A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (154 page)

“All right,” said the Cat and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone.

 

 

 

 

I
arrived at the croquet stadium at eight. The fans were already waiting at the turnstiles, hoping to get the best seats in the stands. I was waved past and parked my Speedster in the manager's parking spot, then made my way into the changing rooms. Aubrey was waiting there for me, pacing up and down.

“Well?” he said. “Where's our team?”

“They'll be here at one o'clock.”

“Can't we get them here earlier?” he asked. “We need to discuss tactics.”

“No,” I said firmly. “They'll be here on time. It's senseless to try to impose human time constraints on them. They're playing on our side—that's the main thing.”

“Okay,” agreed Aubrey reluctantly. “Have you met Penelope Hrah?”

Penelope was a large and powerful woman who looked as though she could crack walnuts with her eyelids. She had moved to croquet because hockey wasn't violent enough, and although at thirty-two she was at the end of her career, she might prove an asset—as a terror weapon, if nothing else. She scared me—and I was on the same team.

“Hello Penelope,” I said nervously. “I really appreciate you joining us.”

“Urg.”

“Everything okay? Can I get you something?”

She grunted again, and I rubbed my hands together anxiously.

“Right, well, leave you to it, then.”

I left her to talk strategy with Alf and Aubrey. I spent the next couple of hours doing interviews and ensuring that the team's lawyers were up to speed on the game's complex legal procedures. At midday Landen and Friday arrived with Mycroft, Polly and my mother. I took them down to the seating reserved for the VIPs just behind the players' benches and sat them down next to Joffy and Miles, who had arrived earlier.

“Is Swindon going to win?” asked Polly.

“I hope so,” I said, not brimming with confidence.

“The problem with you, Thursday,” put in Joffy, “is that you have no faith. We in the Idolatry Friends of St. Zvlkx have complete faith in the revealments. Lose and Goliath moves to new heights of human exploitation and unfathomable avarice, hidden amongst the trappings of religious formality and perverted ecclesiastical dogma.”

“That was a very good speech.”

“Yes, I thought so, too. I was practicing on the march last night. Don't feel you're under any pressure now.”

“Thanks for nothing. Where's Hamlet?”

“He said he'd join us later.”

I left them to do a live broadcast with Lydia Startright, who was really more interested in knowing where I had been for the past two and a half years than asking me about Swindon's chances. After this I hurried down to the players' entrance to welcome Stig—who was playing—and the four other neanderthals. They were completely unfazed by the media attention and ignored the phalanx of pressmen completely. I thanked them for joining our team, and Stig pointed out that they were there only because that was part of the deal, and nothing more.

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 if they won or lost—they would simply do the best they could. They refused body armor, as they preferred instead to play barefoot in shorts and brightly colored Hawaiian shirts. This caused a slight problem with the Toast Marketing Board, which had insisted that its 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, which 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 face a thin, cadaverous man staring at me. I recognized 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 during
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?”

Stricknene 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 barely discernible 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, savior of
Jane Eyre
. Is there anything you can't do?”

“I'm not that good at knitting.”

There was a ripple of laughter amongst 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 harboring 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 . . . ?” inquired 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 mobilize her troops.”

Kaine laughed, and Stricknene, sycophant that he was, laughed with him.

“Troops? What troops are these?” Kaine asked, amused.

But Hamlet was deadly serious. He glowered at them for a moment before answering. “Her fan club. They're highly organized, armed to the teeth, profoundly 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 standoffs 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 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 on 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 onto 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 2 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, again 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 at the VIP box, but his reception was derisory at best. There was a smattering of applause and a few “Hail!”s, but nothing like the reception he was expecting. His anti-Danish stance had lost a lot of popular support when he'd 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 of
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 a kiss each, and Landen wished me good luck.

“Dolor in reprehenderit—Mummy,” said Friday. I thanked him for his kind words and heard my 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,” he said between gritted teeth. “According to the rules, it seems that nonhumans 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 nonhuman creature to gain an advantage over the opposing team.' ”

“But that doesn't mean
players,
” I said. “That rule clearly only refers to horse, 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 forwards. “Are neanderthals human?” Aubrey also took a step forwards. Their noses were almost touching.

“Well . . . sort of,” I answered hesitantly.

There was nothing for it but to seek a judgment. Since the rules regarding on-field litigation had been relaxed ten years ago, 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 was not without its own problems: after a particularly litigious SuperHoop six years ago, 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 at readiness to give an instant, unquestionable ruling on any legal point.