Something rotten n-4

by Jasper Fforde

  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.'