Strike Back by Chris Ryan Page A

to the water.
    Porter hunched his shoulders, and looked out again over the river. When you were called John you got used to hearing your name, and no longer assumed they were looking for you. Who the hell would want to talk to me anyway? he thought bitterly. This or any other night.
    ‘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 fromhim. 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 inthe 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