A Game of One Half (Little Whippendon Book 4) by Adam Jones

Author:Adam Jones
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2014-02-21T05:00:00+00:00

***

“Maybe it's just not meant to be,” wallowed Roy Jarvis into his rapidly depleting pint glass. The lacklustre chaos of the training session had left his usually buoyant personality dragging.

“Maybe you're right Roy. I mean you are asking a load of pensioners, zombies and vampires to play football; seems like a bit of a fool’s errand to me.”

“Yeah, well if the werewolf had turned up, it would probably have been alright. The boy has a hell of a turn of speed on him.”

“He is half wolf Sergeant. Not that surprising really is it?”

Roy said nothing as he took another swig of his pint. The werewolf in question was Frederick De Monthforth. He was the only son of Geoffrey and Georgina and lived deep in the woods which encased the summit of Big Un. They had been discovered earlier in the year by the police department following the investigation of some strange noises that had been echoing through the village. It had transpired that Frederick, while very good at football, was not a star when it came to making train noises. His attempts at choo-choo had curdled the blood of many local residents and a visiting Chief Superintendent.

“I'm sure he'll be there tomorrow Roy, don't you worry about it. All will be fine, and if it isn't, it's only a game isn't it?” Roy sighed in response to this. He hated the 'it's only a game' excuse. To him, it was a religion, to be worshiped wherever possible and sacrificed to when necessary. “You having another one of those?” asked Inspector Drain, pointing to Roy's now empty pint glass. The man's head was resting on the bar in disappointment. He managed to lift it long enough to nod before returning it to its resting place.

Inspector Drain leaned over the bar, jutting his ten pound note outwards to Steve Post. It was the traditional, I'm-a-bit-tipsy-but-in-desperate-need-of-another position, although Inspector Drain needn't have bothered. He and Roy were the only patrons in The Slaughtered Duck that evening and even Steve wasn't that inattentive.

“Same again?” the landlord asked, reaching above the bar instinctively to the place where the pint glasses lived.

“Yes please Steve. A pint of Peculiar Ferret for Roy here, and I'll take a gin and tonic. Light on the tonic, heavy on the gin if you don't mind.”

“Right you are.” Steve turned round and headed to the optics behind him. “So how was the training session today? I'm guessing it didn't go that well, based on the look on Roy's face?” Roy managed to manipulate his fingers into a rude gesture in response to this.

“It was, how can I put this? It was not the strongest display of teamwork I have ever seen. It was also, sadly, a pretty weak show of individual performance. All in all, pretty disappointing.”

“Yeah, that doesn't sound too clever,” replied Steve as he plonked the gin-and-a-tiny-bit-of-tonic on the bar.

“Nope, you're right there, Steve. So are you coming along to play tomorrow? We could use all the help we can get.

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