Something rotten (44 page)

Legal Team:
Runcorn & Twizzit
Sub:
Coach:
Alf Widdershaine

I
took up my station at the twenty-yard line and looked around the green. The rhododendron bushes in the center occluded my vision of the back-hoop 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 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
clack
s 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 McCall blasted it through the back-hoop 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 went on the offensive and hooped three times before we’d even realized it. Even when we found the ball, we were too dispersed, and after another twenty-eight minutes of hard defensive footwork, 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 beat 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 have already lost if you 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 calm down a bit, take a second before you whack, and you’ll be fine. Biffo—good work, and nice hoop, Penelope, but 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 antineanderthal ruling.

“Yes? Do we have a case?”

“I’m afraid not. I can’t seem to find any grounds for one. The nonhuman 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 offense?” I asked.

“Of course! But if she can take out our best player, then it might be worth it. Keep an eye on her, everyone.”

“Mr. Jambe?”

It was the referee, who told us further litigation had been brought against our team. We dutifully approached the Port-a-Court, where the judges were just signing an amendment to the World Croquet League book of law.

“What is it?”

“As a result of the Danish Economic (Scapegoat) Act coming into law, people of Danish descent are not permitted to vote or take key jobs.”

“When did this law come into effect?”

“Five minutes ago.”

I looked up at Kaine in the VIP box, where he smiled and waved at me.

“So?” asked Jambe. “Kaine’s dopey ideas have no reflection on croquet—this is sport, not politics.”

The Whackers’ lawyer, Mr. Wapcaplitt, coughed politely.

“In that you would be mistaken. The definition of ‘key job’ includes being a highly paid sports personality. We have conducted some background checks and discovered that Ms. Penelope Hrah was born in Copenhagen—she’s Danish.”

Jambe was silent.

“I might have been born there, but I’m not Danish,” said Hrah, taking a menacing step towards Wapcaplitt. “My parents were on holiday at the time.”

“We are well aware of the facts,” intoned Wapcaplitt, “and have already gained judgment on this matter. You
were
born in Denmark, you
are
technically Danish, you
are
in a ‘key job,’ and you are thus disqualified from playing on this team.”

“Balls!” yelled Aubrey. “If she was born in a kennel, would that make her a dog?”

“Hmm,” replied the attorney thoughtfully, “it’s an interesting legal question.”

Penelope couldn’t contain herself any longer and went for him. It took four of us to hold her back, and she had to be forcibly restrained and frog-marched from the green.

“Down to five players,” muttered Jambe. “Below the minimum player requirement.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Wapcaplitt glibly, “it appears the Whackers are the winners—”

“I think not,” interrupted our substitute lawyer, whose name we learned was Twizzit. “As my most esteemed colleague so rightly pointed out, the rule states thus: ‘Any team that fails to
start
the game with the minimum of six players forfeits the match.’ The way I see it, the match has already begun, and we can carry on playing with five. Your Honors?”

The judges put their heads together for a moment and then pronounced, “This court finds for the Swindon Mallets in this matter. They may continue to play into the second third with five players.”

We walked slowly back to the touchline. Four of the neanderthal players were still sitting on the bench, staring off into space.

“Where’s Stig?” I asked them.

I didn’t get an answer. The Klaxon for the second third went off, and I grabbed my mallet and helmet and hurried onto the green.

“New strategy, everyone,” said Jambe to myself, Smudger, Snake and Biffo—all that remained of the Swindon Mallets—“we play defensively to make sure they don’t score any more hoops. Anything goes—and watch out for the Duchess.”

The second third was probably the most interesting third ever seen in World League Croquet. To begin with, Biffo and Aubrey whacked both of our own balls into the rhododendrons. This was a novel tactic and had two consequences: firstly, that we weren’t going to score any hoops in the middle third by natural hooping, and second, that we denied the opposition any roquets off our balls. No advantage to win, clearly, but we weren’t trying to win—we were fighting for survival. The Whackers had only to score thirty hoops and hit the center peg to win outright—and the way it was going, we wouldn’t make the last third. Staving off the inevitable, perhaps, but World League Croquet is like that. Frustrating, violent and full of the unexpected.

“No prisoners!” yelled Biffo, waving his mallet above his head in a display of bravado that would sum up our second-third strategy. It worked. Freed from the constraint of ball defense, we all went into the attack and together caused some considerable problems to the Whackers, who were thrown by the unorthodox playing tactics. At one point I yelled “Offside!” and made up something so outrageously complex that it sounded as if it
could
be true—it took ten minutes of precious time to prove that it wasn’t.

By the time the second third ended, we were almost completely exhausted. The Whackers now led by twenty-one hoops to twelve, and we won another eight only because “Bonecrusher” McSneed had been sent off for trying to hit Jambe with his mallet and Biffo had been concussed by the Duchess.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” asked Alf.

“Fish,” said Biffo, eyes wandering.

“You okay?” asked Landen when I had returned to the stands to see him.

“I’m okay,” I puffed. “I’m out of shape, though.”

Friday gave me a hug.

“Thursday?” hissed Landen in a hushed voice. “I’ve been thinking. Where did that piano actually come from?”

“What piano?”

“The one that fell on Cindy.”

“Well, I suppose, it . . . just, well . . .
fell
—didn’t it? What are you saying?”

“That it was a murder attempt.”

“Someone tried to assassinate the assassin with a
piano?
”

“No. It hit her accidentally. I think it was intended for you!”

“Who’d want to kill me with a piano?”

“I don’t know. Have there been any other unorthodox attempts on your life recently?”

“No.”

“I think you’re still in danger, sweetheart. Please be careful.”

I kissed him again and stroked his face with a muddy hand.

“Sorry!” I muttered, trying to rub it off and making it worse. “But I’ve got too much to think about at the moment.”

I ran off and joined Jambe for a last-third pep talk.

“Right,” he said, handing out the Chelsea buns, “we’re going to lose this match, but we’re going to go out in glory. I don’t want it to be said that the Mallets didn’t fight until the last man standing. Right, Biffo?”

“Trilby.”

We all knocked our fists together and made the
harump
noise again, the team reinvigorated—except for me. It was true that no one could say we didn’t try, but for all Jambe’s well-meaning rhetoric, in three weeks’ time the earth would be a smoldering radioactive cinder, and no amount of tarnished glory would save Swindon or anyone else. But I helped myself to a Chelsea bun and a cup of tea anyway.

“I say,” said Twizzit, who had suddenly appeared in the company of Stig.

“Have a bun!” said Aubrey. “We’re going out in style!”

But Twizzit wasn’t smiling. “We’ve been looking at Mr. Stig’s genome—”

“His what?”

“His
genome.
The complete genetic plan of him and the other neanderthals.”

“And?”

Twizzit rummaged through some papers. “They were all built between 1939 and 1948 in the Goliath BioEngineering labs. The thing is, the prototype neanderthal could not speak in words that we could understand—so they were built using a human voice box.” Twizzit gave a curious half smile, as though he had produced a spare ace from his sleeve, and announced with great drama, “The neanderthals are 1.03 percent human.”

“But that doesn’t make them human,” I observed. “How does this help us?”

“I agree they’re not human,” conceded Twizzit with the ghost of a smile, “but the rules specifically exclude anyone ‘nonhuman.’ Since they have
some
human in them, they technically can’t fall into this category.”

There was another long pause. I looked at Stig, who stared back and raised his eyebrows.

“I think we should lodge an appeal,” muttered Jambe, leaving his Chelsea bun half eaten in his haste. “Stig, have your men limber up!”

The judges agreed with us. The 1.03 percent was enough to prove they
weren’t
nonhuman and thus could not be excluded from play. While Wapcaplitt ran off to search the croquet statutes for a reason to appeal, the neanderthals—Grunk, Warg, Dorf, Zim and Stig—limbered up as the Whackers looked on nervously. Neanderthals had often been approached to play, as they could run all day without tiring, but no one until now had ever managed to get any.

“Okay, listen up,” said Jambe, gathering us around. “We’re back in the game at full strength. Thursday, I want you to stay on the benches to regain your breath. We’re going to fool them with a Puchonski switch. Biffo is going to take the red ball from the forty-yard line over the rhododendron bushes, past the Italian Sunken Garden and into a close position to hoop five. Snake, you’ll take it from there and croquet their yellow—Stig will defend you. Mr. Warg, I want you to mark their number five. He’s dangerous, so you’re going to have to use any tricks you can. Smudger, you’re going to foul the Duchess—when the Vicar gives you the red card, I’m calling in Thursday. Yes?”