Like This, for Ever

Joesbury got possession and Barney dropped back, watching the patterns form again. When he was really in the zone, he could predict, sometimes two or three passes ahead, where the ball was going to go. This morning, though, he was having trouble focusing. The wind was a problem, for one thing. The pitch was surrounded by high lime trees and when the wind blew hard, the swaying and dancing patterns the branches made above his head were distracting.
    Huck had lost the ball, it sailed away from him in a fountain of mud droplets and then went hurtling back down the pitch. Nobody was playing well today.
    To make matters worse, Barney couldn’t stop thinking about the trip to Deptford Creek that night. The Creek was dangerous, especially for kids who didn’t understand about tides and who couldn’t stop themselves messing about. But he couldn’t pull out now. The others would be relying on him to find the murder sites, maybe even clues the police had overlooked, and he hadn’t even found the key to his granddad’s boat yet. His dad, normally rubbish at hiding things, had surprised him for once.
    ‘Barney, what planet are you on?’
    And that was his second telling-off. He’d get dropped from the team if he wasn’t careful. The wind though! It found its way under shirts, up the legs of shorts, right through his ears and into his head. Broken twigs were scurrying across the pitch like small rodents, catching around studs, crackling underfoot.
    One of the opposition’s better players, a small blond boy, was racing towards the goal. Sam, the right-back, ran to tackle him and got nutmegged. It was all up to Barney now. Over the blond boy’s shoulder Barney could see Huck’s dad, clutching a coffee cup from Costa. Barney wondered what he’d say if he found out that he, Barney, lived right next door to the woman whose flat he sat outside so often.
    ‘Barney, that’s yours! Oh boys, come on!’
    Blondie had dodged to the right. A second later the ball was in the bottom left corner of the net.
    ‘Where was my defence?’ called the keeper, glaring at Barney as the whistle for half-time blew. They were one-nil down.
    ‘Why do you think Mrs Green comes to watch every week?’ said Sam, as he and Barney jogged back to join Mr Green and the other boys. ‘It’s not as though she has a kid on the team.’
    ‘We can pull it back, lads,’ said Mr Green, as Sam and Barney joined the others. ‘We had most of the possession. Have a drink, then we’ll have a chat.’
    ‘Well done, Barney,’ said Mrs Green, who was standing next to his dad now. ‘Will you hand the biscuits round?’
    ‘Other team first,’ reminded his dad, as Barney opened the tin. Double chocolate chip. His favourite. An adult hand reached over his shoulder and helped itself. Barney recognized Mr Green’s aftershave.
    ‘He’s doing well,’ he said to Barney’s dad, as the other hand patted Barney on the shoulder. ‘When he concentrates, his positioning is superb. We just need to work on his ball skills.’
    His face glowing, Barney set off with the biscuit tin, just as Harvey came jogging over. He’d arrived late, hurrying up with his mum and brother just minutes before kick-off, and they’d had no chance to talk before the match.
    ‘Any of you see the news this morning?’ Harvey asked. Barney and Sam shook their heads.
    ‘This bloke was on, right? And he was saying whoever killed those boys, Joshua and Jason, drank their blood. It was a vampire.’
    Sam looked startled, then laughed nervously. ‘There’s no such thing as vampires,’ he said.
    The half-finished biscuit in Barney’s hand fell to the ground. He’d known, immediately, that the adults were different that morning. They’d leaned closer together when they spoke, lowered their voices, given odd, furtive glances around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. There’d been something discussed that morning that they hadn’t wanted the kids to know about. Saliva was building in his mouth.
    ‘Straight up, he was a proper doctor and everything,’ said Harvey. ‘He said it was a condition, I can’t remember what he called it, but Jorge seemed to know what he was talking about.’
    ‘Renfield,’ said Jorge, who’d approached the boys without them seeing him and who obviously had a match himself later because he, too, was wearing football kit. ‘People who have Renfield’s Syndrome are obsessed with blood. Angelina Jolie has it. Any biscuits going spare?’
    Barney