Like This, for Ever

dad was obsessed with Dracula and all things to do with vampires. How else to explain the endless websites he’d been trawling through on his computer. He kept supplies of a drug that made blood clot. He was out of the house on Tuesdays and Thursdays when the killer struck. He had a boat at Deptford Creek where two bodies had been found, a boat he visited but lied about. Lied to the police as well as to his son. He’d brought sheets home to wash, the same night the Barlow boys had been found beneath Tower Bridge. One of their gloves was, even now, in his coat pocket. Jeez, how much more proof did he want?
    The phone was ringing. Barney looked at his watch. His dad had promised to phone every half-hour but he hadn’t been gone that long. He didn’t want to talk to his dad right now, but if he didn’t answer, he’d probably come rushing home.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Barney, it’s me.’ Harvey. ‘Nothing’s happened yet.’
    ‘It might not happen at all,’ said Barney. When his dad phoned, he’d say he was ill. That he had serious stomach cramps. His dad would come straight home then, surely? He’d put Barney first, wouldn’t he, before anything else he might have planned for that night? ‘You’re not out patrolling then?’ he asked.
    ‘Jorge told Mum and she said not in a million years was I leaving the house tonight.’
    ‘No. Don’t.’
    ‘Yeah, but Jorge gets to go out. He’s gone with a couple of hismates to football training. I don’t see why he gets to go and I don’t.’
    ‘He’s older. Whoever’s doing this doesn’t seem interested in teenagers.’
    ‘That’s what he said. I don’t see why I couldn’t have gone with him.’
    ‘What about Lloyd and Sam?’
    ‘They’re both at home too. Makes no bloody sense to me. Every kid that’s gone missing has been taken from home. It’s like, let’s put our children where they’re going to be in most danger. Hang on, someone’s at the door.’
    Christ no, Harvey!
    The line went dead. On the Missing Boys page, people were actually taunting Peter now.
    Come on then, put your money where your mouth is.
    We knew you were all talk, weirdo!
    Harvey was back, thank God. ‘Sorry, had to let Jorge in. Daft sod twisted his ankle, Mr Green had to bring him home. He’s well pissed off. I’d better go. Call me if anything happens.’
    Barney put the phone down.
    His dad loved him. Barney believed that completely. Could you love one boy and want to kill others? Could you stalk, capture and kill boys who were so similar, in so many ways, to the one you did your best to protect?
    Right, he couldn’t stand this. He was getting his dad home. He’d phone an ambulance if necessary, fake a burst appendix. By the time they found out he was fine, the danger would be over. It would be too late.
    Someone was at the door.
    Four loud knocks, the sound of someone determined to get a response. Delivery men always knocked that way. Friends and neighbours gave polite, rhythmic knocks, rat, tat-a-tat, tat. People wanting to sell you something were polite, too, but more formal, usually giving four crisp, business-like taps. Delivery men, though, didn’t bother with niceties. They had something to deliver,they had a right to attention and they were determined to get it.
    Four even louder knocks. Whoever was at the door wasn’t messing about. Delivery men didn’t come at eight in the evening. Ignore it.
    On the other hand, wasn’t he the safest boy in London right now? What did he have to fear from a stranger on the doorstep?
    He wanted to be wrong about that, though. More than anything, he wanted to be wrong.
    Enough to want the real killer to be right outside?
    Just go and look.
There were strong locks on the door. Barney ran down the stairs and to the window of the living room. A tall, thin man was on the doorstep, in a motorcycle helmet with the visor still down. He was staring straight at Barney.
    Useless to pull back now, he’d been seen. Barney stared back at the man. His dad’s height, but thinner. His face was almost impossible to see but Barney had the impression he was young. He was holding up a thin, square, white box, pushing it towards the window, then pointing at the door. At the kerb was a motorcycle with a large storage box on the back. The box had a familiar name and logo on it.
    He was a pizza-delivery man.
    Barney went to the hallway and unlocked the door. He opened it the full four inches the chain would allow.
    ‘Pizza for Roberts,’ came