'Thursday Next' (№4) - Something rotten

'Documentary-makers from the twenty-second century,' explained my father, hailing the other ChronoGuard operative. 'Hello, Malcolm, how's it going?'

'Well, thanks!' replied the agent. 'Got into the soup a bit when I lost that cameraman at PompeГј. Wanted an extra close-up or something.'

'Hard cheese, old man, hard cheese. Golf after work?'

'Right-o!' replied Malcolm, returning to his charges.

'It's nice being back at work, actually,' confessed my father, turning back to me. 'Sure you won't have a gobstopper?'

'No, thanks.'

There was a flash and a burst of smoke from the closest French warship. A second later two cannon shots plopped harmlessly in the water. The balls didn't move as fast as I had supposed they would — I could actually see them in flight.

'Now what?' I asked. 'Take out the snipers so they can't shoot Nelson?'

'We'd never get them all. No, we must cheat a little. But not yet. Time is of the essence at moments like this.'

So we waited patiently on the main deck while the battle heated up. Within minutes, seven or eight warships were firing at the Victory, the cannon balls tearing into the sails and rigging. One even cut a man in half on the quarterdeck, and another dispatched a small gang of what I took to be mannes, who dispersed rapidly. All through this the diminutive admiral, his captain and a small retinue paced the quarterdeck as the smoke from the guns billowed around, the heat of the muzzle flashes hot on our faces, the concussion almost deafening. The ship's wheel disintegrated as a shot went through it, and as the battle progressed we moved about the deck, following the safest path in the light of my father's superior and infinitely precise knowledge of the battle. We moved to one side as a cannon ball flew past, moved to another area of the deck as a heavy piece of wood fell from the rigging, then to a third place when some musket balls whizzed past where we had been crouching.

'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 to 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 French ship was torn apart as the British cannon balls ripped through it and down the length of the gun deck. In the lull, as the cannon 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 realised just how close the ships were to one another in these sort of battles. It wasn't a cable's length — they were actually touching. The smoke of the guns swirled about us and made me cough, and the wheeezip of musket shot close by made me realise that the danger here was very real. There was another deafening concussion as the Victory's guns exploded 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 catapult. He loaded it with a lead ball that was rolling across the deck and pulled it back tight, aiming through the swirling smoke at Nelson.

'See the sharpshooter on the most forward 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 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 catapult 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 him.

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 would not serve with him again for disobeying orders. 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 catapult 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 from crowds lining the docks. Then the boat moved again, but this time to Chatham, where it mouldered, lost its rigging, regained 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 but still in the same position on the deck, the ship 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 eight thirty her time tomorrow — and send my love to your mother.'

He smiled, there was another rapid flash of light and I was back outside the pathology lab 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.

'Xeroxed 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 shock 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 tatties to target those to whom Goliath is anathema,' said Mr Schitt-Hawse, a Goliath spokesman. 'We have recently secured forgiveness from someone who had despised us deeply, something that counts twenty-fold in OFGOD's own contrition target rules. More like her will soon follow.' Mr Armada was clearly not impressed and simply said: 'Well, we'll see.'

Report in Goliath Today!, 17 July 1988

I trotted up the road to the 30,000-seater croquet stadium, deep in thought. Goliath's contrition rate had been published that morning and thanks to me and the 'Crimean Mass Apology Project' their switching to a religious status was now not only possible but probable. The only plus 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 to nobble the Swindon team. And targeting 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 Italianate sunken garden, rhododendron bushes and herbaceous flower beds, stood out clearly. Each 'obstruction' was scrupulously constructed to specific 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 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 among 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 stick-work that managed not to involve severe physical injury was considered a skill unique to the Croquet League.

I ran down the steps between the rows of tiered seating, which was nearly my undoing; halfway down I slipped on some carelessly deposited banana skins, and if it hadn't been for some deft footwork I might have plunged head first on to the concrete steps. I muttered a curse under my breath, glared at one of the groundsmen and stepped out on to 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 have 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 during last Tuesday's practice. The hazards are there for you to lose opponents' balls in clean and legal roquets, and I don't want them used for any other purpose.'

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 armour were compulsory. He had been at Swindon for over ten years and at thirty-five was at the upper age limit for pro croquet. 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 adjacent to the forty-yard line, just next to the garden roller which, owing 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 Bronte's novels. Don't you think the Ginevra 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 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 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 honour. 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 win the Superhoop.'

'I can look after myself.'

'I don't doubt it, but you should be on your guard nevertheless.'

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 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 the era 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, then 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 whether anyone had been watching but fortunately they hadn't. Instead, an altercation seemed to be going on between the team members. I dropped the mallet and hurried over.

'You can't leave!' cried Aubrey Jambe, hoop defence. 'What about the Superhoop?'

'You'll do fine without me,' Kapok implored, 'really you will!'

He was standing with two men in suits who didn't look 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. It was the tall one who spoke.

'We're scouts for the Gloucester Meteors and we think Mr Kapok would like to come and play for us.'

'Less than a week before a Superhoop?'

'I'm due for a change, Miss Next,' said Kapok, looking 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!'

'I need to spend more time with my family,' muttered Kapok, shrugging his shoulders and clearly not keen to remain in the stadium one second longer than he had to. 'You'll be fine — hasn't St Zvlkx predicted it?'

'Seers aren't always a hundred per cent accurate — you said so yourself! Who are you two really?'

'Leave us out of it,' said the tall suited man. 'All we did was make an offer — Mr Kapok decides if he stays or goes.'

Kapok and the two men turned to leave.

'Kapok, for God's sake!' yelled Biffo. 'The Whackers will knock the stuffing out of the team if you're not here to lead us!'

But he continued walking, his former team-mates looking on in disgust, and grumbled and swore for a while before the Mallets' manager, a reedy-looking character with a thin moustache and a pale complexion walked on to the green and asked what was going on.

'Ah!' he said when he heard the news. 'I'm very sorry to hear that but since you are all present I think it's probably the right time to announce that I'm retiring on grounds of ill health.'

'When?'

'Right now,' said the manager, and ran off. Goliath were working overtime this morning.

'Well,' said Aubrey as soon as he had gone, 'what now?'

'Listen,' I said, 'I can't tell you why but it is historically imperative that we win this Superhoop. You will win this match because you have to. It's that simple. Can you captain?' I asked, turning to a burly croquet player named Biffo. I had seen him do 'blind passes' across the rhododendron bushes with uncanny accuracy and his classic 'pegging out' shot from the sixty-yard line during the league game against Southampton was undeniably one of the Top Ten Great Croquet Moments of history. Of course, that had been over ten years ago, before a bad tackle twisted his knee. These days he played defence, guarding the hoops against opposition strikers.

'Not me,' he replied with a resigned air.

'Smudger?'

Smudger played attack and had made midair roquets something of a trademark. His celebrated double hoop in the Swindon-Gloucester play-off of 1978 was still talked about, even if it hadn't won us the match.

'Nope.'

'Anyone?'

'I'll captain, Miss Next.'

It was Aubrey Jambe. He had been captain once before until a media-led campaign had him ousted following allegations about him and a chimp.

'Good.'

'But we'll need a new manager,' said Aubrey slowly, 'and since you seem to be so passionate about it, I think you'd better take it on.'

Before I knew what I was saying I had agreed, which went down pretty well with the players. Morale of a sort had returned. I took Aubrey by the arm and we walked into the middle of the green for our first strategy meeting.

'Okay,' I said, 'tell me truthfully, Jambe, what are our chances?'

'Borderline impossible,' answered Aubrey candidly. 'We had to sell our best player to Glasgow to be able to meet the changes that the World Croquet League insisted we make to the green. Then our top defender, Lauren de Rematte, won a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Africa on one of those junk mail prize draw things. With Kapok gone we're down to ten players, no reserve, and we've lost the best striker. Biffo, Smudger, Snake, George and Johnno are all good players but the rest are second-raters.'

'So what do we need to win?'

'If every player on the Reading team were to die overnight and be replaced by unfit nine-year-olds, then we might be in with a chance.'

'Too difficult and probably illegal. What else?'

Aubrey stared at me glumly.

'Five quality players and we might have a chance.'

It was a tall order. If they could get to Kapok, they could offer 'inducements' to any other player who might want to join us.

'Okay,' I said, 'leave it with me.'

'You have a plan?'

'Of course,' I lied, feeling the managerial mantle falling about my shoulders, 'your new players are as good as signed. Besides,' I added, with a certain amount of faux conviction, 'we've got a Revealment to protect.'

23

Granny Next

READING WHACKERS CONFIDENT OF WINNING SUPERHOOP

Following the surprise resignation of both Roger Kapok and Gray Ferguson from the Swindon Mallets croquet team this afternoon, the Whackers seem almost certain to win next Saturday's Superhoop, despite the prophecy by St Zvlkx. Betting shops were being cautious despite the news and lowered the Mallets' odds to 700—1. Miss Thursday Next, the new manager of the Mallets, derided any talk of failure and told waiting reporters that Swindon would triumph. When pressed on how dial might be so, she declared the interview over.

Article in the Swindon Evening Blurb, 18 July 1988

'You're the manager of the Mallets?' asked Bowden with incredulity. 'What happened to Gray Ferguson?'

'Bought out, bribed, frightened — who knows?' 'You like being busy, don't you? Does this mean you won't be able to help me get banned books out of England?'

'Have no fear of that,' I reassured him, 'I'll find a way.' I wished I could share in my own confidence. I told Bowden I'd see him tomorrow and walked out, only to be waylaid by the over-zealous Major Drabb, who told me with great efficiency that he and his squad had searched the Albert Schweitzer Memorial Library from top to bottom but had not unearthed a single Danish book. I congratulated him on his diligence and told him to check in with me again tomorrow. He saluted smartly, presented me with a thirty-two-page written report and was gone.

Gran was in the garden of the Goliath Twilight Homes when I stopped by on the way home. She was dressed in a blue gingham frock and was attending to some flowers with a watering can.

'I just heard the news on the wireless. Congratulations!'

'Thanks,' I replied without enthusiasm, slumping into a large 'tvicker chair. 'I have no idea why I volunteered to run the Mallets — I don't know the first thing about running a croquet team!'

'Perhaps,' replied Gran, reaching forward to dead-head a rose, 'all that is required is faith and conviction — two areas in which, I might add, I think you excel.'

'Faith isn't going to conjure up five world-class croquet players, now, is it?'

'You'd be surprised what faith can do, my dear. You have St Zvlkx's Revealment on your side, after all.'

'The future isn't fixed, Gran. We can lose, and probably will.'

She tut-tutted.

'Well! Aren't you the moaning minnie today! What does it matter if we do lose? It's only a game, after all!'

I slumped even lower.

'If it was only a game I wouldn't be worried. This is how my father sees it: Kaine proclaims himself dictator as soon as President Formby dies next Monday. Once he wields ultimate executive power he will embark on a course of warfare that results in an armageddon of Level III life-extinguishing capability. We can't stop the President from dying but we can, my father insists, avoid the world war by simply winning the Superhoop.'

Gran sat down in a wicker chair next to me.

'And then there's Hamlet,' I continued, rubbing my temples. 'His play has been subjected to a hostile takeover from The Merry Wives of Windsor and if I don't find a Shakespeare clone pronto there won't be a Hamlet for Hamlet to return to. Goliath tricked me yet again. I don't know what they did but it felt as though my free will was being sucked out through my eyeballs. They said they'd get Landen back but quite frankly I have my doubts. And I have to illegally smuggle ten truckloads of banned books out of England.'

Tirade over, I sighed and was silent. Gran had been thoughtful for a while, and after appearing to come to some sort of a momentous decision announced:

'You know what you should do?'

'What?'

'Take Smudger off defence and make him the mid-hoop wingman. Jambe should be the striker as usual, but Biffo—'

'Gran! You haven't listened to a word I've said, have you?'

She patted my hand.

'Of course I have. Hamlet was having his merry wives smuggled out of England by sucking out his eyeballs which leads to an armageddon and the death of the President. Right?'

'Never mind. How are things with you? Found the ten most boring books?'

'Indeed I have,' she replied, 'but I am loath to finish reading them as I feel there is one last epiphanic moment to my life that will be revealed just before I die.'

'What sort of epiphanic moment?'

'I don't know. Do you want to play Scrabble?'

So Gran and I played Scrabble. I thought I was winning until she got 'cazique' on a triple word score and it was downhill from there. I lost by 503 points to 319.

24

Home Again

DENMARK BLAMED FOR DUTCH ELM DISEASE

'Dutch Elm Disease was nothing of the sort' was the shock claim from leading arboreahsb last week. 'For many years we had blamed Dutch Elm Disease on the Dutch.' declared Jeremy Acorn, head spokesman of the Knotty Pine Arboreal Research Facility. 'So-called Dutch Elm Disease, a tree virus that killed off nearly all England's elms in the mid-seventies, was thought to have originated in Holland — hence the name.' But new research has cast doubt on this long-held hypothesis. 'Using techniques unavailable to us in the seventies we have uncovered new evidence to suggest that Dutch Elm Disease originated in Denmark.' Mr Acorn went on to say: 'We have no direct evidence to suggest that Denmark is engaged in the design and proliferation of arborealogical weapons, but we have to maintain an open mind. There are many oaks and silver birches in England at present unprotected against attack.' Arboreal Warfare — should we be worried? Full report, page nine.

Article in the Arboreal Times, 17 July 1988

I hurried home to get there before my mother as I wasn't sure how she'd react to finding that Friday was being looked after by a gorilla. It was possible that she might not have any problems with this but I didn't really want to put it to the test.

To my horror Mum had got there before me — and not just her, either. A large crowd of journalists had gathered outside her house, awaiting the return of the Mallets' new manager, and only after I had run the gauntlet of a thousand 'no comments' did I catch her, just as she was putting her key in the front door.

'Hello, Mother,' I said, somewhat breathlessly.

'Hello, daughter.'

'Going inside?'

'That's what I usually do when I get home.'

'Not thinking of going shopping?' I suggested.

'What are you hiding?'

'Nothing.'

'Good.'

She pushed the key into the lock and opened the door, giving me a funny look. I ran past her into the living room, where Melanie was asleep on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table with Friday snoring happily on her chest. I quickly shut the door.

'He's sleeping!' I hissed to my mother.

'The little lamb! Let's have a look.'

'No, better let him be. He's a very light sleeper.'

'I can look very quietly.'

'Maybe not quietly enough.'

'I'll look through the serving hatch, then.'

'No—!'

Why not?'

'It's jammed. Stuck fast. Meant to tell you this morning but it slipped my mind. Remember how Anton and I used to climb through it? Got any oil?'

'The serving hatch has never been stuck—'

'How about tea?' I asked brightly, attempting a form of misdirection that I knew my mother would find irresistible. 'I want to talk to you about an emotional problem — that you might be able to help me with!'

Sadly she knew me only too well.

'Now I know you're hiding something. Let me in—!'

She attempted to push past, but I had a brainwave.

'No, Mother, you'll embarrass them — and yourself.'

She stopped.

'What do you mean?'

'It's Emma.'

'Emma? What about her?'

'Emma . . . and Hamlet.'

She looked shocked and covered her mouth with her hand.

'In there? On my sofa?'

I nodded.

'Doing . . . you know? Both of them — together?'

'And very naked — but they folded the antimacassars first,' I added, so as not to shock her too much.

She shook her head sadly.

'It's not good, you know, Thursday.'

'I know.'

'Highly immoral.'

'Very.'

'Well, let's have that cup of tea and you can tell me about that emotional problem of yours — is it about Daisy Mutlar?'

'No — I don't have any emotional problems.'

'But you said—?'

'Yes, Mother, that was an excuse to stop you barging in on Emma and Hamlet.'

'Oh,' she said, realisation dawning. 'Well, let's have a cup of tea anyway.'

I breathed a sigh of relief and Mother walked into the kitchen — to find Hamlet and Emma talking as they did the washing up. Mother stopped dead and stared at them.

'It's disgusting!' she said at last.

'Excuse me?' enquired Hamlet.

'What you're doing in the living room — on my sofa.'

'What are we doing, Mrs Next?' asked Emma.

'What are you doing?' flustered my mother, her voice rising. 'I'll tell you what you're doing. Well, I won't because it's too . . . here, have a look for yourself

And before I could stop her she opened the door to the living room to reveal . . . Friday, alone, asleep on the sofa. My mother looked confused and stared at me.

'Thursday, just what is going on?'

'I can't even begin to explain it,' I replied, wondering where Melanie had gone. It was a big room but not nearly large enough to hide a gorilla. I leaned in and saw that the French windows were ajar. 'Must have been a trick of the light.'