I walked them towards the changing rooms, where the human team members greeted them with a good measure of curiosity. They talked haltingly with one another, the Neanderthals confining their speech to the technical aspects of croquet play. It was of no matter or consequence to them whether they won or lost — they would simply do the best they could. They refused body armour as they preferred instead to play barefoot in shorts and brightly coloured Hawaiian shirts. This caused a slight problem with the Toast Marketing Board, who had insisted that their name be on the team strip, but I smoothed it over with them eventually, and all was well. There was less than ten minutes before we were due out, so Aubrey made a stirring speech to the team that the Neanderthals didn't really comprehend. Stig, whose understanding of humans was perhaps a little better than most, just told them to 'hoop as much as we can', which they understood.
'Miss Next?'
I turned to find a thin, cadaverous man staring at me. I recognised him instantly. It was Ernst Stricknene, Kaine's adviser — and he was carrying a red briefcase. I had seen a similar case at Goliathopolis and on Evade the Question Time. It doubtless concealed an ovinator.
'What do you want?'
'Chancellor Kaine would like to meet the Swindon team for a pep talk.'
'Why?'
Strickene looked at me coldly.
It is not for you to question the will of the Chancellor, young lady.'
It was then that Kaine marched in, surrounded by his goons and entourage. The team stood up respectfully — except the Neanderthals, who, completely ambivalent to the vagaries of perceived hierarchy, carried on talking to one another in soft grunts. Kaine looked at me triumphantly but I noticed too that he had changed slightly. His eyes looked tired and his mouth had a slight sag to it. He'd started to show signs of being human. He was beginning to age.
'Ah!' he said. 'The ubiquitous Miss Next. LiteraTec, team manager, saviour of Jane Eyre. Is there anything you can't do?'
'I'm not that good at knitting.'
There was a ripple of laughter among the team, and also from Kaine's followers, who abruptly silenced themselves as Kaine glanced around the room, scowling. But he controlled himself and gave a disingenuous smile after nodding to Stricknene.
'I just came down here to talk to the team and tell all of you that it would be a far better thing for this country if I stayed in power, and even though I don't know how Zvlkx's Revealment will work, I can't leave the secure future of this nation to the vagaries of a thirteenth-century seer with poor personal hygiene. Do you understand what I am saying?'
I knew what he was up to. The ovinator. It would, as likely as not, have us all eating out of his hand in under a minute. But I wasn't figuring on Hamlet, who appeared suddenly from behind Stricknene, rapier drawn. It was now or nothing and I yelled:
'The briefcase! Destroy the ovinator!'
Hamlet needed no second bidding and he leapt into action, expertly piercing the case, which gave off a brief flash of green light and a short high-pitched wail that started the police dogs outside barking. Hamlet was swiftly overpowered by two SO-6 agents, who handcuffed him.
'Who is this man?' demanded Kaine.
'He's my cousin Eddie.'
'NO!' yelled Hamlet, standing up straight, even though he had two men holding him. 'My name is Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Danish, and proud of it!'
Kaine gave a smug laugh.
'Captain, arrest Miss Next for harbouring a known Danish person — and arrest the entire team for aiding and abetting.'
It was a bad moment. With no players the game had to be forfeited. But Hamlet, actioneer that he had become, was not out of ideas.
'I shouldn't do that if I were you'
'And why not?' sneered Kaine, not without a certain quaver in his voice; he was now acting solely on his wits. He had neither his fictional roots nor the ovinator to help him.
'Because,' announced Hamlet, 'I am a very special friend of Ms Daphne Farquitt.'
'And—?' enquired Kaine with a slight smile.
'She is outside, awaiting my return. If I fail to reappear or you try any sort of anti-Mallets skulduggery, she will mobilise her troops.'
Kaine laughed and Stricknene, sycophant that he was, laughed with him.
'Troops? What troops are these?'
But Hamlet was deadly serious. He glowered at them for a moment before answering.
'Her fan club. They're highly organised, armed to the teeth, seriously angry at having had their books burned and ready to move at her command. There are thirty thousand stationed near the stadium and a further ninety thousand in reserve. One word from Daphne and you're finished.'
'I have reversed the law banning Farquitt,' replied Kaine hastily. 'They will disperse when they learn this.'
'They will believe nothing from your lying tongue,' replied Hamlet softly, 'only that which Ms Farquitt tells them. Your power is waning, my friend, and destiny's inelegant toe creaks the boards to your door.'
There was a tense silence as Kaine stared at Hamlet and Hamlet stared back at Kaine. I'd witnessed quite a few stand-offs but none with so much at stake.
'You haven't a hope in hell anyway,' announced Kaine after considering his options carefully. I'm going to enjoy watching the Whackers trash you. Release him.'
The SO-6 agents uncuffed Hamlet and escorted Kaine out of the door.
'Well,' said Hamlet, 'looks like we're back in the game. I'm going to watch with your mother — win this one for the Farquitt fans, Thursday!'
And he was gone.
None of us had any time to ponder the matter further as we heard a klaxon go off and an excited roar from the crowd echoed down the tunnel.
'Good luck, everyone,' said Aubrey with a good measure of bravado. 'It's showtime!'
The crowd erupted into screams of jubilation as we trotted down the tunnel on to the green. The stadium could seat thirty thousand and it was packed. Large monitors had been set up outside for the benefit of those who could not get a seat, and the TV networks were beaming the match live to an estimated two billion people in seventy-three countries worldwide. It was going to be quite a show.
I stayed on the touchline as the Swindon Mallets lined up face to face with the Reading Whackers. They all glared at one another as the Swindon & District Wheel-Tappers brass band marched on, headed by Lola Vavoom. There was then a pause while President Formby took his seat in the VIP box and, led by Ms Vavoom, the audience stood to sing the unofficial English national anthem, 'When I'm Cleaning Windows'. After the song had finished, Yorrick Kaine appeared in the VIP box, but his reception was derisory at best. There was a smattering of applause and a few 'Hails!' but nothing like the reception he was expecting. His anti-Danish stance had lost a good deal of popular support when he made the mistake of accusing the Danish women's handball team of being spies, and arrested them. I saw him sit down and scowl at the President, who smiled back warmly.
I was standing at the touchline with Alf Widdershaine, watching the proceedings.
'Is there anything more we could have done?' I whispered.
'No,' said Alf after a pause. 'I just hope those Neanderthals can cut the mustard.'
I turned and walked back towards Landen. On his lap was Friday, gurgling and clapping his hands. I had taken him once to the chariot race in the novel Ben-Hur and he'd loved it.
'What are our chances, darling?' asked Landen.
'Reasonable to middling with the Neanderthals playing. I'll speak to you later.'
I gave them each a kiss and Landen wished me good luck.
'Dolor in reprehenderit — Mummy,' said Friday. I thanked him for his kind words and heard rny name being called. It was Aubrey, who was talking to the umpire, who, as custom dictated, was dressed as a country parson.
'What do you mean?' I heard Aubrey say in an outraged tone as I moved closer. It seemed there was some sort of altercation and we hadn't even begun play yet. 'Show me where it says that in the rules!'
'What's the problem?' I asked.
'It's the Neanderthals,' Aubrey said between gritted teeth. 'According to the rules it seems that non-humans are barred from taking part!'
I glanced back to where Stig and the four other Neanderthals were sitting in a circle, meditating.
'Rule 78b-45 (ii),' quoted the umpire, as O'Fathens, the Reading Whackers' captain, looked on with a gleeful expression. 'No player or team may use an equine or any other non-human creature to gain an advantage over the opposing team."
'But that doesn't mean players,' I said. 'That rule clearly refers only to horses, antelope and so forth — it was brought in when the Dorchester Slammers attempted to gain the advantage by playing on horseback in 1962.'
'The rules seem clear to me,' growled O'Fathens, taking a step forward. 'Are Neanderthals human?' Aubrey also took a step forward. Their noses were almost touching.
'Well. . . sort of
There was nothing for it but to seek a judgment. Since the rules regarding on-field litigation had been relaxed ten years earlier, it was not uncommon for the first half-hour of a match to be taken up with legal wranglings by the teams' lawyers, of which each side was permitted two, with one substitute. It added a new form of drama to the proceedings, but one not without its own problems; after a particularly litigious Superhoop six years previously when a legal argument was overturned in the High Court two years after the match was played, it became mandatory that three High Court judges be ready to give an instant, unquestionable ruling on any legal point.
We approached the Port-a-Court and our respective lawyers made their representations. The three judges retired to their chambers and returned a few minutes later to announce:
'It is the finding of this Croquet Appellant Court in the action Mallets versus Whackers (Neanderthal player legality) that the Whackers' complaint is upheld. In the eyes of English law Neanderthals are not human, and cannot play.'
The Reading side of the crowd erupted into joyous yells as the judges' ruling was run up on the screen.
Aubrey opened his mouth but I pulled him aside.
'Don't waste your breath, Aubrey.'
'We can prepare an appeal in seven minutes,' said Mr Runcorn, one of our lawyers. 'I think we can find a non-human precedent in the Worcester Sauces versus Taunton Ciders Superhoop semifinals of 1963.'
Aubrey scratched his head and looked at me.
'Thursday?'
'A failed appeal could result in a two-hoop forfeit,' I pointed out. 'I say we get the lawyers working on it. If they think it's worth a try we'll lodge an appeal at the end of the first third.'
'But we're five players down and we haven't even picked up our mallets!'
'The game's not lost until it's lost, Aubrey. We've got a few tricks up our sleeve, too.'
I wasn't kidding. I had visited the lawyers' pavilion earlier when they were performing background checks on every player on the opposing side. The Whackers' striker, George 'Rhino' McNasty, had fourteen unpaid parking violations and our legal team successfully pleaded that his case should be heard here and now; he was sentenced to an hour's community service, which effectively had him picking up litter in the car park until the end of the second third. Jambe turned back to Mr Runcorn.
'Okay, prepare an appeal for the end of the first third. We'll start with what we've got.'
Even with our substitute brought on, we still had only six players to their full complement of ten. But it got worse. To play on a local side you had to have been born in the town or lived there for at least six months before playing. Our substitute, 'Johnno' Swift, had lived here only for five months and twenty-six days when he began his career at the Mallets three years before. The Reading lawyers argued that he was playing illegally in his first match, a transgression that should have won him a life ban. Once again, the judges upheld the complaint, and to another excited yell from the crowd, Swift walked dejectedly back to the dressing rooms.
'Well,' said O'Fathens, putting out his hand to Jambe, 'we'll just accept you've conceded the match, okay?'
'We're playing, O'Fathens. Even if Swindon were to lose by a thousand hoops, people would still say this was their finest—
'I don't think so,' interrupted the Whackers' team lawyer with a triumphant grin. 'You're now down to only five players. Under Rule 681 g, subsection (f/6): Any team that fails to start the game with the minimum of six players forfeits the match.'
He pointed out the entry in volume seven of the World Croquet League rule book. It was there all right, just under the rules governing the minimum raisin requirement in the buns served at the concession stands. Beaten! Beaten even before we'd picked up a mallet!
Swindon could weather it but the world could not — the Revealment would be proven false and Kaine and Goliath would carry on with their perverse plans unmolested.
I'll announce it,' said the umpire.
'No,' said Alf, clicking his fingers, 'we do have a player we can field!'
'Who?'
He pointed at me.
'Thursday!'
I was gobsmacked. I hadn't played for over eight years.
'Objection!' blurted out the Whackers' lawyer. 'Miss Next is not a native of Swindon!'
My inclusion would be of questionable value — but at least it meant we could play.
'I was born at St Septyk's,' I said slowly. I'm Swindon enough for this team.'
'Perhaps Swindon enough,' said the lawyer, consulting a rule book hurriedly, 'but not experienced enough. According to Rule 23f subsection (g/9) you are ineligible to play international-standard croquet since you have not played the minimum of ten matches to county standard.'
I thought for a moment.
'Actually, I have.'
It was true. I used to play for the SpecOps Middlesex team when I was based in London. I was quite good, too — but nothing like these guys.
'It is the decision of the Croquet Appellant Court,' intoned the three judges, who wanted to see a good game as much as anyone, 'that Miss Next be allowed to represent her city in this match.'
O'Fathens's face fell.
'This is preposterous! What kind of stupid decision is that?'
The judges looked at him sternly.
'It is the decision of this court — and we find you in contempt. The Whackers will forfeit one hoop.'
O'Fathens boiled with inner rage, but held it within him, turned on his heel and, followed by his lawyers, strode to where his team were waiting.
'Good one!' Aubrey laughed. 'The whistle hasn't even gone and we're winning!'
He tried to sound full of enthusiasm but it was difficult. We were fielding a six-strong team — five and a quarter if you counted me — and still had an entire game to play.
'We've got ten minutes to the off. Thursday, get changed into Snake's spare set — he's about your size.'
I dashed off to the changing rooms and dressed myself up in Snake's leg guards and shoulder pads. Widdershaine helped me adjust the straps around my chest and I grabbed a spare mallet before running back on to the field, fiddling with my helmet strap just as Aubrey was beginning his strategy talk.
'In past matches,' he said in a hushed tone, 'the Whackers have been known to test a weak side with a standard "Bomperini" opening tactic. A deflective feint towards midhoop left but actually aiming for an undefended backhoop right.'
The team whistled softly.
'But we'll be ready for them. I want them to know we're playing an aggressive game. Instead of backfooting it we'll go straight into a surprise roquet manoeuvre. Smudger, you're to lead with a sideways deflection to Biffo, who'll pass to Thursday—
'Wait,' put in Biffo, 'Thursday is here making up the numbers. She hasn't hit a ball in years!'
This was true. But Jambe had bigger plans.
'Exactly. I want them to think Thursday is a dark horse — that we planned this late addition. With a bit of luck they'll waste a good player marking her. Thursday, drive it towards their red ball and Spike will intercept. It doesn't matter if you miss — I want them to be confused by our tactics. And Penelope -just frighten the other team.'
'Urg,' grunted the wingwoman.
'Okay, keep it tight, no more violence than is necessary and keep an eye out for the Duchess. She's not averse to a bit of ankle swiping.'
We all tapped our fists together and made a 'harrump' noise. I walked slowly to my place on the green, my heart beating with the pump of adrenalin.
'You okay?'
It was Aubrey.
'Sure.'
'Good. Let's play some croquet.'
38
I took up my station at the twenty-yard line and looked around the green. The rhododendron bushes in the centre occluded my vision of the backhoop right; I glanced up at the Scoreboard and clock. Two minutes to go. There were three other natural hazards that we were to play around on the green — the tea party, which even now was being stocked by volunteers, the garden roller and the Italian sunken garden. Once the tea party volunteers were safe and the parson umpire was happy that his curate linesmen were all in position, the klaxon went off with a loud blare.
Many things happened at once. There were two almost simultaneous clacks as both teams whacked off, and I ran forward instinctively to intercept the pass from Biffo. Since the Whackers didn't think I was of any use I had been left unmarked, and Biffo's pass came sailing towards me. I was flushed by the excitement and caught it in midair, smashing it towards the opponent's ball for what looked like an aerial roquet. It didn't work. I missed by about a foot. The opponent's ball carried on to the forty-yard line, where Spurrier blasted it through the backhoop right — the classic 'Bomperini' opener. I didn't have time to think about it as there was a shout of 'Thursday!' from Aubrey and I turned to make a swipe at the opposition's ball. The klaxon went and everyone stopped playing. I had touched the opponent's ball when south of the forty-yard line after it had been passed from the last person to have hit a red ball in the opposite direction — one of the more obvious offside transgressions.
'Sorry, guys,' I said as the Whackers lined up to take their penalty. O'Fathens took the shot and catapulted our ball into the rhododendrons. As George tried to find it, and with our other ball out of play in the Italian sunken garden, the Whackers' team went on the offensive and hooped three times before we'd even caught our breath. Even when we found the ball we were too dispersed, and after another twenty-eight minutes of hard defensive footwork we managed to end the first third with only four hoops to Reading's eight.
'There are too many of them,' panted Snake. 'Eight—four is the worst opening score for a Superhoop final ever.'
'We're not beaten yet,' replied Jambe, taking a drink. 'Thursday, you played well.'
'Well?' I returned, taking off my helmet and wiping the sweat from my brow. 'I sank the ball with my first whack and dropped us a hoop on the offside penalty!'
'But we still scored a hoop — and we would already have lost ifyou hadn't joined us. You just need to relax more. You're playing as though the world depended on it.'
The team didn't know it, but I was.
'Just relax a bit, take a second before you whack and you'll be fine. Biffo — good work, and nice hoop, Penelope, although if you chase their wingman again you might be booked.'
'Urg,' replied Penelope.
'Mr Jambe?' said Mr Runcorn, who had been working on a rearguard legal challenge to the anti-Neanderthal ruling.
'Yes? Do we have a case?'
'I'm afraid not. I can't seem to find any grounds. The non-human precedent was overruled on appeal — I'm very sorry, sir. I think I'm playing very badly — might I resign and bring on the legal substitute?'
'It's not your fault,' said Jambe kindly. 'Have the substitute lawyer continue the search.'
Runcorn bowed and went to sit on the lawyers' bench, where a young man in a badly fitting suit had been sitting silently throughout the first third.
'That Duchess is murder,' muttered Biffo breathlessly. 'She almost had me twice.'
'Isn't striking an opponent a red-card three-hoop penalty offence?' I asked.
'Of course! But if she can take out our best player, then it might be worth it. Keep an eye on her, everyone.'
'Mr Jambe?'
It was the referee, who told us that further litigation had been brought against our team. We dutifully approached the Port-a-Court, where the judges were just signing an amendment to the World Croquet League book of law.
'What is it?'
'As a result of the Danish Economic (Scapegoat) Act coming into law, people of Danish descent are not permitted to vote or take key jobs.'
'When did this law come into effect?'
'Five minutes ago.'
I looked up at Kaine in the VIP box. He smiled and waved at me.
'So?' asked Jambe. 'Kaine's dopey ideas have no relevance to croquet — this is sport, not politics.'
The Whackers' lawyer, Mr Wapcaplitt, coughed politely.
'In that you would be mistaken. The definition of "key job" includes any highly paid sports personality. We have conducted some background checks and discovered that Ms Penelope Hrah was born in Copenhagen — she's Danish.'
Jambe was silent.
'I might have been born there but I'm not Danish' said Hrah, taking a menacing step towards Wapcaplitt. 'My parents were on holiday at the time.'
'We are well aware of the facts,' intoned Wapcaplitt, 'and have already sought judgment on this matter. You were born in Denmark, you are technically Danish, you are in a "key job" and are thus disqualified from playing on this team.'
'Balls!' yelled Aubrey. 'If she was born in a kennel would that make her a dog?'
'Hmm,' replied the attorney thoughtfully, 'it's an interesting legal question.'
Penelope couldn't contain herself any longer and went for him. It took four of us to hold her back, and she had to be forcibly restrained and frog-marched from the green.
'Down to five players,' muttered Jambe. 'Below the minimum player requirement.'
'Yes,' said Mr Wapcaplitt glibly, 'it appears the Whackers are the winners—'
'I think not,' interrupted our substitute lawyer, whose name we learned was Twizzit. 'As my most esteemed colleague so rightly pointed out, the rule states: "any team that fails to start the game with the minimum of six players forfeits the match". The way I see it, the match has already begun and we can carry on playing with five. Your honours?'
The judges put their heads together for a moment and then pronounced:
'This court finds for the Swindon Mallets in this matter. They may continue to play into the second third with five players.'
We walked slowly back to the touchline. Four of the Neanderthal players were still sitting on the bench, staring off into space.
'Where's Stig?' I asked them.
I didn't get an answer. The klaxon for the second third went off and I grabbed my mallet and helmet and hurried on to the green.
'New strategy, everyone,' said Jambe to myself, Smudger, Snake and Biffo — all that remained of the Swindon Mallets. 'We play defensively to make sure they don't score any more hoops. Anything goes — and watch out for the Duchess'
The second third was probably the most interesting third ever seen in World League Croquet. To begin with Biffo and Aubrey whacked both of our own balls into the rhododendrons. This was a novel tactic and had two consequences: first, we weren't going to score any hoops in the middle third by natural hooping, and second, we denied the opposition any roquets off our balls. No advantage in terms of winning, clearly, but we weren't trying to win — we were fighting for survival. The Whackers had only to score thirty hoops and hit the centre peg to win outright — and the way it was going we wouldn't make the last third. Staving off the inevitable, perhaps, but World League Croquet is like that. Frustrating, violent, and full of the unexpected.
'No prisoners!' yelled Biffo, waving his mallet above his head in a display of bravado that would sum up our second-third strategy. It worked. Freed from the constraint of ball defence we all went into the attack and together caused some considerable problems to the Whackers, who were thrown by the unorthodox playing tactics. At one point I yelled 'Offside!' and made up something so outrageously complex that it sounded as if it could be true — it took ten minutes of precious time to prove that it wasn't.
By the time the second third ended we were almost completely exhausted. The Whackers now led by twenty-one hoops to twelve,
and we only won another eight because 'Bonecrusher' McSneed had been sent off for trying to hit Jambe with his mallet and Biffo had been concussed by the Duchess.
'How many fingers am I holding up?' asked Alf
'Fish,' said Biffo, eyes wandering.
'You okay?' asked Landen when I had returned to the stands to see him.
'I'm okay,' I puffed. 'I'm out of shape, though.'
Friday gave me a hug.
'Thursday?' hissed Landen in a hushed voice. 'I've been thinking. Where did that piano actually come from?'
'What piano?'
'The one that fell on Cindy.'
'Well, I suppose, it just, well.fell, didn't it? What are you saying?'
'That it was a murder attempt.'
'Someone tried to assassinate the assassin with a piano?'
'No. It hit her accidentally. I think it was intended — for you!'
'Wrho'd want to kill me with a piano?'
'I don't know. Have there been any other unorthodox attempts on your life recently?'
'No.'
'I think you're still in danger, sweetheart. Please be careful.'
I kissed him again and stroked his face with a muddy hand.
'Sorry!' I muttered, trying to rub it off and making it worse. 'But I've got too much to think about at the moment.'
I ran off and joined Jambe for a last-third pep talk.
'Right,' he said, handing out the Chelsea buns, 'we're going to lose this match but we're going to go out in glory. I don't want it to be said that the Mallets didn't fight until the last man standing. Right, Biffo?'
'Trilby.'
We all knocked our fists together and made the 'harrump' noise again, the team reinvigorated — except for me. It was true that no one could say we hadn't tried, but for all Jambe's well-meaning rhetoric, in three weeks' time the earth would be smouldering radioactive cinder, and no amount of tarnished glory would help Swindon or anyone else. But I helped myself to a Chelsea bun and a cup of tea anyway.
'I say,' said Twizzit, who had suddenly appeared in the company of Stig.
'Have a bun!' said Aubrey. 'We're going out in style!'
But Twizzit wasn't smiling.
'We've been looking at Mr Stig's genome—
'His what?'
'His genome. The complete genetic plan of him and the other Neanderthals.'
'And?'
Twizzit rummaged through some papers.
'They were all built between 1939 and 1948 in the Goliath bioengineering labs. The thing is, the prototype Neanderthal could not speak in words that we could understand — so they were built using a human voice box.' Twizzit gave a curious half-smile, as though he had produced a spare ace from his sleeve, and announced with great drama: 'The Neanderthals are 1.03 per cent human.'
'But that doesn't make them human,' I observed. 'How does it help us?'
'I agree they're not human,' conceded Twizzit, still with the ghost of a smile, 'but the rules specifically exclude anyone "non-human". Since they have some human in them, they technically can't fall into this category.'
There was another long pause. I looked at Stig, who stared back and raised his eyebrows.
'I think we should lodge an appeal,' muttered Jambe, leaving his Chelsea bun half eaten in his haste. 'Stig, have your men limber up!'
The judges agreed with us. The 1.03 per cent was enough to prove they weren't non-human and thus could not be excluded from play. While Wapcaplitt ran off to search the croquet statutes for a reason to appeal, the Neanderthals, Grunk, Warg, Dorf, Zim
and Stig, limbered up as the Whackers looked on nervously. Neanderthals had often been approached to play as they could run all day without tiring, but no one until now had ever managed it.
'Okay, listen up,' said Jambe, gathering us around, 'we're back in the game at full strength. Thursday, I want you to stay on the benches to get your breath back. We're going to fool them with a Puchonski switch. Biffo is going to take the red ball from the forty-yard line over the rhododendron bushes, past the Italian sunken garden and into a close position to hoop five. Snake, you'll take it from there and croquet their yellow — Stig will defend you. Mr Warg, I want you to mark their number five. He's dangerous, so you're going to have to use any tricks you can. Smudger, you're going to foul the Duchess — when the vicar gives you the red card, I'm calling in Thursday. Yes?'
I didn't reply; for some reason I was having a sudden heavy bout of deja vu.
'Thursday?' repeated Aubrey. 'Are you okay? You look like you're in a dream world!'
'I'm fine,' I said slowly, I'll wait for your command.'
'Good.'
We all did the 'harrump' thing and they went to their places whilst I sat on the bench and looked once again at the Scoreboard. We were losing twenty-one hoops to twelve.
The klaxon went off and the game started with renewed aggression. Biffo whacked the yellow ball in the direction of the up-end hoop and hit the Whackers' ball. Warg took the roquet. With an expert swing the opponent's ball tumbled into the Italian sunken garden, and ours sailed as straight as a die over the rhododendrons; a distant clack was mirrored by a roar from the crowd, and I knew the ball had been intercepted by Grunk and taken through the hoop. Aubrey nodded at Smudger, who took out the Duchess in grand style: they both careered into the tea party and knocked over the table. The klaxon sounded for a time-out while the Duchess was pulled clear of the tea things. She was conscious but had a broken ankle. Smudger was given the red card but no hoop penalty as the Duchess had been shown the yellow card earlier for concussing Biffo. I joined the fray as play started up again but the Whackers' early confidence was soon evaporating under a withering attack from the Neanderthals, who could anticipate their every move simply by reading their body language. Warg passed to Grunk, who gave the ball such an almighty whack that it passed clear through the rhododendrons with a tearing of foliage and was converted by Zim on the other side towards an undefended hoop.
Three minutes from time we had almost caught up: twenty-five hoops to the Whackers' twenty-nine. Firmly rattled, the Whackers missed a roquet, and with only a minute to run scored their thirtieth hoop with us only two behind. All they had to do to win was 'peg out' by hitting the centre post. While they were trying to do this, and we tried our best to stop them, Mr Grunk, with eight seconds to go and two hoops to make, whacked a clear double-hooper that went through one up-end hoop, the entire forty yards down the green and through the mid. I'd never heard a crowd yell more.
We had levelled the score and desperately tried to get our ball to the peg in the scrum of players trying to stop the Whackers from doing the same. Warg grunted to Grunk, who ran towards the scrum and tore into them, taking six players down as Warg whacked the ball towards the now unprotected peg. It hit the peg fair and square — but a second after the klaxon had sounded. Play had ended — in a draw.
39
'Good work,' said Alf as we sat on the ground, panting hard. I had lost my helmet in the scrum somewhere but hadn't noticed until now. My armour was dirty and torn, my mallet handle had split and there was a cut on my chin. The whole team was muddy, bruised and worn out — but we were still in with a good chance.
'What order?' asked the umpire, referring to the 'sudden death' penalty shoot-out. It worked quite simply. We took it in turns to hit the peg, each time moving back ten yards. There were six lines all the way back to the boundary. If we got them all, we started again until someone missed. Alf looked at the players who were still able to hold a mallet and put me seventh, so if we went round again I was on the easiest ten-yard line.
'Biffo first, then Aubrey, Stig, Dorf, Warg, Grunk and Thursday.'
The umpire jotted down our names and moved away; I went to see my family and Landen again.
'What about the steamroller?' he asked. 'What about the steamroller?' 'Didn't it nearly run you over?' 'An accident, Land. Gotta go. 'Bye.'
The ten-yard line was simple; both players hit the peg with ease. The twenty-yard line was still no problem. The Whackers' supporters roared as Reading hit the peg first, but our side roared equally when we hit ours. Thirty yards was no problem, either — both teams hit the peg — and we all moved back to the forty-yard line. From this distance the peg was tiny and I couldn't see how anyone could hit it, but they did — first Mays for Reading, then Dorf for us. The crowd roared their support, but then there was a slight rumble of thunder and it began to rain, the full significance of which was yet to dawn.
'Where are they going?' asked Aubrey as Stig, Grunk, Dorf and Warg ran off to find shelter.
'It's a Neanderthal thing,' I explained as the rain increased dramatically to a downpour, the water streaming down our armour and on to the turf. 'Neanderthals never work, play or even stand in the rain if they can help it. Don't worry, they'll be back as soon as it stops.'
But it didn't stop.
'Fifty-yard penalty,' announced the umpire. 'O'Fathens for the Whackers and Mr Warg for the Mallets.'
I looked at Warg, who was sitting on the bench under the stands, staring at the rain with a mixed expression of respect and wonder.
'He's going to lose us the game!' muttered Jambe in my ear. 'Can't you do something?'
I ran across the soggy green to Warg, who stared at me blankly when I implored him to come and take the penalty.
'It's raining,' he replied, 'and it's only a game. It doesn't really matter who wins, does it?'
'Stig?' I implored.
'We'd work in the rain for you, Thursday — but we've taken
our turn already. Rain is precious; it gives life — you should respect it more, too.'
I returned to the fifty-yard line as slowly as I could to try to give the rain time to finish. It didn't.
'Well?' demanded Jambe.
I shook my head sadly.
'I'm afraid not. Winning has never been of any interest to the Neanderthals. They played only as a favour to me.'
Aubrey sighed.
'We'd like to delay the next penalty until it stops raining,' announced Twizzit, who had appeared holding a newspaper over his head. He was on legal marshland with this request and he knew it. The umpire asked the Whackers whether they wanted to delay but O'Fathens stared at me and said that he didn't. So the next person on the list took their turn at the fifty-yard line — me.
I wiped the rain from my eyes and tried even to see the peg. The rain was coming down so heavily that the cascading droplets created a watery haze a few inches above the turf. Still, I had the second shot — O'Fathens might miss too.
The Whackers' captain concentrated for a moment, swung and connected well. The ball went sailing high towards the peg and seemed set to hit it fairly and squarely. But with a loud 'plop' it landed short. There was an expectant rumble from the crowd.
The word was relayed up the field — O'Fathens had landed four feet from the peg. I had to get closer than that to win the Superhoop.
'Good luck,' said Aubrey, giving my arm a squeeze.
I walked up to the fifty-yard line, the now muddy ground oozing around my boots. I removed my shoulder pads and cast them aside, made a few practice swings, wiped my eyes and stared at the multicoloured peg, which somehow seemed to have retreated another twenty yards. I squared up in front of the ball and shifted my weight to maintain the right poise. The crowd fell silent. They didn't know how much was riding on this, but I did. I didn't dare miss. I looked at the ball, stared towards the peg, looked at the ball again, clasped the handle of my mallet and raised it high in the air, then swung hard into the ball, yelling out as the wood connected and the ball went sailing off in a gentle arc. I thought about Kaine and Goliath, about Landen and Friday and the consequences if I missed. The fate of all life on this beautiful planet, decided on the swing of a croquet mallet. I watched as my ball plopped into the soggy ground and the groundsman dashed ahead to compare distances. I turned away and walked back through the rain towards Landen. I had done my best and the game was over. I didn't hear the announcement, only a roar from the crowd. But whose crowd? A flashbulb went off and I felt dizzy as the sounds became muted and everything appeared to slow down. Not in the way that my father could engineer, but a post-adrenalin moment when everything seems odd, and other. I searched the seating for Landen and Friday but my attention was distracted by a large figure dressed in a duster coat and hat who had vaulted over the barrier and was running towards me. He drew something from his pocket as he ran, his feet throwing up great splashes of muddy water on to his trousers. I stared at him as he came closer and noticed that his eyes were yellow and beneath his hat were what appeared to be ... horns. I didn't see any more; there was a bright white flash, a deafening roar, and all the rest was silence.
40
I was watching her, right up to the moment she was shot. She looked confused and tired as she walked back from the penalty, and the crowd roared when I shouted to get her attention, so she didn't hear me. It was then that I saw a man vault across the barrier and run up to her. I thought it was a nutty fan or something and the shot sounded more like a firecracker. There was a puff of blue smoke and she looked incredulous for a moment and then she just crumpled and collapsed on the turf. As simple as that. Before I knew what I was doing I had handed Friday to Joffy and jumped over the barrier, moving as fast as I could. I was the first to reach Thursday, who was lying perfectly still on the muddy ground, her eyes open, a neat red hole two inches above her right eye.
Someone yelled: 'Medic!' It was me.
I switched to automatic. For the moment the idea that someone had shot my wife was expunged from my mind; I was simply dealing with a casualty — and heavens knows I'd done that often enough. I pulled out my handkerchief and pressed it on the wound.
I said: 'Thursday, can you hear me?'
She didn't answer. Her eyes were unblinking as the rain struck her and I placed my hand above her head to shield her. A medic appeared at my side, sloshing down into the muddy ground in his haste to help. He said:
'What's happened?'
I said: 'He shot her.'
I reached gingerly around the back of her head and breathed a small sigh of relief when I couldn't find an exit wound.
A second medic — a woman this time —joined the first and told me to step aside. But I moved only far enough for her to work. I kept hold of Thursday's hand.
The first medic said: 'We've got a pulse,' then added: 'where's the blasted ambulance?'
I stayed with her all the way to the hospital and let go of her hand only when they took her into theatre.
A friendly casualty nurse at St Septyk's said: 'Here you go,' as she gave me a blanket. I sat on a hard EHS chair and stared at the wall clock and the public information posters. I thought about Thursday, trying to figure out how much time we had spent together. Not long for two and a half years, really.
A boy next to me with his head stuck in a saucepan said: 'Wot you in here for, mister?'
I leaned closer, spoke into the hollow handle so he could hear me and said: 'I'm okay but someone shot my wife.'
The little boy with his head stuck in a saucepan said: 'Bummer,' and I replied: 'Yes, bummer.'
I sat and looked at the posters again for a long time until someone said:
'Landen?'
I looked up. It was Mrs Next. She had been crying. I think I had, too.
She said: 'How is she?'
And I said: 'I don't know.'
She sat down next to me.
'I brought you some Battenberg.'
I said: 'I'm not really that hungry.'
'Miss Next?'
I turned to find a thin, cadaverous man staring at me. I recognised him instantly. It was Ernst Stricknene, Kaine's adviser — and he was carrying a red briefcase. I had seen a similar case at Goliathopolis and on Evade the Question Time. It doubtless concealed an ovinator.
'What do you want?'
'Chancellor Kaine would like to meet the Swindon team for a pep talk.'
'Why?'
Strickene looked at me coldly.
It is not for you to question the will of the Chancellor, young lady.'
It was then that Kaine marched in, surrounded by his goons and entourage. The team stood up respectfully — except the Neanderthals, who, completely ambivalent to the vagaries of perceived hierarchy, carried on talking to one another in soft grunts. Kaine looked at me triumphantly but I noticed too that he had changed slightly. His eyes looked tired and his mouth had a slight sag to it. He'd started to show signs of being human. He was beginning to age.
'Ah!' he said. 'The ubiquitous Miss Next. LiteraTec, team manager, saviour of Jane Eyre. Is there anything you can't do?'
'I'm not that good at knitting.'
There was a ripple of laughter among the team, and also from Kaine's followers, who abruptly silenced themselves as Kaine glanced around the room, scowling. But he controlled himself and gave a disingenuous smile after nodding to Stricknene.
'I just came down here to talk to the team and tell all of you that it would be a far better thing for this country if I stayed in power, and even though I don't know how Zvlkx's Revealment will work, I can't leave the secure future of this nation to the vagaries of a thirteenth-century seer with poor personal hygiene. Do you understand what I am saying?'
I knew what he was up to. The ovinator. It would, as likely as not, have us all eating out of his hand in under a minute. But I wasn't figuring on Hamlet, who appeared suddenly from behind Stricknene, rapier drawn. It was now or nothing and I yelled:
'The briefcase! Destroy the ovinator!'
Hamlet needed no second bidding and he leapt into action, expertly piercing the case, which gave off a brief flash of green light and a short high-pitched wail that started the police dogs outside barking. Hamlet was swiftly overpowered by two SO-6 agents, who handcuffed him.
'Who is this man?' demanded Kaine.
'He's my cousin Eddie.'
'NO!' yelled Hamlet, standing up straight, even though he had two men holding him. 'My name is Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Danish, and proud of it!'
Kaine gave a smug laugh.
'Captain, arrest Miss Next for harbouring a known Danish person — and arrest the entire team for aiding and abetting.'
It was a bad moment. With no players the game had to be forfeited. But Hamlet, actioneer that he had become, was not out of ideas.
'I shouldn't do that if I were you'
'And why not?' sneered Kaine, not without a certain quaver in his voice; he was now acting solely on his wits. He had neither his fictional roots nor the ovinator to help him.
'Because,' announced Hamlet, 'I am a very special friend of Ms Daphne Farquitt.'
'And—?' enquired Kaine with a slight smile.
'She is outside, awaiting my return. If I fail to reappear or you try any sort of anti-Mallets skulduggery, she will mobilise her troops.'
Kaine laughed and Stricknene, sycophant that he was, laughed with him.
'Troops? What troops are these?'
But Hamlet was deadly serious. He glowered at them for a moment before answering.
'Her fan club. They're highly organised, armed to the teeth, seriously angry at having had their books burned and ready to move at her command. There are thirty thousand stationed near the stadium and a further ninety thousand in reserve. One word from Daphne and you're finished.'
'I have reversed the law banning Farquitt,' replied Kaine hastily. 'They will disperse when they learn this.'
'They will believe nothing from your lying tongue,' replied Hamlet softly, 'only that which Ms Farquitt tells them. Your power is waning, my friend, and destiny's inelegant toe creaks the boards to your door.'
There was a tense silence as Kaine stared at Hamlet and Hamlet stared back at Kaine. I'd witnessed quite a few stand-offs but none with so much at stake.
'You haven't a hope in hell anyway,' announced Kaine after considering his options carefully. I'm going to enjoy watching the Whackers trash you. Release him.'
The SO-6 agents uncuffed Hamlet and escorted Kaine out of the door.
'Well,' said Hamlet, 'looks like we're back in the game. I'm going to watch with your mother — win this one for the Farquitt fans, Thursday!'
And he was gone.
None of us had any time to ponder the matter further as we heard a klaxon go off and an excited roar from the crowd echoed down the tunnel.
'Good luck, everyone,' said Aubrey with a good measure of bravado. 'It's showtime!'
The crowd erupted into screams of jubilation as we trotted down the tunnel on to the green. The stadium could seat thirty thousand and it was packed. Large monitors had been set up outside for the benefit of those who could not get a seat, and the TV networks were beaming the match live to an estimated two billion people in seventy-three countries worldwide. It was going to be quite a show.
I stayed on the touchline as the Swindon Mallets lined up face to face with the Reading Whackers. They all glared at one another as the Swindon & District Wheel-Tappers brass band marched on, headed by Lola Vavoom. There was then a pause while President Formby took his seat in the VIP box and, led by Ms Vavoom, the audience stood to sing the unofficial English national anthem, 'When I'm Cleaning Windows'. After the song had finished, Yorrick Kaine appeared in the VIP box, but his reception was derisory at best. There was a smattering of applause and a few 'Hails!' but nothing like the reception he was expecting. His anti-Danish stance had lost a good deal of popular support when he made the mistake of accusing the Danish women's handball team of being spies, and arrested them. I saw him sit down and scowl at the President, who smiled back warmly.
I was standing at the touchline with Alf Widdershaine, watching the proceedings.
'Is there anything more we could have done?' I whispered.
'No,' said Alf after a pause. 'I just hope those Neanderthals can cut the mustard.'
I turned and walked back towards Landen. On his lap was Friday, gurgling and clapping his hands. I had taken him once to the chariot race in the novel Ben-Hur and he'd loved it.
'What are our chances, darling?' asked Landen.
'Reasonable to middling with the Neanderthals playing. I'll speak to you later.'
I gave them each a kiss and Landen wished me good luck.
'Dolor in reprehenderit — Mummy,' said Friday. I thanked him for his kind words and heard rny name being called. It was Aubrey, who was talking to the umpire, who, as custom dictated, was dressed as a country parson.
'What do you mean?' I heard Aubrey say in an outraged tone as I moved closer. It seemed there was some sort of altercation and we hadn't even begun play yet. 'Show me where it says that in the rules!'
'What's the problem?' I asked.
'It's the Neanderthals,' Aubrey said between gritted teeth. 'According to the rules it seems that non-humans are barred from taking part!'
I glanced back to where Stig and the four other Neanderthals were sitting in a circle, meditating.
'Rule 78b-45 (ii),' quoted the umpire, as O'Fathens, the Reading Whackers' captain, looked on with a gleeful expression. 'No player or team may use an equine or any other non-human creature to gain an advantage over the opposing team."
'But that doesn't mean players,' I said. 'That rule clearly refers only to horses, antelope and so forth — it was brought in when the Dorchester Slammers attempted to gain the advantage by playing on horseback in 1962.'
'The rules seem clear to me,' growled O'Fathens, taking a step forward. 'Are Neanderthals human?' Aubrey also took a step forward. Their noses were almost touching.
'Well. . . sort of
There was nothing for it but to seek a judgment. Since the rules regarding on-field litigation had been relaxed ten years earlier, it was not uncommon for the first half-hour of a match to be taken up with legal wranglings by the teams' lawyers, of which each side was permitted two, with one substitute. It added a new form of drama to the proceedings, but one not without its own problems; after a particularly litigious Superhoop six years previously when a legal argument was overturned in the High Court two years after the match was played, it became mandatory that three High Court judges be ready to give an instant, unquestionable ruling on any legal point.
We approached the Port-a-Court and our respective lawyers made their representations. The three judges retired to their chambers and returned a few minutes later to announce:
'It is the finding of this Croquet Appellant Court in the action Mallets versus Whackers (Neanderthal player legality) that the Whackers' complaint is upheld. In the eyes of English law Neanderthals are not human, and cannot play.'
The Reading side of the crowd erupted into joyous yells as the judges' ruling was run up on the screen.
Aubrey opened his mouth but I pulled him aside.
'Don't waste your breath, Aubrey.'
'We can prepare an appeal in seven minutes,' said Mr Runcorn, one of our lawyers. 'I think we can find a non-human precedent in the Worcester Sauces versus Taunton Ciders Superhoop semifinals of 1963.'
Aubrey scratched his head and looked at me.
'Thursday?'
'A failed appeal could result in a two-hoop forfeit,' I pointed out. 'I say we get the lawyers working on it. If they think it's worth a try we'll lodge an appeal at the end of the first third.'
'But we're five players down and we haven't even picked up our mallets!'
'The game's not lost until it's lost, Aubrey. We've got a few tricks up our sleeve, too.'
I wasn't kidding. I had visited the lawyers' pavilion earlier when they were performing background checks on every player on the opposing side. The Whackers' striker, George 'Rhino' McNasty, had fourteen unpaid parking violations and our legal team successfully pleaded that his case should be heard here and now; he was sentenced to an hour's community service, which effectively had him picking up litter in the car park until the end of the second third. Jambe turned back to Mr Runcorn.
'Okay, prepare an appeal for the end of the first third. We'll start with what we've got.'
Even with our substitute brought on, we still had only six players to their full complement of ten. But it got worse. To play on a local side you had to have been born in the town or lived there for at least six months before playing. Our substitute, 'Johnno' Swift, had lived here only for five months and twenty-six days when he began his career at the Mallets three years before. The Reading lawyers argued that he was playing illegally in his first match, a transgression that should have won him a life ban. Once again, the judges upheld the complaint, and to another excited yell from the crowd, Swift walked dejectedly back to the dressing rooms.
'Well,' said O'Fathens, putting out his hand to Jambe, 'we'll just accept you've conceded the match, okay?'
'We're playing, O'Fathens. Even if Swindon were to lose by a thousand hoops, people would still say this was their finest—
'I don't think so,' interrupted the Whackers' team lawyer with a triumphant grin. 'You're now down to only five players. Under Rule 681 g, subsection (f/6): Any team that fails to start the game with the minimum of six players forfeits the match.'
He pointed out the entry in volume seven of the World Croquet League rule book. It was there all right, just under the rules governing the minimum raisin requirement in the buns served at the concession stands. Beaten! Beaten even before we'd picked up a mallet!
Swindon could weather it but the world could not — the Revealment would be proven false and Kaine and Goliath would carry on with their perverse plans unmolested.
I'll announce it,' said the umpire.
'No,' said Alf, clicking his fingers, 'we do have a player we can field!'
'Who?'
He pointed at me.
'Thursday!'
I was gobsmacked. I hadn't played for over eight years.
'Objection!' blurted out the Whackers' lawyer. 'Miss Next is not a native of Swindon!'
My inclusion would be of questionable value — but at least it meant we could play.
'I was born at St Septyk's,' I said slowly. I'm Swindon enough for this team.'
'Perhaps Swindon enough,' said the lawyer, consulting a rule book hurriedly, 'but not experienced enough. According to Rule 23f subsection (g/9) you are ineligible to play international-standard croquet since you have not played the minimum of ten matches to county standard.'
I thought for a moment.
'Actually, I have.'
It was true. I used to play for the SpecOps Middlesex team when I was based in London. I was quite good, too — but nothing like these guys.
'It is the decision of the Croquet Appellant Court,' intoned the three judges, who wanted to see a good game as much as anyone, 'that Miss Next be allowed to represent her city in this match.'
O'Fathens's face fell.
'This is preposterous! What kind of stupid decision is that?'
The judges looked at him sternly.
'It is the decision of this court — and we find you in contempt. The Whackers will forfeit one hoop.'
O'Fathens boiled with inner rage, but held it within him, turned on his heel and, followed by his lawyers, strode to where his team were waiting.
'Good one!' Aubrey laughed. 'The whistle hasn't even gone and we're winning!'
He tried to sound full of enthusiasm but it was difficult. We were fielding a six-strong team — five and a quarter if you counted me — and still had an entire game to play.
'We've got ten minutes to the off. Thursday, get changed into Snake's spare set — he's about your size.'
I dashed off to the changing rooms and dressed myself up in Snake's leg guards and shoulder pads. Widdershaine helped me adjust the straps around my chest and I grabbed a spare mallet before running back on to the field, fiddling with my helmet strap just as Aubrey was beginning his strategy talk.
'In past matches,' he said in a hushed tone, 'the Whackers have been known to test a weak side with a standard "Bomperini" opening tactic. A deflective feint towards midhoop left but actually aiming for an undefended backhoop right.'
The team whistled softly.
'But we'll be ready for them. I want them to know we're playing an aggressive game. Instead of backfooting it we'll go straight into a surprise roquet manoeuvre. Smudger, you're to lead with a sideways deflection to Biffo, who'll pass to Thursday—
'Wait,' put in Biffo, 'Thursday is here making up the numbers. She hasn't hit a ball in years!'
This was true. But Jambe had bigger plans.
'Exactly. I want them to think Thursday is a dark horse — that we planned this late addition. With a bit of luck they'll waste a good player marking her. Thursday, drive it towards their red ball and Spike will intercept. It doesn't matter if you miss — I want them to be confused by our tactics. And Penelope -just frighten the other team.'
'Urg,' grunted the wingwoman.
'Okay, keep it tight, no more violence than is necessary and keep an eye out for the Duchess. She's not averse to a bit of ankle swiping.'
We all tapped our fists together and made a 'harrump' noise. I walked slowly to my place on the green, my heart beating with the pump of adrenalin.
'You okay?'
It was Aubrey.
'Sure.'
'Good. Let's play some croquet.'
38
WCL Superhoop '88
2.00 p.m., Saturday, 22 July 1988, Swindon Stadium, Wessex
Reading Whackers:
Tim O'Fathens (captain),
Carolyn 'The Mark' Mays, midfield
Ralph 'The Book' Spurrier, forward striker
'Bonecrusher' McSneed, forward hoop
George 'Rhino' McNmty, striker (struck through)
Emma 'TV Longhurst. defence
Louis Sherwin-Stark, roquet-taker
Han 'Magnet' Ismail, forward hoop
Freddie 'Dribbler' Loehms, peg defence
Duchess of Sheffield, wingman
LEGAL TEAM: Wapcaplitt & Sfortz
LINESMAN: Ian Paten
COACH: Geoffrey Snurge
Swindon Mallets:
Aubrey Jambe (captain)
Alan 'Biffo' Mandible, niidfield
'Snake' Spillikin, forward striker
Grunk (Neanderthal), defence (struck through)
Warg (Neanderthal), striker (struck through)
Dorf (Neanderthal), rog defence (struck through)
Stiggim (Neanderthal),roquet taker (struck through)
'Srnudger' Blamey, forward hoop
Zim (Neanderthal), striker (struck through)
Penelope Hrah, tnid-hoop wingman
Thursday Next, manager/midfield
LEGAL TEAM: Runcorn & Twizzit
SUB: John 'Jonno' Swift
COACH: Alf Widdershame
I took up my station at the twenty-yard line and looked around the green. The rhododendron bushes in the centre occluded my vision of the backhoop right; I glanced up at the Scoreboard and clock. Two minutes to go. There were three other natural hazards that we were to play around on the green — the tea party, which even now was being stocked by volunteers, the garden roller and the Italian sunken garden. Once the tea party volunteers were safe and the parson umpire was happy that his curate linesmen were all in position, the klaxon went off with a loud blare.
Many things happened at once. There were two almost simultaneous clacks as both teams whacked off, and I ran forward instinctively to intercept the pass from Biffo. Since the Whackers didn't think I was of any use I had been left unmarked, and Biffo's pass came sailing towards me. I was flushed by the excitement and caught it in midair, smashing it towards the opponent's ball for what looked like an aerial roquet. It didn't work. I missed by about a foot. The opponent's ball carried on to the forty-yard line, where Spurrier blasted it through the backhoop right — the classic 'Bomperini' opener. I didn't have time to think about it as there was a shout of 'Thursday!' from Aubrey and I turned to make a swipe at the opposition's ball. The klaxon went and everyone stopped playing. I had touched the opponent's ball when south of the forty-yard line after it had been passed from the last person to have hit a red ball in the opposite direction — one of the more obvious offside transgressions.
'Sorry, guys,' I said as the Whackers lined up to take their penalty. O'Fathens took the shot and catapulted our ball into the rhododendrons. As George tried to find it, and with our other ball out of play in the Italian sunken garden, the Whackers' team went on the offensive and hooped three times before we'd even caught our breath. Even when we found the ball we were too dispersed, and after another twenty-eight minutes of hard defensive footwork we managed to end the first third with only four hoops to Reading's eight.
'There are too many of them,' panted Snake. 'Eight—four is the worst opening score for a Superhoop final ever.'
'We're not beaten yet,' replied Jambe, taking a drink. 'Thursday, you played well.'
'Well?' I returned, taking off my helmet and wiping the sweat from my brow. 'I sank the ball with my first whack and dropped us a hoop on the offside penalty!'
'But we still scored a hoop — and we would already have lost ifyou hadn't joined us. You just need to relax more. You're playing as though the world depended on it.'
The team didn't know it, but I was.
'Just relax a bit, take a second before you whack and you'll be fine. Biffo — good work, and nice hoop, Penelope, although if you chase their wingman again you might be booked.'
'Urg,' replied Penelope.
'Mr Jambe?' said Mr Runcorn, who had been working on a rearguard legal challenge to the anti-Neanderthal ruling.
'Yes? Do we have a case?'
'I'm afraid not. I can't seem to find any grounds. The non-human precedent was overruled on appeal — I'm very sorry, sir. I think I'm playing very badly — might I resign and bring on the legal substitute?'
'It's not your fault,' said Jambe kindly. 'Have the substitute lawyer continue the search.'
Runcorn bowed and went to sit on the lawyers' bench, where a young man in a badly fitting suit had been sitting silently throughout the first third.
'That Duchess is murder,' muttered Biffo breathlessly. 'She almost had me twice.'
'Isn't striking an opponent a red-card three-hoop penalty offence?' I asked.
'Of course! But if she can take out our best player, then it might be worth it. Keep an eye on her, everyone.'
'Mr Jambe?'
It was the referee, who told us that further litigation had been brought against our team. We dutifully approached the Port-a-Court, where the judges were just signing an amendment to the World Croquet League book of law.
'What is it?'
'As a result of the Danish Economic (Scapegoat) Act coming into law, people of Danish descent are not permitted to vote or take key jobs.'
'When did this law come into effect?'
'Five minutes ago.'
I looked up at Kaine in the VIP box. He smiled and waved at me.
'So?' asked Jambe. 'Kaine's dopey ideas have no relevance to croquet — this is sport, not politics.'
The Whackers' lawyer, Mr Wapcaplitt, coughed politely.
'In that you would be mistaken. The definition of "key job" includes any highly paid sports personality. We have conducted some background checks and discovered that Ms Penelope Hrah was born in Copenhagen — she's Danish.'
Jambe was silent.
'I might have been born there but I'm not Danish' said Hrah, taking a menacing step towards Wapcaplitt. 'My parents were on holiday at the time.'
'We are well aware of the facts,' intoned Wapcaplitt, 'and have already sought judgment on this matter. You were born in Denmark, you are technically Danish, you are in a "key job" and are thus disqualified from playing on this team.'
'Balls!' yelled Aubrey. 'If she was born in a kennel would that make her a dog?'
'Hmm,' replied the attorney thoughtfully, 'it's an interesting legal question.'
Penelope couldn't contain herself any longer and went for him. It took four of us to hold her back, and she had to be forcibly restrained and frog-marched from the green.
'Down to five players,' muttered Jambe. 'Below the minimum player requirement.'
'Yes,' said Mr Wapcaplitt glibly, 'it appears the Whackers are the winners—'
'I think not,' interrupted our substitute lawyer, whose name we learned was Twizzit. 'As my most esteemed colleague so rightly pointed out, the rule states: "any team that fails to start the game with the minimum of six players forfeits the match". The way I see it, the match has already begun and we can carry on playing with five. Your honours?'
The judges put their heads together for a moment and then pronounced:
'This court finds for the Swindon Mallets in this matter. They may continue to play into the second third with five players.'
We walked slowly back to the touchline. Four of the Neanderthal players were still sitting on the bench, staring off into space.
'Where's Stig?' I asked them.
I didn't get an answer. The klaxon for the second third went off and I grabbed my mallet and helmet and hurried on to the green.
'New strategy, everyone,' said Jambe to myself, Smudger, Snake and Biffo — all that remained of the Swindon Mallets. 'We play defensively to make sure they don't score any more hoops. Anything goes — and watch out for the Duchess'
The second third was probably the most interesting third ever seen in World League Croquet. To begin with Biffo and Aubrey whacked both of our own balls into the rhododendrons. This was a novel tactic and had two consequences: first, we weren't going to score any hoops in the middle third by natural hooping, and second, we denied the opposition any roquets off our balls. No advantage in terms of winning, clearly, but we weren't trying to win — we were fighting for survival. The Whackers had only to score thirty hoops and hit the centre peg to win outright — and the way it was going we wouldn't make the last third. Staving off the inevitable, perhaps, but World League Croquet is like that. Frustrating, violent, and full of the unexpected.
'No prisoners!' yelled Biffo, waving his mallet above his head in a display of bravado that would sum up our second-third strategy. It worked. Freed from the constraint of ball defence we all went into the attack and together caused some considerable problems to the Whackers, who were thrown by the unorthodox playing tactics. At one point I yelled 'Offside!' and made up something so outrageously complex that it sounded as if it could be true — it took ten minutes of precious time to prove that it wasn't.
By the time the second third ended we were almost completely exhausted. The Whackers now led by twenty-one hoops to twelve,
and we only won another eight because 'Bonecrusher' McSneed had been sent off for trying to hit Jambe with his mallet and Biffo had been concussed by the Duchess.
'How many fingers am I holding up?' asked Alf
'Fish,' said Biffo, eyes wandering.
'You okay?' asked Landen when I had returned to the stands to see him.
'I'm okay,' I puffed. 'I'm out of shape, though.'
Friday gave me a hug.
'Thursday?' hissed Landen in a hushed voice. 'I've been thinking. Where did that piano actually come from?'
'What piano?'
'The one that fell on Cindy.'
'Well, I suppose, it just, well.fell, didn't it? What are you saying?'
'That it was a murder attempt.'
'Someone tried to assassinate the assassin with a piano?'
'No. It hit her accidentally. I think it was intended — for you!'
'Wrho'd want to kill me with a piano?'
'I don't know. Have there been any other unorthodox attempts on your life recently?'
'No.'
'I think you're still in danger, sweetheart. Please be careful.'
I kissed him again and stroked his face with a muddy hand.
'Sorry!' I muttered, trying to rub it off and making it worse. 'But I've got too much to think about at the moment.'
I ran off and joined Jambe for a last-third pep talk.
'Right,' he said, handing out the Chelsea buns, 'we're going to lose this match but we're going to go out in glory. I don't want it to be said that the Mallets didn't fight until the last man standing. Right, Biffo?'
'Trilby.'
We all knocked our fists together and made the 'harrump' noise again, the team reinvigorated — except for me. It was true that no one could say we hadn't tried, but for all Jambe's well-meaning rhetoric, in three weeks' time the earth would be smouldering radioactive cinder, and no amount of tarnished glory would help Swindon or anyone else. But I helped myself to a Chelsea bun and a cup of tea anyway.
'I say,' said Twizzit, who had suddenly appeared in the company of Stig.
'Have a bun!' said Aubrey. 'We're going out in style!'
But Twizzit wasn't smiling.
'We've been looking at Mr Stig's genome—
'His what?'
'His genome. The complete genetic plan of him and the other Neanderthals.'
'And?'
Twizzit rummaged through some papers.
'They were all built between 1939 and 1948 in the Goliath bioengineering labs. The thing is, the prototype Neanderthal could not speak in words that we could understand — so they were built using a human voice box.' Twizzit gave a curious half-smile, as though he had produced a spare ace from his sleeve, and announced with great drama: 'The Neanderthals are 1.03 per cent human.'
'But that doesn't make them human,' I observed. 'How does it help us?'
'I agree they're not human,' conceded Twizzit, still with the ghost of a smile, 'but the rules specifically exclude anyone "non-human". Since they have some human in them, they technically can't fall into this category.'
There was another long pause. I looked at Stig, who stared back and raised his eyebrows.
'I think we should lodge an appeal,' muttered Jambe, leaving his Chelsea bun half eaten in his haste. 'Stig, have your men limber up!'
The judges agreed with us. The 1.03 per cent was enough to prove they weren't non-human and thus could not be excluded from play. While Wapcaplitt ran off to search the croquet statutes for a reason to appeal, the Neanderthals, Grunk, Warg, Dorf, Zim
and Stig, limbered up as the Whackers looked on nervously. Neanderthals had often been approached to play as they could run all day without tiring, but no one until now had ever managed it.
'Okay, listen up,' said Jambe, gathering us around, 'we're back in the game at full strength. Thursday, I want you to stay on the benches to get your breath back. We're going to fool them with a Puchonski switch. Biffo is going to take the red ball from the forty-yard line over the rhododendron bushes, past the Italian sunken garden and into a close position to hoop five. Snake, you'll take it from there and croquet their yellow — Stig will defend you. Mr Warg, I want you to mark their number five. He's dangerous, so you're going to have to use any tricks you can. Smudger, you're going to foul the Duchess — when the vicar gives you the red card, I'm calling in Thursday. Yes?'
I didn't reply; for some reason I was having a sudden heavy bout of deja vu.
'Thursday?' repeated Aubrey. 'Are you okay? You look like you're in a dream world!'
'I'm fine,' I said slowly, I'll wait for your command.'
'Good.'
We all did the 'harrump' thing and they went to their places whilst I sat on the bench and looked once again at the Scoreboard. We were losing twenty-one hoops to twelve.
The klaxon went off and the game started with renewed aggression. Biffo whacked the yellow ball in the direction of the up-end hoop and hit the Whackers' ball. Warg took the roquet. With an expert swing the opponent's ball tumbled into the Italian sunken garden, and ours sailed as straight as a die over the rhododendrons; a distant clack was mirrored by a roar from the crowd, and I knew the ball had been intercepted by Grunk and taken through the hoop. Aubrey nodded at Smudger, who took out the Duchess in grand style: they both careered into the tea party and knocked over the table. The klaxon sounded for a time-out while the Duchess was pulled clear of the tea things. She was conscious but had a broken ankle. Smudger was given the red card but no hoop penalty as the Duchess had been shown the yellow card earlier for concussing Biffo. I joined the fray as play started up again but the Whackers' early confidence was soon evaporating under a withering attack from the Neanderthals, who could anticipate their every move simply by reading their body language. Warg passed to Grunk, who gave the ball such an almighty whack that it passed clear through the rhododendrons with a tearing of foliage and was converted by Zim on the other side towards an undefended hoop.
Three minutes from time we had almost caught up: twenty-five hoops to the Whackers' twenty-nine. Firmly rattled, the Whackers missed a roquet, and with only a minute to run scored their thirtieth hoop with us only two behind. All they had to do to win was 'peg out' by hitting the centre post. While they were trying to do this, and we tried our best to stop them, Mr Grunk, with eight seconds to go and two hoops to make, whacked a clear double-hooper that went through one up-end hoop, the entire forty yards down the green and through the mid. I'd never heard a crowd yell more.
We had levelled the score and desperately tried to get our ball to the peg in the scrum of players trying to stop the Whackers from doing the same. Warg grunted to Grunk, who ran towards the scrum and tore into them, taking six players down as Warg whacked the ball towards the now unprotected peg. It hit the peg fair and square — but a second after the klaxon had sounded. Play had ended — in a draw.
39
Sudden Death
NEANDERTHALS TURN DOWN CROQUET OFFER
A group of Neanderthals unwisely turned down an exciting and unrepeatable offer from the Gloucester Meteors yesterday following their astonishing performance at the 1988 Whackers versus Mallets Super— hoop on Saturday. The generous offer of ten brightly coloured glass beads was rejected by a Neanderthal spokesman, who declared that conflict, howsoever staged, was inherently insulting. The offer was raised to a set of solid-bottomed cookware, and this was also roundly rejected. A spokesman for the Meteors later stated that the Neanderthal tactics displayed on Saturday were actually the result of some clever tricks taught them by the Mallets' team coach,
Article in The Toad, 24 July 1988
'Good work,' said Alf as we sat on the ground, panting hard. I had lost my helmet in the scrum somewhere but hadn't noticed until now. My armour was dirty and torn, my mallet handle had split and there was a cut on my chin. The whole team was muddy, bruised and worn out — but we were still in with a good chance.
'What order?' asked the umpire, referring to the 'sudden death' penalty shoot-out. It worked quite simply. We took it in turns to hit the peg, each time moving back ten yards. There were six lines all the way back to the boundary. If we got them all, we started again until someone missed. Alf looked at the players who were still able to hold a mallet and put me seventh, so if we went round again I was on the easiest ten-yard line.
'Biffo first, then Aubrey, Stig, Dorf, Warg, Grunk and Thursday.'
The umpire jotted down our names and moved away; I went to see my family and Landen again.
'What about the steamroller?' he asked. 'What about the steamroller?' 'Didn't it nearly run you over?' 'An accident, Land. Gotta go. 'Bye.'
The ten-yard line was simple; both players hit the peg with ease. The twenty-yard line was still no problem. The Whackers' supporters roared as Reading hit the peg first, but our side roared equally when we hit ours. Thirty yards was no problem, either — both teams hit the peg — and we all moved back to the forty-yard line. From this distance the peg was tiny and I couldn't see how anyone could hit it, but they did — first Mays for Reading, then Dorf for us. The crowd roared their support, but then there was a slight rumble of thunder and it began to rain, the full significance of which was yet to dawn.
'Where are they going?' asked Aubrey as Stig, Grunk, Dorf and Warg ran off to find shelter.
'It's a Neanderthal thing,' I explained as the rain increased dramatically to a downpour, the water streaming down our armour and on to the turf. 'Neanderthals never work, play or even stand in the rain if they can help it. Don't worry, they'll be back as soon as it stops.'
But it didn't stop.
'Fifty-yard penalty,' announced the umpire. 'O'Fathens for the Whackers and Mr Warg for the Mallets.'
I looked at Warg, who was sitting on the bench under the stands, staring at the rain with a mixed expression of respect and wonder.
'He's going to lose us the game!' muttered Jambe in my ear. 'Can't you do something?'
I ran across the soggy green to Warg, who stared at me blankly when I implored him to come and take the penalty.
'It's raining,' he replied, 'and it's only a game. It doesn't really matter who wins, does it?'
'Stig?' I implored.
'We'd work in the rain for you, Thursday — but we've taken
our turn already. Rain is precious; it gives life — you should respect it more, too.'
I returned to the fifty-yard line as slowly as I could to try to give the rain time to finish. It didn't.
'Well?' demanded Jambe.
I shook my head sadly.
'I'm afraid not. Winning has never been of any interest to the Neanderthals. They played only as a favour to me.'
Aubrey sighed.
'We'd like to delay the next penalty until it stops raining,' announced Twizzit, who had appeared holding a newspaper over his head. He was on legal marshland with this request and he knew it. The umpire asked the Whackers whether they wanted to delay but O'Fathens stared at me and said that he didn't. So the next person on the list took their turn at the fifty-yard line — me.
I wiped the rain from my eyes and tried even to see the peg. The rain was coming down so heavily that the cascading droplets created a watery haze a few inches above the turf. Still, I had the second shot — O'Fathens might miss too.
The Whackers' captain concentrated for a moment, swung and connected well. The ball went sailing high towards the peg and seemed set to hit it fairly and squarely. But with a loud 'plop' it landed short. There was an expectant rumble from the crowd.
The word was relayed up the field — O'Fathens had landed four feet from the peg. I had to get closer than that to win the Superhoop.
'Good luck,' said Aubrey, giving my arm a squeeze.
I walked up to the fifty-yard line, the now muddy ground oozing around my boots. I removed my shoulder pads and cast them aside, made a few practice swings, wiped my eyes and stared at the multicoloured peg, which somehow seemed to have retreated another twenty yards. I squared up in front of the ball and shifted my weight to maintain the right poise. The crowd fell silent. They didn't know how much was riding on this, but I did. I didn't dare miss. I looked at the ball, stared towards the peg, looked at the ball again, clasped the handle of my mallet and raised it high in the air, then swung hard into the ball, yelling out as the wood connected and the ball went sailing off in a gentle arc. I thought about Kaine and Goliath, about Landen and Friday and the consequences if I missed. The fate of all life on this beautiful planet, decided on the swing of a croquet mallet. I watched as my ball plopped into the soggy ground and the groundsman dashed ahead to compare distances. I turned away and walked back through the rain towards Landen. I had done my best and the game was over. I didn't hear the announcement, only a roar from the crowd. But whose crowd? A flashbulb went off and I felt dizzy as the sounds became muted and everything appeared to slow down. Not in the way that my father could engineer, but a post-adrenalin moment when everything seems odd, and other. I searched the seating for Landen and Friday but my attention was distracted by a large figure dressed in a duster coat and hat who had vaulted over the barrier and was running towards me. He drew something from his pocket as he ran, his feet throwing up great splashes of muddy water on to his trousers. I stared at him as he came closer and noticed that his eyes were yellow and beneath his hat were what appeared to be ... horns. I didn't see any more; there was a bright white flash, a deafening roar, and all the rest was silence.
40
Second First Person
YACHT CHOICE OF FAMED LITERARY DETECTIVE A MYSTERY
The shooting of Thursday Next last Saturday leaves the question of her favourite yacht unanswered, our Swindon correspondent writes. 'From the look of her I would expect a thirty-two-foot ketch, spinnaker-rigged and with a Floon automatic pilot.' Other yachting commentators disagree and think she would have gone for something larger, such as a sloop or a yawl, although it is possible she may only have wanted a boat for coastal day work or a long weekend, in which case she may have gone for a compact twenty-footer. We asked her husband to comment on her taste in sailing but he declined to give an answer.
Article in Yachting Monthly, July 1988
I was watching her, right up to the moment she was shot. She looked confused and tired as she walked back from the penalty, and the crowd roared when I shouted to get her attention, so she didn't hear me. It was then that I saw a man vault across the barrier and run up to her. I thought it was a nutty fan or something and the shot sounded more like a firecracker. There was a puff of blue smoke and she looked incredulous for a moment and then she just crumpled and collapsed on the turf. As simple as that. Before I knew what I was doing I had handed Friday to Joffy and jumped over the barrier, moving as fast as I could. I was the first to reach Thursday, who was lying perfectly still on the muddy ground, her eyes open, a neat red hole two inches above her right eye.
Someone yelled: 'Medic!' It was me.
I switched to automatic. For the moment the idea that someone had shot my wife was expunged from my mind; I was simply dealing with a casualty — and heavens knows I'd done that often enough. I pulled out my handkerchief and pressed it on the wound.
I said: 'Thursday, can you hear me?'
She didn't answer. Her eyes were unblinking as the rain struck her and I placed my hand above her head to shield her. A medic appeared at my side, sloshing down into the muddy ground in his haste to help. He said:
'What's happened?'
I said: 'He shot her.'
I reached gingerly around the back of her head and breathed a small sigh of relief when I couldn't find an exit wound.
A second medic — a woman this time —joined the first and told me to step aside. But I moved only far enough for her to work. I kept hold of Thursday's hand.
The first medic said: 'We've got a pulse,' then added: 'where's the blasted ambulance?'
I stayed with her all the way to the hospital and let go of her hand only when they took her into theatre.
A friendly casualty nurse at St Septyk's said: 'Here you go,' as she gave me a blanket. I sat on a hard EHS chair and stared at the wall clock and the public information posters. I thought about Thursday, trying to figure out how much time we had spent together. Not long for two and a half years, really.
A boy next to me with his head stuck in a saucepan said: 'Wot you in here for, mister?'
I leaned closer, spoke into the hollow handle so he could hear me and said: 'I'm okay but someone shot my wife.'
The little boy with his head stuck in a saucepan said: 'Bummer,' and I replied: 'Yes, bummer.'
I sat and looked at the posters again for a long time until someone said:
'Landen?'
I looked up. It was Mrs Next. She had been crying. I think I had, too.
She said: 'How is she?'
And I said: 'I don't know.'
She sat down next to me.
'I brought you some Battenberg.'
I said: 'I'm not really that hungry.'