Dan Waddell - Blood Atonement

'Did he hurt you?' Foster had asked.

She shook her head. 'No, he treated me well,' she replied. 'Apart from locking me in a cupboard.' She forced a brave smile. He had not touched or harmed her, not even losing his temper. When the call came through from his adoptive mother, he'd walked upstairs, spoken to her through the false wall of the cupboard, said it was not God's will that she join them in the celestial kingdom. He would think of another path. She had cried, thinking that meant she wouldn't see her mother again.

Foster looked at her, wondering if the brainwashing had had any effect. 'Do you have any religious belief?'

Anger raged in her eyes. 'There is no God and there is no goodness,' she said with utmost conviction.

Foster thought about disagreeing, but how could he?

He was no hypocrite. The girl had learned the hardest way.

He was sure that it was Chapman who'd made the initial contact with the Church. Unloved, unwanted, troubled, he'd set out in search of his real family. His adoptive mother, under relentless questioning, had let slip the name of his real mother, with whom he'd formed a secretive, belated relationship. How much contact they'd had was unknown. Perhaps she explained to him why she'd given him up and the danger he faced. She had left her house to him in her will, which is how he came to use it as a base.

Along the way he'd discovered the link with the True Church of Freedom. He'd got in touch, been attracted to what it stood for and the family he craved. On their part, they could not believe their luck. Someone willing to atone for the wrongs of 1890 and able to provide them with fresh genes for their small pool in the shape of young girls like Leonie and Naomi. When he encountered Gillian Stamey he was not yet ready to spill blood in atonement -- the correspondence chided him for not doing so - but a few years later, when Naomi was fourteen, he was ready.

They had wanted him to wait until Rachel was fourteen but he said he would not, that he needed to perform his duty now. He would act, then come back for her later. Not wishing to deflect him from his course, they had agreed.

All their information had been passed on to the American law enforcement agencies. They weren't delighted with the news -- the last thing they wanted to do was to raid a commune full of religious nuts and see all hell break loose. The issue had gone to the Home Office, who were pressing for action. The decision was now a political one, taken out of the hands of the police. Unless she was forcibly removed, it looked like Leonie would be staying.

He would need to find the words to explain that to Gary.

The rain came down in great waves, as if the sluice gates had been opened. Foster had given up trying to keep dry and let the rain soak his head and run into his eyes. Had there not been more than a few minutes of the match left then surely the referee would have called it off, given that the pitch was starting to resemble a First World War battlefield.

Hackney Marshes was living up to its name.

That had not prevented Gary winning the game for his team on his own. They were 5--1 up with two minutes left; he'd scored a hat-trick and created the other two goals. His low centre of gravity, ball control, ability to pick a pass -- even if his teammate's ability to receive it was questionable -- and his pace over short distances marked him down as something special. There was an extra characteristic Foster recognized: hunger. The boy loved to have the ball at his feet, enjoyed the challenge of beating a man, and seized every opportunity to shoot whenever the goal came into his sight.

As his third goal went in and the smattering of parents and other hangers-on applauded, Foster had found himself giving Gary a thumbs up. A man in a large overcoat and brown woollen hat saw him do this and sidled up to him.

'Your lad, is he?'

'No,' Foster said.

'Is his dad here?'

'No. Why?'

'I'd be interested in having a word with him, that's all.

About his lad's prospects.'

'There is no dad. Or any other guardian, at the moment.

Are you a scout?'

'Something like that.'

Who for?'

'Queen's Park Rangers.'

'Really?' Foster said. 'My team, QPR.'

'So you know the lad?'

'Yeah.'

'I could give you the details. We just want him to come and train with our academy one day.'

When?'

'Saturday mornings?'

'Next Saturday then?'

The man smiled. Yeah, great. Ten a.m.'

'See you then.'

The man slipped away.

It finished 5--1.The final whistle blew, the players shook hands. His teammates all went to clasp Gary's hand or pat him on the back. Even the defeated opposition. Foster let him go to the changing rooms and get dry and dressed. He waited in the car, feeling the water drip down the back of his neck, and the cold seep into his bones.

Still, he couldn't stop himself smiling. The boy could play. Maybe he'd come and watch him even when a new foster family was found.

Gary came out a few minutes later, drinking a can of Coke, swinging his bag around. He climbed in the passenger seat. He gave Foster a big grin.

Well, what do you think?'

'Not bad,' he said. 'Think there were a few times when you could have used the ball a bit more wisely.'

The boy's face fell.

'Usually when you passed it to one of your mates rather than keeping it yourself.' He ruffled his hair.

The kid grinned.

'No, you were different gravy today' He started the engine. 'I've got some news for you.'

Was it that bloke I saw you talking to second half?'

'Him? No, nothing to do with him. This is much more important. I got a call during the first half. Guess who from?'

'Chelsea?'

'You wish. No, it was from the Law Enforcement Agencies in the USA. They've made a few arrests in the small town I told you about, the one where Leonie lived.'

Yeah?' A look of suspicion crept across his face.

Well, they've also spoken to Leon ie. '

Gary looked down at the footwell.

'And she's coming back.'

He looked up, face alight with joy. 'Really? Will I be able to live with her?'

We'll have to see. But as long as she's OK, I don't see why not. But there's a complication.'

'Oh.'

'She has a two-year-old baby. A boy'

He looked stunned.

'She called him Gary'

His eyes lit up. 'I'm not sure about babies, man. Could be fun. Maybe. But can we live together?'

'There's some paperwork that needs doing, and a few other bits and pieces but she should be home in a week.'

Gary punched the air.

'That's the good news,' Foster said.

Again, Gary's face fell. He looked anxiously at Foster.

Foster couldn't contain his smile. 'The bad news is that she won't be back in time to see you have a try-out for the QPR academy!'

Nigel drank his morning tea and listened to the radio. The story of Naomi Buckingham being saved dominated the headlines. Nigel turned it off, not wanting to hear.

'Oi, I was listening to that.' Heather came out from the kitchen, wearing one of his striped shirts from Pink -- nothing else - a cup of tea in her hand.

'Sorry,' he said.

'No, you're right, time to move on.'

She bent down and kissed his cheek. Three days since they'd got back from the States and she hadn't been home.

He grabbed her now and sat her on his lap.

'Mind my brew,' she said, laughing, putting the mug on the table.

They kissed. The phone rang. They both laughed.

'There's a theme developing,' he said.

She told him to answer.

It was his television producer. She was almost hyperventilating with excitement. They had heard of an unconsecrated old non-conformist burial ground that had once been attached to a chapel in Islington. The graveyard had been closed in 1863 when it contained around 15,000