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.’