Strike Back by Chris Ryan Read Free Book Online Page B

had been replaced by a slow drizzle.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 bankersspending 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’