
Pemberton leant closer into Porter’s face, and he could smell a trace of whisky on his breath. Burying his face in his hands, Porter was desperate for a drink. Any kind of drink. ‘Under the Geneva Convention, you’re not supposed to kill a child, so I don’t think I can court-martial you, as much as I might want to.’ He paused. ‘But I will say this. Perry here deserves a bloody medal, and I’ll make sure he gets one. And you … well, I wouldn’t want to be looking at your face in the mirror every morning knowing that I had the blood of three of my mates on my hands.’
Porter turned round, and started to walk back towards his cabin. He felt empty and bitter inside. Nobody was looking at him, but he heard one man whisper: ‘There’s going to be a lot of dead eyes looking at that bloke.’
ONE
Porter could feel the dampness in the sheet of cardboard that was covering him. There had been some light drizzle during the night, and although he had taken shelter inside a railway arch, that didn’t stop the rain from seeping in. On Goding Street, between the Albert Embankment and Kennington Lane, it was one of a strip of arches that the developers hadn’t yet got their hands on. He could feel a dirty light from the river flicking down the alley, and painfully opened first one eye then the next. Some rubbish from one of the local kebab shops was overflowing in the bin next to him — the guys running the shop tipped it out there when they shut up at three or four in the morning — but from the smell he could tell there was nothing that he’d want to eat. One dog had already walked past without stopping.
He pushed the cardboard aside, and stood unsteadily. A thumping pain was ringing through his head, like having your skull drilled open. There was a pain in his left leg. The nerves were shot to pieces, he could tell, and there was some nasty bruising. He knelt down to take a look and noticed the state of his feet. It was more than a week since he’d taken off his shoes and socks, and although he didn’t much feel like taking a look, he sensed there was some blood starting to coagulate somewhere around his toes. Just ignore it, he told himself. What difference does it make anyway?
He started walking, trying to put as little weight on his left leg as possible. For a brief second, he thought about his daughter Sandy, and wondered what she might be doing. What day was it today? he wondered. The weekend? He glanced towards the tube station. No. Too many men in suits. Must be the week then. Maybe the start of a new one. Not that it makes any difference. One week is much like another down here.
The Travel Inn was a half-hour walk away, along the side of the river. Pleasant enough if you were in the mood for walking, but Porter found the pain in his left leg was increasing the more he used it. Something was definitely wrong there. He’d take himself to a hospital, but if there was anything seriously wrong with him, they’d make him stay in. And then how was he going to get a drink? No, he told himself. You’ll be OK in a day or two. And if not … well, who cares anyway.
Washing-up wasn’t a great job, but when you lived on the streets it was usually all that was available. The Travel Inn wasn’t a classy place, but they often needed someone to clean up the breakfast dishes. They didn’t pay even the minimum wage — not many hotels in London did any more — but the work wasn’t too hard, even though the two missing fingers on his left hand made it hard to keep a grip on the plates. And they didn’t mind too much if you finished off some of the grub left on the plates before you put it in the bin. All in all, there were worse ways to start the week.
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 hoteclass="underline" 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?