'Easy, Your Grace,' murmured Joffy, laying a hand on his shoulder and stopping him moving. 'You're going to be all right.'
   'Bollocks,' said Zvlkx in a state of exasperation, 'bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. :Survived the plague to get hit by a sodding number twenty-three bus. Bollocks.'
   'What did he say?'
   'He's annoyed.'
   'Who are you?' I said. 'Are you ChronoGuard?'
   His eyes flicked across to mine and he groaned. Not only dying, but dying and rumbled.
   He made another attempt to reach the doorway and collapsed.
   'Someone call for an ambulance!' yelled out Joffy
   'It's too late for that,' Zvlkx muttered. 'Too late for me, too late for all of us. This wasn't how it toas meant to turn out; time is out of joint – anb it wan't be for me to set it right. Joffy, take this and use it wisely as I would not have done. Bury me in the grounds of my cathedral – and don't tell them who I was. I lived a sinner but I'd like to die a saint, Oh, and if a fat slapper named Shirley tells you I promised her a thousand quid, she's a bloody liar.'
   He coughed again, shivered for a moment and stopped moving. I placed my hand on his grimy neck but could feel no pulse.
   'What did he say?'
   'Something about an overweight lady named Shirley, time being out of joint – and using his Revealments as I see fit.'
   'What did he mean by that? That his Revealment is not going to come true?'
   'I don't know – but he handed me this.'
   It was Zvlkx's Book of Revealments. Joffy flicked through the yellowed pages, which outlined in Old English every supposed prophecy he had made, next to an anthmetic sum of some sort. Joffy closed Zvlkx's eyes and placed his jacket over the dead saint's head. A crowd had gathered, including a policeman, who took charge. Joffy hid the book and we stood to one side as the blare of an ambulance started up in the distance. The owner of the shop had come out and told us that tramps dying on his doorstep was bad for business but changed his mind when he found out who it was.
   'My goodness!' he said in a respectful tone. 'Imagine a real live saint honouring us with his death on our doorstep!'
   I nudged Joffy and pointed at the shopfront. It was a betting shop.
   'Typical!' snorted Joffy. 'If he hadn't died trying to get to the bookie's it would have been the brothel. The only reason I knew he wouldn't be at the pub is because it's not opening time.'
   Startled, I looked at my watch. It was 10.50. Cindy. I had been thinking about St Zvlkx so much I had forgotten all about her. I backed into the doorway and glanced around. No sign of her, of course, but then she was the best. I thought at first that the fact a crowd had gathered was good, as she would be unlikely to want to kill innocent people, but changed my mind when I realised that Cindy's creed of respect for innocent life could be written in very large letters on the back of a matchbox. I had to get away from the crowd in case someone else was hurt. I dashed off up Commercial Road and was approaching the corner with Granville Street when I stopped abruptly. Cindy had walked around the corner. My hand automatically closed around the butt of my gun but I paused, all of a sudden uncertain. She was not alone. She had Spike with her.
   'Well!' said Spike, looking beyond me to the melee in the street behind me. 'What's going on here?'
   'The death of Zvlkx, Spike.'
   I was staring at Cindy, who stared back at me. I could see only one of her hands. The other was hidden in her handbag. She had failed twice – how far would she go to kill me? In broad daylight with her husband as witness? I was standing awkwardly with my hand on my automatic but it was still in its holster. I had to trust my father. He had been right about her on the previous attempt. I pulled out my gun and pointed it at her. There was a gasp from several passers-by, who scattered.
   'Thursday?' yelled Spike. 'What the hell is going on? Put that down!'
   'No, Spike. Cindy isn't a librarian, she's the Windowmaker.'
   Spike looked at me, then at his petite wife, and laughed.
   'Cindy, an assasin? You're joking!'
   'She's delusional and I'm frightened, Spikey,' whimpered Cindy, in her best pathetic girlie voice. 'I don't know what she's talking about. I've never even held a gun!'
   'Very slowly take your hand out of your handbag, Cindy.'
   But it was Spike who made the next move. He pulled out his gun and pointed it – at me.
   'Put the gun down, Thurs. I've always liked you but I have no problem making this choice.'
   I bit my lip but didn't stop staring at Cindy.
   'Ever wondered why she was paid cash to do those freelance library jobs? Why her brother works for the CIA? Why her parents were killed by police marksmen? Have you ever heard of librarians being killed by the police?'
   'There's an explanation for it all, Spikey!' whined Cindy. 'Kill her! She's mad!'
   I saw her game now. She wasn't even going to do the job herself. In broad daylight, her husband pulls the trigger and it's all legal: a good man defending his wife. She was good. She was the best. She was the Windowmaker. A contract with her and you're deader than corduroy.
   'She has a contract out on me, Spike. Already tried to kill me on two occasions—!'
   'Put down the gun, Thursday!'
   'Spikey, I'm frightened!'
   'Cindy, I want to see both your hands!'
   'DROP THE GUN, Thursday!'
   We had reached an impasse. As I stood there with Spike pointing a gun at my head and with me pointing my gun at Cindy's, I realised this was quite possibly the worst situation to be in. If I lowered my gun, Cindy would kill me. If I didn't lower my gun, Spike would kill me. If I killed Cindy, Spike would kill me. Try as I might, I couldn't think of a scenario that didn't end in my own death. Tricky, to say the least. And it was then that the grand piano fell on her.

   I'd never heard a piano falling thirty feet on to concrete before, but it was exactly as I imagined. A sort of musical concussion that reverberated around the street. As chance would have it the piano – a Steinway baby, I learned later – missed us all. It was the stool that hit Cindy, and she went down like a sack of coal. One look at her and we both knew it was bad. A serious head wound and a badly broken neck. It was a time of mixed emotions for Spike. Grief and shock at the accident but also realisation that I had been right – still clasped in Cindy's hand was a silenced .38 revolver.
   'No!' yelled Spike, placing his hand gently upon her pale cheek. 'Not again!'
   Cindy groaned weakly as the policeman who had been dealing with St Zvlkx rushed up with two paramedics at his side.
   'You should have told me,' Spike muttered, refusing to look at me, his powerful shoulders quivering slightly as tears rolled down his cheeks.
   'I'm so sorry, Spike.'
   He didn't reply but moved aside so the paramedics could try to stabilise her.
   'Who is she?' asked the policeman. 'In fact, who are you two?'
   'SpecOps,' we said in unison, producing our badges.
   'And this is Cindy Stoker,' said Spike sadly, 'the assassin known as the Windowmaker – and my wife.'

35
What Thursday Did Next

   KAINIAN GOVERNMENT TO FUND 'ANTI-SMOTE SHIELD'
   Mr Yorrick Kaine yesterday announced plans to set up a defensive network to counter the growing threat of God's wrath unto His creations. Specific details of the 'anti-smote shield' are still classed top secret but defence experts and top theologians have both agreed that a system might be in place within five years. Kaine's followers point to the smoting of the small town of Owestry with a 'ram of cleansing fire' last October and the Rutland plague of toads. 'Both Oswestry and Rutland are wake-up calls to our nation,' said Mr Kaine. 'They may have been sinful but ultimate retribution without due process of law is something that I will not tolerate. In today's modern world where the accepted definition of sin has become blurred we need to protect ourselves against an over-zealous deity keen to promote an outdated set of rules. It is for this reason that we are investing in anti-smote technology.' The 14bn contract will be awarded exclusively to Goliath Weapons. Inc.

Article in The Mole, July 1988


   The news networks had a field day. The death of St Zvlkx so soon after his resurrection raised a few eyebrows, but the Windowmaker's somewhat bizarre accident while 'on assignment' became a sensation, supplanting even the upcoming Superhoop from the front pages. Incredibly, despite severe internal injuries and a devastating head wound, she didn't die. She was taken to St Septyk's, where they battled to stabilise her. Not from any great sense of moral duty, you understand, but because she could finger the sixty-seven or sixty-eight clients who had paid her to carry out her foul trade, and this was a prize the prosecutors were keen to claim. Within an hour of her coming out of surgery, three attempts by underworld bosses had been made to silence her for good. She was moved to the secure ward at the Kingsdown home for the criminally insane, and there she stayed, comatose, attached to a ventilator.

   'Spike was right. I should have told him earlier,' I said to Gran, 'or tipped off the authorities or something!'
   Granny Next was feeling a lot better today. Although greatly enfeebled by her advanced years, she had actually walked around for a bit this morning. When I arrived she had her reading glasses on and was surrounded by stacks of well-read tomes. The kind of thing one generally reads for study, and rarely for pleasure.
   'But you didn't,' she replied, looking over the top of her spectacles, 'and your father knew you wouldn't when he told you.'
   'He also said that I would decide whether she lived or died, but he was wrong – it's out of my hands now.' I rubbed my scalp and sighed. 'Poor Spike. He's taking it very badly.'
   'Where is he?'
   'Still being interviewed by SO-9. They got an agent down from London who's been after her for over ten years. I'd be there yet but for Flanker.'
   'Flanker?' queried Gran. 'What did he do?'
   'He came to thank me for leading SO-14 to a huge stockpile of hidden Danish literature.'
   'I thought you were trying not to help them?'
   I shrugged.
   'So did I. How was I to know the Danish underground really were using the Australian Writers' Guild as a depository?'
   'Did you tell them it was Kaine who had paid her to kill you?'
   'No,' I said, looking down. 'I don't know who I can trust and the last thing I need is to be taken into protective custody or anything. If I'm not at the touchline tomorrow for the Superhoop, the Neanderthals won't play.'
   'But there is good news, surely?'
   'Yes,' I said, brightening somewhat. 'We got some Danish books out of the country, Hamlet is on the mend – and I got Landen back.'
   Gran stared at me and lifted my face with her hand.
   'For good''
   I looked down at my wedding ring.
   'Twenty-four hours and counting.'
   'They did the same to me.' Gran sighed, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes with a bony hand. 'We were very happy for over forty years until he was taken away again – this time in a more natural and inevitable way. And that was over thirty years ago.'
   She fell silent for a moment, and to distract her I told her about St Zvlkx, his death and his Revealments, and how little of it made any sense. Time-travelling paradoxes tended to make my head spin.
   'Sometimes,' said Gran, holding up the cover of the Swindon Evening Globe, 'the facts are all in front of us – we just have to get them in the right order.'
   I took the picture and stared at it. It had been taken a few seconds after the piano stool fell on Cindy. I hadn't realised how far the wreckage of the Steinway had scattered. A little way down the road the lonely figure of Zvlkx was still lying on the pavement, abandoned in the drama.
   'Can I keep this?'
   'Of course. Be careful, my dear – remember that your father can't warn you of every single one of your potential demises – invulnerability is reserved only for superheroes. The croquet final is far from won and anything can happen in the next twenty-four hours.'
   I thanked her for her kind words, plumped up her pillows for her and then departed.

   'A Neanderthal defence?' repeated Aubrey and Alf when I found them taking 'pegging out' practice at the croquet stadium. They had threatened to fire me if I didn't tell them what I was up to.
   'Of course, any team would spend millions trying to get a Neanderthal on the side – but they just won't do it.'
   'I've already got them. You can't pay them and I really don't know how they will work as a team with humans – I get the feeling that they'll be a team of their own within your team.'
   'I don't care,' said Aubrey, leaning on his mallet and sweeping a hand in the direction of the squad. 'I was fooling myself. Biffo's too old, Smudger has a drink problem and Snake is mentally unstable. George is okay and I can handle myself but a fresh crop of talent has infused the Whackers' team. They'll be fielding people like "Bonecrusher" McSneed.'
   He wasn't kidding. A mysterious benefactor – probably Goliath – had given a vast amount of money to the Whackers. Enough for them to buy almost anyone they wanted. Goliath were taking no chances that the seventh Revealment would be fulfilled.
   'So we're still in the game with five Thais?'
   'Yes,' said Aubrey with a smile, 'we're still in the game.'

   I dropped in to see Mum on the way home, ostensibly to take Hamlet and the dodos round to Landen's place. I found my mother in the kitchen with Bismarck, who seemed to be in the middle of telling her a joke.
   '. . . and then the white horse he says: "What, Erich?'"
   'Oh, Herr B!' said my mother, giggling and slapping him on the shoulder. 'You are a wag!'
   She noticed me standing there.
   'Thursday! Are you okay? I heard on the radio there was some sort of accident involving a piano . . .'
   'I'm fine, Mum, really.' I stared coldly at the Prussian Chancellor, who, I had decided, was taking liberties with my mother's affections. 'Good afternoon, Herr Bismarck. So, you haven't sorted out the Schleswig-Holstein question yet?'
   'I am waiting still for the Danish prime minister,' replied Bismarck, rising to greet me, 'but I am growing impatient.'
   'I expect him very soon, Herr Bismarck,' said my mother, putting the kettle on the stove. 'Would you like a cup of tea while you're waiting?'
   He bowed politely again.
   'Only if Battenberg cake we will be having.'
   'I'm sure there's a bit left over if that naughty Mr Hamlet hasn't eaten it!' Her face dropped when she discovered that, indeed, naughty Mr Hamlet had eaten it. 'Oh dear! Would you like an almond slice instead?'
   Bismarck's eyebrows twitched angrily.
   'Everywhere I turn the Danish are mocking my person and the German confederation,' he intoned angrily, smacking his fist into his open palm. 'The incorporation of the Duchy of Schleswig into the Danish state overlooked I might have, but personal Battenberg insult I will not. It is war!'
   'Hang on a minute, Otto,' said my mother, who, having brought up a large family almost single-handed, was well placed to sort out the whole Battenberg-Schleswig-Holstein issue, 'I thought we'd agreed that you weren't going to invade Denmark?'
   'That was then, this is now,' muttered the Chancellor, puffing out his chest so aggressively that one of his brass buttons shot across the room and struck Pickwick a glancing blow on the back of the head. 'Choice: Mr Hamlet for his behaviour apologises on behalf of Danish people, or we go to war!'
   'He's talking to that nice conflict resolution man at the moment,' replied my mother in an anxious tone.
   'Then it is war,' announced Bismarck, sitting down at the table and having an almond slice anyway. 'More talk is pointless. Return I wish to 1863.'
   But then the door opened. It was Hamlet. He stared at us all and looked, well, different.
   'Ah!' he said, drawing his sword. 'Bismarck! Your aggressive stance against Denmark is at an end. Prepare ... to die!'
   The conflict resolution talk had obviously affected him deeply. Bismarck, unmoved by the sudden threat to his life, drew a pistol.
   'So! Battenberg you finish behind my back, yes?'
   And they might have killed one another there and then if Mum and I hadn't intervened.
   'Hamlet!' I said. 'Killing Bismarck won't get your father back, now, will it?'
   'Otto!' said Mum. 'Killing Hamlet won't alter the feelings of the Schleswiggers, now, will it?'
   I took Hamlet into the hall and tried to explain why sudden retributive action might not be such a good idea after all.
   'I disagree,' he said, swishing his sword through the air. 'The first thing I shall do when I get home is kill that murdering uncle of mine, marry Ophelia and take on Fortmbrass. Better still, I shall invade Norway in a pre-emptive bid, and then Sweden and – what's the one next to that?'
   'Finland?'
   'That's the one.'
   He placed his left hand on his hip and lunged aggressively with his sword at some imaginary foe. Pickwick made the mistake of walking into the corridor at that precise moment and made a startled plooock noise as the point of Hamlet's rapier stopped two inches from her head. She looked unsteady for a moment, then fainted clean away.
   'That conflict management specialist really taught me a thing or two, Miss Next. Apparently, my problem was an unresolved or latent conflict – the death of my father – that persists and festers in an individual – me. To face up to problems we must meet those conflicts head on and resolve them to the best of our ability!'
   It was worse than I thought.
   'So you won't pretend to be mad and talk a lot, then?'
   'No need,' replied Hamlet, laughing. 'The time for talking is over. Polomus will be for the high jump, too. As soon as I marry his daughter he'll be fired as adviser and made chief librarian or something. Yes, we're going to have some changes around my play, I can tell you.'
   'What about building tolerances between opponents for a longstanding peaceful and ultimately rewarding coexistence between the conflicting parties?'
   'I think he was going to cover that in the second session. It doesn't matter. By this time tomorrow Hamlet will be a dynamic tale of one man's revenge and rise to power as the single greatest king Denmark has ever seen. It's the end of Hamlet the ditherer and the beginning of Hamlet the man of action! There's something rotten in the state of Denmark and Hamlet says. . . it's payback time!'
   This was bad. I couldn't send him back until Mrs Tiggy-Winkle and Shgakespeafe had sorted his play out, and in this state there was no saying what he was capable of. I had to think fast.
   'Good idea, Hamlet. But before that I think you might like to know that Danish people are being insulted and maligned here in England, and that Kierkegaard, Andersen, Branner, Blixen and Farquitt are having their books burned.'
   He went quiet and stared at me with dumbstruck horror in his eyes.
   'I am doing what I can to stop this,' I went on, 'but—'
   'Daphne's books are being burned?'
   'You know of her?'

  'Of course. I'm a big fan. We have to have something to do during those long winters at Elsinore. Mum's a big fan, too -although my uncle prefers Catherine Cookson. But enough talk,' he carried on, his post-prevarication non-hesitative brain clicking over rapidly, 'what shall we do about it?'
   'Everything hinges on us winning the Superhoop tomorrow, but we need a show of force in case Kaine tries anything. Can you get together as many Danish supporters as you can?'
   'Is it very important?'
   'It could be vital.'
   Hamlet's eyes flashed with steely resolution. He picked his skull off the hall table, placed a hand on my shoulder and struck a dramatic pose.
   'By tomorrow morning, my friend, you will have more Danes than you know what to do with. But stay this idle chitter-chatter; I must away!'
   And without another word he was out of the door. From all-talk-no-action he was now all-action-no-talk. I should never have brought him into the real world.
   'By the way,' said Hamlet, who had popped his head back around the door, 'you won't tell Ophelia about Emma, will you?' 'My lips are sealed.'

   I gathered up the dodos and popped them in the car, then drove home. I had called Landen to say I was unhurt soon after Cindy's accident. He said he'd known all along I'd come to no harm, and I promised that I'd avoid assassins where possible from now on. I couldn't pull up outside the house as there were at least three news vans, so I parked round the back, walked through the alleyway, nodded a greeting to Millon and walked across the back lawn to the French windows.
   'Lipsum!' said Friday, running up to give me a hug. I picked him up as Alan sized up his new home, trying to work out the areas of highest potential mischief.
   'There's a telegram for you on the table,' said Landen, 'and if you're feeling masochistic the press would love you to reiterate how the Mallets will win tomorrow.'
   'Well, I'm not,' I replied, tearing open the telegram. 'How was your . . .'
   My voice trailed off as I read the telegram. It was clear and to the point.

   WE HAVE UNFINISHED BUSINESS. COME ALONE, NO TRICKS, HANGAR D, SWINDON AIRPARK – KAINE.

   'Darling?' I called out.
   'Yes?' came Landen's voice from upstairs.
   'I have to go out.'
   'Assassins?'
   'No – megalomaniac tyrants keen on global domination.'
   'Do you want me to wait up?'
   'No, but Friday needs a bath – and don't forget behind the ears.'

36
Kaine versus Next

   ANTI-SMOTE TECHNOLOGY FACES CRITICISM
   Leading churchmen were not keen on Mr Kaine s use of anti-smote technology. 'We're not sure Mr Kaine can place his will above that of God,' said a nervous bishop, who preferred not to be named, 'but if God decides to smote something, then we think He probably has very good reason to do so.' Atheists weren't impressed by Kaines plans, nor do they believe that the cleansing of Oswestry was anything but an unlucky hit by a meteorite. 'This smacks of the usual Kainian policy of keeping us cowed and afraid,' said Rupert Smercc of Ipswich. 'While the population worries about non-existent threats from a product of mankinds need for meaning in a dark and brutal world, Kaine is raising taxes and blaming the Danes for everything.' Not everyone was so forthright in their condemnation. Mr Pascoe, official spokesman of the Federated Agnostics, claimed: 'There might be something in the whole smoting thing, but we're not sure.'

Article in The Mole, July 1988


   It was night when I arrived at Swindon Airpark's maintenance depot. Although airships still droned out into the night sky from the terminal opposite, this side of the field was deserted and empty, the workers long since punched out for the day. I showed my badge to Security then followed the signs along the perimeter road and passed a docked airship, its silvery flanks shimmering with the reflected moon. The eight-storey-high main doors of the gargantuan Hangar D were shut tight, but I soon found a black Mercedes sports car near an open side door, so I stopped a little way short and killed my engine and lights. I replaced the clip in my automatic with the spare that I had loaded with five eraserheads – the most I had managed to smuggle out of the BookWorld. I got out of the car, paused to listen and, hearing nothing, made my way quietly into the hangar.
   Since the transcontinental 'thousand-footer' airships were built these days at the Zeppelinwerks in Germany, the only airship within the cathedral-sized hangar was a relatively small sixty-seater, halfway through construction and looking like a very spartan basket, its aluminium ribs held together with a delicate filigree of interconnecting struts, each riveted carefully to the next. It looked overly complex for something in essence so simple. I glanced around the lofty interior but of Kaine there was no sign. I pulled out my automatic, chambered the first eraserhead and released the safety catch.
   'Kaine?'
   No answer.
   I heard a noise and whipped my gun towards where a part-completed engine nacelle was resting on some trestles. I cursed myself for being so jumpy and suddenly realised that I wished Bradshaw were with me. Then, I felt it – or at least, I smelt it. The lazy stench of death borne on a light breeze. I turned as a dark, fetid shape loomed rapidly towards me. I had a brief vision of some unearthly terror before I pulled the trigger and the hollow thud of my first eraserhead hit home. The hell-beast evaporated in a flurry of the individual letters that made up its existence. They fell about me with the light tinkling sound of Christmas decorations shattering.
   I heard the sound of a single slow handclap and noticed the silhouette of Kaine standing behind the part-finished control gondola. I didn't pause for a moment and let fly a second eraser-head. In an instant Kaine invoked a minor character – a small man, with glasses – right in the path of the projectile, and he, not Kaine, was erased.
   Yorrick moved into the light. He hadn't aged a day since I had seen him last. His complexion was unblemished and he didn't have a hair out of place. Only the finest described characters are indistinguishable from real people – the rest, and Kaine was among them, had a vague plasticity that belied their fictional origins.
   'Enjoying yourself?' I asked him sarcastically.
   'Oh yes,' he replied, giving me a faint smile.
   He was a 'B' character in an 'A' role and had been elevated far beyond his capabilities – a child in control of a nation. Whether by virtue of Goliath or the ovinator or simply his fictional roots I wasn't sure, but what I did know was that he was dangerous in the real world and dangerous in the BookWorld. Anyone who could invoke hell-beasts at will was not to be ignored.
   I fired again and the same thing happened. The character was different – from a costume drama, I think – but the effect was the same. Kaine was using expendable bit-parts as shields. I glanced nervously around, sensing a trap.
   'You forget,' said Kaine, as he stared at me with his unblinking eyes, 'that I have had many years to hone my powers, and as you can see, nobodies from the Farquitt canon are ten a penny.'
   'Murderer!'
   Kaine laughed.
   'You can't murder a fictional person, Thursday. If you could, every author would be behind bars!'
   'You know what I mean,' I growled, beginning to move forward. If I could just grasp hold of him I could jump into fiction and take him with me. Kaine knew this and kept his distance.
   'You're something of a pest, you know,' he carried on, 'and I really thought the Windowmaker would have been able to dispose of you so I wouldn't have to. Despite the woefully poor odds on Swindon winning tomorrow, I really can't risk Zvlkx's Revealment coming true, no matter how unlikely. And my friends at Goliath agree with me.'
   'This place is not your place,' I told him, 'and you are messing with real people's lives. You were created to entertain, not to rule.'
   'Have you any idea,' he carried on as we slowly encircled one another about the airship's unfinished control gondola, just what it's like being stuck as a B-9 character in a self-published novel?
   Never being read, having two lines of dialogue and constantly being bettered by my inferiors?'
   'What's wrong with the character exchange programme?' I asked, stalling for time.
   'I tried. Do you know what the Council of Genres told me?'
   'I'm all ears.'
   'They told me to do the best with what I had. Well, I'm doing exactly that, Miss Next!'
   'I have some swing with the council, Kaine. Surrender and I'll do the best I can for you.'
   'Lies!' spat Kaine. 'Lies, lies, and more lies! You have no intention of helping me!'
   I didn't deny it.
   'Well,' he carried on, 'I said I needed to speak to you, and here it is: you've found out where I'm from, and despite my best efforts to retain all copies of At Long Last Lust there is still a possibility you might find a copy and delete me from within. I can't have that. So I wanted to give you the opportunity of entering into a mutually agreeable partnership. Something that will benefit both of us. Me in the corridors of power and you as head of any SpecOps division you want – or SpecOps itself, come to that.'
   'I think you underestimate me,' I said quietly. 'The only deal I'm listening to tonight will be your unconditional surrender.'
   'Oh, I didn't underestimate you at all,' continued the Chancellor with a slight smile. 'I only said that to give a Gorgon friend of mine enough time to creep up behind you. Have you met . . . Medusa, by the way?'

   I heard a hissing noise behind me. The hairs on my neck rose and my heart beat faster. I looked down as I twisted and jumped to the side, resisting any temptation to glance at the naked and repellent creature that had been slinking towards me. It's difficult to hit a target that you are trying not to look at, and my fourth eraserhead impacted harmlessly on a gantry on the other side of the hangar. I stepped back, caught my foot on a piece of metal and collapsed backward, my gun skittering across the floor towards some packing cases. I swore and attempted to scrabble away from the mythological horror, only to have my ankle grasped by Medusa, whose head-snakes were now hissing angrily. I tried to kick out of her grasp but she had a grip like a vice. Her free hand grabbed my other ankle and then, cackling wildly, she crept her way up my body as I struggled in vain to push her away, her sharply nailed claws biting into my flesh and making me cry out in pain.
   'Stare into my face!' screamed the Gorgon as we wrestled in the dust. 'Stare into my face and accept your destiny!' I kept my eyes averted as she pinned me against the cold concrete and then, when her bony and foul-smelling body was sitting on my chest, she cackled again and took hold of my head in both hands. I screamed and shut my eyes tight, gagging at her putrid breath. It was no escape. I felt her hands move on my face, her fingertips on my eyelids.
   'Come along, Thursday, my love,' she screeched, the hissing of the snakes almost drowning her out, 'gaze into my soul and feel your body turn to stone—!'
   I strained and cried out as her fingers pulled my eyelids open. I swivelled my eyes as low in their sockets as I could, desperate to stave off the inevitable, and was just beginning to see glimmers of light and the lower part of her body when there was the sound of steel being drawn from a scabbard and a soft whoop noise. Medusa fell limp and silent on my chest. I opened my eyes and pushed the severed head of the Gorgon into the shadows. I jumped up, slipped once in the pool of blood issuing from her headless corpse and ran backward, stumbling in my panic to get away.
   'Well,' said a familiar voice, 'looks like I got here just in time!'
   It was the Cat. He was sitting on an unfinished airship rib and was grinning wildly. He wasn't alone. Next to him stood a man. But it wasn't any ordinary man. He was tall – at least seven foot six and broad with it. He was dressed in rudimentary armour and grasped in his powerful hands a shield and sword that appeared to weigh almost nothing. He was a frightening warrior to behold; the sort of hero for whom epics are written – the likes of which we have no need of in our day and age. He was the most alpha of males – he was Beowulf. He made no sound, knees slightly bent in readiness, bloody sword moving elegantly in a slow figure-of-eight pattern.
   'Good move, Mr Cat,' said Kaine sardonically, stepping from behind the gondola and facing us across the only open area in the hangar.
   'You can end this right now, Mr Kaine,' said the Cat. 'Go back to your book and stay there – or face the consequences.'
   'I choose not to,' he replied with an even smile, 'and since you have raised the stakes by invoking an eighth-century hero, I challenge you to a one-on-one invocation contest pitting my fictional champions against yours. You win and I stay forever in At Long Last Lust; I win and you leave me unmolested.'
   I looked at the Cat, who was, for once, not smiling.
   'Very well, Mr Kaine. I accept your challenge. Usual rules? One beast at a time and strictly no Krakens?'
   'Yes, yes,' replied Kaine impatiently. He closed his eyes and with a wild shriek Grendel appeared and flew towards Beowulf, who expertly sliced it into eight more or less equal pieces.
   'I think we got him riled,' whispered the Cat out of the corner of his mouth. 'That was a bad move – Beowulf always vanquishes Grendel.'
   But Kaine didn't waste any more time and a moment later there was a living, breathing Tyrannosaurus rex tramping the concrete floor, fangs drooling with saliva. It whipped its tail angrily and knocked the engine nacelle on to its side.
   'From The Lost World?' queried the Cat. 'Or Jurassic Park?'
   'Neither,' replied Kaine. 'The Boy's Bumper Book of Dinosaurs.'
   'Ooh!' replied the Cat. 'The non-fiction gambit, eh?'
   Kaine clicked his fingers and the thunder lizard lunged forward as Beowulf went into the attack, sword flailing. I retreated towards the Cat and asked anxiously: 'This Beowulf isn't the original, is it?'
   'Good lord, no, quite the reverse!'
   It was just as well. Beowulf had made mincemeat of Grendel
   but the Tyrannosaurus, in turn, made mincemeat of him. As the giant lizard slurped down the remnants of the warrior, the Cat hissed to me: 'I do so love these competitions!'
   I wiped my scratched face with my handkerchief. I must say I couldn't really share the Cat's mischievous sense of glee, or enjoyment.
   'What's our next move?' I asked him. 'Smaug the dragon?'
   'No point. He'd invoke a Baggins to kill it. Perhaps it would be best to make a tactical retreat and introduce an Alan Quartermain with an elephant gun, but I'm late for my son's birthday party, so it's going to be ... him!'
   There was another shimmer in the air about us and with a whiffling and a burbling, a bat-winged creature appeared. It had a long tail, reptilian feet, flaming eyes, huge sort of catchy hairy claws . . and was wearing a lilac-coloured tunic with matching socks.
   The Tyrannosaurus looked up from its feast at the Jabberwock, who stared back at it while hovering in the air and making dangerous whiffling noises. It was about the same size as the dinosaur and went for it aggressively, jaws biting, claws catching. As the Cat, Kaine and I looked on, the Jabberwock and the Tyrannosaurus rolled around in mortal combat, tails flailing. At one point it looked as though Kaine's champion had the upper hand until the Jabberwock executed a manoeuvre known in wrestling circles as an 'aeroplane spin and body slam' that shook the ground. The giant lizard lay still, moving feebly. An animal that large does not need to fall from very high to break bones. The Jabberwock burbled contentedly to itself, doing a little triumphant two-step dance as he walked back over to us.
   'Right!' yelled Kaine. 'I've had just about my fill of this!'
   He raised his arms in the air and a gale seemed to fill the hangar. There were several crashes of thunder from outside and a large shape started to rise within the empty framework of the half-built airship. It grew and grew until it was wearing the airship skeleton like a corset, then broke free of it and with one tentacle clasped the Jabberwock and raised it high in the air. Kaine had cheated. It was the Kraken. Wet, strangely shapeless and smelling of overcooked oysters, it was the largest and most powerful creature that I knew of in fiction.
   'Now, now!' said the Cat, waving a claw at Kaine. 'Remember the rules!'
   'To hell with your rules!' shouted Kaine. 'Puny Jurisfiction agents, prepare to meet thy doom!'
   'Now that,' said the Cat, addressing me, 'was a very corny line.'
   'He's Farquitt! What did you expect? What are we going to do?'
   The Kraken wrapped a slippery tentacle several times around the Jabberwock's body and then squeezed until his eyes bulged ominously.
   'Cat!' I said more urgently. 'What's the next move?'

  'I'm thinking,' replied the Cat, lashing his tail angrily. 'Trying to come up with something to defeat the Kraken is not that easy. Wait. Wait. I think I've got it!'
   There was a bright flash and there, facing the Kraken, was . . . a small fairy no higher than my knee. It had delicate wings like those of a dragonfly, a silver tiara and a wand which she waved in Kaine's direction. In an instant the Kraken had melted away and the Jabberwock fell to the ground, gasping for breath.
   'What the hell—?' shouted Kaine in anger and surprise, waving his hands uselessly to try to bring the Kraken back.
   'I'm afraid you've lost,' replied the Cat. 'But you cheated and I had to cheat a bit too, and now, even though I've won, I can't insist on my prize. It's all in Thursday's hands now.'
   'What do you mean?' shouted Kaine angrily. 'Who was that and why can't I summon up beasts from fiction any longer?'
   'Well,' said the Cat as he began to purr, 'that was the Blue Fairy, from Pinocchio.'
   'You mean—?' asked Kaine, mouth agape.
   'Right,' replied the Cat. 'She made you into a real person, just as she made Pinocchio into a real boy.'
   He touched his hands to his chest, then his face, trying to figure it out.
   'But. . . that means you have no authority over me—!'
   'Alas not,' replied the Cat. 'Jurisfiction has no jurisdiction over real people in the real world. As I said, it's all up to Thursday now.'
   The Cat stopped and repeated the two words as if to see which sounded better. 'Jurisfiction –jurisdiction —Jurisfiction –jurisdiction.'
   Kaine and I stared at one another. If he was real it definitely meant Jurisfiction had no mandate to control him – and it also meant we couldn't destroy him through his book. But then he couldn't escape from the real world, either – and would bleed and die and age like a real man. Kaine started to laugh.
   'Well, this is a turnaround! Thank you very much, Mr Cat!' The Cat gave a contemptuous snort and turned to face the other direction. 'You have done me a great service,' continued Kaine. 'I am now free to lead this country to new heights without the meddling of you and your fictional band of idiots. I'll be free to put behind me the last vestiges of kindness that I was forced to carry in regard of my written character. Mr Cat, I thank you, and the people of the unified Britain thank you.' He laughed again and turned to me. 'And you, Miss Next, won't be able to even get close!'
   'There's still the seventh Revealment,' I said rather weakly.
   'Win the Superhoop? With that ragtag bunch of no-hopers? I think you grossly overrate your chances, my lady – and with Goliath and the ovinator to help me, I can't begin to overestimate mine!'
   And he laughed again, looked at his watch and walked briskly from the hangar. We heard his car start up and drive away.
   'Sorry,' said the Cat, still looking the other way. 'I had to think of something quickly. At least this way he didn't win – tonight.'
   I sighed.
   'You did well, Chesh – I would never have thought of invoking the Blue Fairy.'
   'It was quite good, wasn't it?' agreed the Cat. 'Can you smell hot buttered crumpets?'
   'No.'
   'Me neither. Who are you going to put in mid-field?'
   'Biffo, probably,' I said slowly, picking up my automatic from where it had fallen and replacing the clip. 'And Stig as roquet-taker.'
   'Ah. Well, good luck and see you soon,' said the Cat, and vanished.
   I sighed and looked around at the quiet and empty hangar. The fictional gore and corpses of the Medusa, the Tyrannosaurus and Beowulf had vanished, and apart from the wrecked airship, there was no evidence of the battle that had been fought here. We had scored a victory against Kaine, but not the total victory I had hoped for. I was just walking back towards the exit when I noticed that the Cat had reappeared, balanced on the handle of a pallet trolley.
   'Did you say Stig, or fig?' said the Cat.
   'I said Stig,' I replied, 'and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy.'
   '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.

37
Before the Match

   ZVLKX FOLLOWERS HOLD NIGHT-TIME PEACE MARCH
   All seventy-six members of the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx spent the night silently marching between the places of interest relating to their interworshipful leader, who was hit by a Number 23 bus on Friday. The march began at Tesco's car park and visited places in Swindon that St Zvlkx held most dear – seven pubs, six betting shops and Swindons leading brothel – before undertaking a silent prayer at his plate of death. The march went oft peacefully, except for numerous inertruptions by a woman who gave her name as 'Shirley' and insisted Zvlkx owed her money.

Article in the Swindon Daily Eyestraw, 22 July 1988


   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 and 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 taken up 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 move to new heights of human exploitation and unfathomable avarice, hidden among the trappings of religious formality and perverted ecclesiastical dogma.'
   'That was a very good speech.'
   'Yes, I thought so too. I was practising 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 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.'