Strike Back by Chris Ryan

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