Something rotten (25 page)

“You know the battle very well!” I shouted above the noise.

“I should do!” he shouted back. “I’ve been here over sixty times.”

The French and British warships drew nearer and nearer until the
Victory
was so close behind the
Bucentaure
that I could see the faces of the staff in the staterooms as we passed. There was a deafening broadside from the guns, and the stern of the ship was torn apart as the British cannonballs ripped through it and down the length of the gun deck. In the lull of the cannon fire as the crews reloaded, I could hear the multilingual cries of injured men. I had seen warfare in the Crimea, but nothing like this. Such close fighting with such devastating weapons reduced men to nothing more than tatters in an instant, the plight of the survivors made worse by the almost certain knowledge that the medical attention they would receive was of the most rudimentary and brutal kind.

I nearly fell over as the
Victory
collided with a French ship just astern of the
Bucentaure,
and as I recovered my balance, I realized just how close the ships were to one another in these sorts of battles. It wasn’t a cable’s length—they were actually touching. The smoke of the guns made me cough, and the
wheeezip
of musket shot close by made me realize that the danger here was very real. There was another deafening concussion as the
Victory
’s guns spoke, and the French ship seemed to tremble in the water. My father leaned back to allow a large metal splinter to pass between us, then handed me a pair of binoculars.

“Dad?”

He was reaching into his pocket and pulling out, of all things—a slingshot. He loaded it with a lead ball that was rolling along the deck and pulled the elastic back tight, aiming through the swirling smoke at Nelson.

“See the sharpshooter on the most for’ard platform in the French rigging?”

“Yes?”

“As soon as he puts his finger on the trigger, count two and then say ‘fire.’ ”

I stared up at the French rigging, found the sharpshooter and kept a close eye on him. He was less than fifty feet from Nelson. It was the easiest shot in the world. I saw his finger touch the trigger and—

“Fire!”

The lead ball flew from the slingshot and caught Nelson painfully on the knee; he collapsed on the deck while the shot that would have killed him buried itself harmlessly in the deck behind.

Captain Hardy ordered his men to take Nelson below, where he would be detained for the rest of the battle. Hardy would face his wrath come the morning and for disobeying orders would not serve with him again. My father saluted Captain Hardy, and Captain Hardy saluted him back. Hardy had marred his career but saved his admiral. It was a good trade.

“Well,” said my father, placing the slingshot back in his pocket, “we all know how this turns out—come on!”

He took my hand as we started to accelerate through time. The battle quickly ended, and the ship’s deck was scrubbed clean; day rapidly followed night as we sailed swiftly back to England to a riotous welcome of crowds lining the docks. Then the ship moved again, but this time to Chatham, moldered, lost its rigging, gained it and then moved again—but this time to Portsmouth, whose buildings rose around us as we moved into the twentieth century at breakneck speed.

When we decelerated, we were back in the present time but still in the same position on the deck, by now in dry dock and crowded with schoolchildren holding exercise books and in the process of being led around by a guide.

“And it was at this spot,” said the guide, pointing to a plaque on the deck, “that Admiral Nelson was hit on the leg by a ricochet that probably saved his life.”

“Well, that’s that job taken care of,” said Dad, standing up and dusting off his hands. He looked at his watch.

“I’ve got to go. Thanks for helping out, Sweetpea. Remember: Goliath may try to nobble the Swindon Mallets—especially the team captain—to rig the outcome of the SuperHoop, so be on your toes. Tell Emma—I mean, Lady Hamilton—that I’ll pick her up at 0830 her time tomorrow—and send my love to your mother.”

He smiled, there was another rapid flashing of lights, and I was back in the SpecOps Building, walking down the corridor with Bowden who was just finishing the sentence he had begun when Dad arrived.

“—trating the Montagues?”

“Sorry?”

“I said, ‘Do you want to hear my plans for infiltrating the Montagues? ’ ” He wrinkled his nose. “Is that you smelling of cordite?”

“I’m afraid so. Listen, you’ll have to excuse me—I think Goliath may try to nobble Roger Kapok, and without him we have even
less
chance of winning the SuperHoop.”

He laughed.

“Photocopied bards, Swindon Mallets, eradicated husbands. You like impossible assignments, don’t you?”

22.

Roger Kapok

Contrition Rates Not High Enough to Meet Targets

That was the shocking report from Mr. Tork Armada, the spokesman for OFGOD, the religious-institution-licensing authority. “Despite continual and concerted efforts by Goliath to meet the levels of repentance demanded by this authority,” said Mr. Armada at a press conference yesterday, “they have not managed to reach even halfway to the minimum divinity requirements of this office.” Mr. Armada’s report was greeted with surprise by Goliath, who had hoped their application would be swift and unopposed. “We are changing tactics to target those to whom Goliath is anathema,” said Mr. Brik Schitt-Hawse, a Goliath spokesman. “We have recently secured forgiveness from someone who had despised us deeply, something that counts twentyfold in OFGOD’s own contrition-target goals. More like her will soon follow.” Mr. Armada was clearly not impressed and simply said, “Well, we’ll see.”

Report in
Goliath News,
July 17, 1988

I
trotted up the road to the thirty-thousand-seat croquet stadium, deep in thought. Goliath’s contrition rate had been published that morning, and thanks to me and the Crimean Mass-Apology Project, switching to a religion was now not only possible but probable. The only plus side was that in all likelihood it wouldn’t happen until after the SuperHoop, which raised the possibility—confirmed by my father—that Goliath would try and nobble the Swindon team. And getting to the captain, Roger Kapok, was probably the best way to do it.

I passed the VIP car park, where a row of expensive automobiles was on display, and showed my SpecOps pass to the bored security guard. I entered the stadium and walked up one of the public-access tunnels to the terraces and from there looked down upon the green. From this distance the hoops were almost invisible, but their positions were marked by large white circles painted on the turf. The ten-yard lines crossed the green from side to side, and the “natural hazards”—the Italian Sunken Garden, rhododendron bushes and herbaceous flower beds—stood out from within their positions on the green itself. Each “obstruction” was scrupulously constructed to World Croquet League specifications. The height of the rhododendrons was carefully measured before each game, the herbaceous border stocked with identical shrubs, the sunken garden with its lilies and lead fountain of Minerva was the same on every green the world over, from Dallas to Poona, Nairobi to Reykjavik.

Below me I could see the Swindon Mallets indulging in a tough training session. Roger Kapok was amongst them, barking orders as his team ran backwards and forwards, whirling their mallets dangerously close to one another. Four-ball croquet could be a dangerous sport, and close-quarters stickwork that managed not to involve severe physical injury was considered a skill unique to the Croquet League.

I ran down the steps between the tiered seating, which was nearly my undoing; halfway down I slipped on some carelessly deposited banana skins and if it hadn’t have been for some deft footwork I might have plunged headfirst onto the concrete steps. I muttered a curse under my breath, glared at one of the grounds-men and stepped out onto the green.

“So,” I heard Kapok say as I drew closer, “we’ve got the big match on Saturday, and I don’t want anyone thinking that we will automatically win just because St. Zvlkx said so. Brother Thomas of York predicted a twenty-point victory for the Battersea Chargers last week, and they were beaten hollow, so stay on your toes. I won’t have the team relying on destiny to win this match—we do it on teamwork, application and tactics.” There was a grunting and nodding of heads from the assembled team, and Kapok continued. “Swindon has never won a SuperHoop, so I want this to be our first. Biffo, Smudger and Aubrey will lead the offensive as usual, and I don’t want anyone tumbling into the sunken garden like at last Tuesday’s practice. The hazards are there to lose opponents’ balls on a clean and legal roquet, and I don’t want them used for any other purpose.”

Roger Kapok was a big man with closely cropped hair and a badly broken nose, which he wore with pride. He had taken a croquet ball in the face five years ago, before helmets and body armor were compulsory. At thirty-five he had reached the upper age limit for pro croquet and had been with Swindon for over ten years. He and the rest of the team were local legends and hadn’t needed to buy a drink in Swindon’s pubs for as long as anyone could remember—but
outside
Swindon they were barely known at all.

“Thursday Next,” I said, walking closer and introducing myself, “SpecOps. Can I have a word?”

“Sure. Take five, guys.”

I shook Roger’s hand, and we walked off towards the herbaceous border, which was aligned on the forty-yard line, just next to the garden roller, which, due to a horrific accident at the Pan-Pacific Cup last year, was now padded.

“I’m a big fan, Miss Next,” said Roger, smiling broadly to reveal several missing teeth. “Your work on
Jane Eyre
was astounding. I love Charlotte Brontë’s novels. Don’t you think the Ginerva Fanshawe character from
Villette
and Blanche Ingram from
Jane Eyre
are sort of similar?”

I had noticed of course, because they actually
were
the same person, but I didn’t think Kapok or anyone else out should know about the economics of the BookWorld.

“Really?” I said. “I’d not noticed. I’ll come straight to the point, Mr. Kapok. Has anyone tried to dissuade you from playing this Saturday?”

“No. And you probably just heard me telling the team to ignore the Seventh Revealment. We aim to win for our own sakes and that of Swindon. And we
will
win, you have my word on that!”

He smiled that dazzling reconstructed Roger Kapok smile that I had seen so many times on billboards throughout Swindon, advertising everything from toothpaste to floor paint. His confidence was infectious, and suddenly our chances of beating the Reading Whackers seemed to move from “totally impossible” to “deeply improbable.”

“And what about you?” I asked, remembering my father’s warning that he would be the first one Goliath would try to nobble.

“What about me?”

“Would you stay with the team no matter what?”

“Of course!” he replied. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from leading the Mallets to victory.”

“Promise?”

“On my honor. The code of the Kapoks is at stake. Only death will keep me off the green on Saturday.”

“You should be on your guard, Mr. Kapok,” I murmured. “Goliath will try anything to make sure Reading wins the SuperHoop.”

“I can look after myself.”

“I don’t doubt it, but you should be on your guard.”

I paused as a sudden childish urge came over me. “Would you mind . . . if I had a whack?”

I pointed at his mallet, and he dropped a blue ball to the ground.

“Did you used to play?”

“For my university.”

“Roger!” called one of the players from behind us. He excused himself, and I squared up to the ball. I hadn’t played for years, but only through a lack of spare time. It was a fast and furious game, quite unlike its ancient predecessor, although the natural hazards such as rhododendrons and other garden architecture had remained from when it was simply a polite garden sport. I rolled the ball with my foot to plant it firmly on the grass. My old croquet coach had been an ex-league player named Alf Widdershaine, who always told me that concentration made the finest croquet players—and Alf should know, as he had been a pro for the Slough Bombers and retired with 7,892 career hoops, a record yet to be beaten. I looked down the green at the forty-yard right-back hoop. From here it was no bigger than my fingertip. Alf had hooped from up to fifty yards away, but my personal best was only twenty. I concentrated as my fingers clasped the leather grip, and then I raised the mallet and followed through with a hard swing. There was a satisfying
crack,
and the ball hurtled off in a smooth arc—straight into the rhododendrons. Blast. If this had been a match, I would have lost the ball until the next third. I turned around to see if anyone had been watching, but fortunately no one had. Instead an altercation seemed to be going on between the team members. I dropped the mallet and hurried up.

“You can’t leave!” cried Aubrey Jambe, hoop defense. “What about the SuperHoop?”

“You’ll do fine without me,” implored Kapok, “really you will!”

He was standing with two men in suits who didn’t appear as though they were in the sports business. I showed them my ID.

“Thursday Next, SpecOps. What’s going on?”

The two men looked at one another, but it was the tall one who spoke.

“We’re scouts for the Gloucester Meteors, and we think Mr. Kapok would like to come play for us.”

“Less than a week before a SuperHoop?”

“I’m due for a change, Miss Next,” said Kapok, glancing about nervously. “I think that Biffo would lead the team far better than me. Don’t you think so, Biffo?”

“What about all that ‘wild horses’ and ‘code of the Kapoks’ stuff ?” I demanded. “You promised!”