Porter watched him speaking. He was not even really listening. He was just looking at the man’s face. He watched his soft brown eyes as he spoke. And he watched the lower lip tremble and shake as he stuttered out each sentence.

The lip was deformed. Badly deformed.

Jesus, thought Porter. I know that bastard.

Heading back to the bar, Porter ordered another vodka. He threw it down his throat in one gulp then signalled to the barmaid to pour him another.

I know that bastard, he repeated to himself.

It’s the same kid I spared in that basement back in Beirut seventeen years ago. The kid who went on to kill Steve, Keith and Mike.

Porter gripped the third vodka but didn’t drink it.

Maybe Sandy’s right. The thought hit him with the force of a hammer. Maybe, just maybe, there is a way back for me.

He put the vodka back on the bar. Turning on his heels, he started to walk through the doors, and out into the cold, dark streets. The chords of ‘Someone Saved My Life Tonight’ were crashing through the pub as Sky News flashed up a picture of Katie Dartmouth and faded into the ads.

Just for once, Elton, thought Porter with a wry smile, you might be right.

FOUR

The river looked better in the morning, Porter thought. The tide was high, and the water was lapping right up close to the barricades. A couple of tourist boats were heading down towards Greenwich for their first run of the day. Sunshine was breaking out across Battersea Park, sending shafts of brilliant light skimming out across the water. Hell, we all look better at dawn, Porter told himself. The day is still fresh, and we can still hope.

He glanced up at the headquarters of the Firm, right next to Vauxhall Bridge. He’d walked past it a thousand times during the few years he’d dossed down in the area. Until he saw Sandy again, and realised how much she’d missed him, it had never occurred to him to go inside.

I thought my soldiering days were buried. Until now.

Porter checked himself in the reflection from a phone box. Not so bad, he decided. After leaving the pub, he’d found a quiet spot close to the bus depot, and bedded himself down among some tossed-out cardboard boxes. He hadn’t slept well, but then he never did. At five in the morning, he’d walked a mile down to the Asda superstore on the road that snaked towards Brixton. The place was open all night, it was as cheap as dirt, and they didn’t mind what the customers looked like. Porter picked himself out a new pair of jeans, a white shirt, some socks and trainers, and a sweater. The whole outfit came to thirty quid. He slipped into the toilets, washed himself as best he could in the sink, then put on the new clothes. He tossed the old ones into the bins outside, then went to the café and blew another fiver on a full English breakfast, and a jug of coffee. The water, at least, was free. By the time he’d finished that, he felt almost like a human being again.