'Thursday Next' (№4) - Something rotten

'There are too many of them,' panted Snake. 'Eight—four is the worst opening score for a Superhoop final ever.'

'We're not beaten 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 already have lost ifyou 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 relax a bit, take a second before you whack and you'll be fine. Biffo — good work, and nice hoop, Penelope, although 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 anti-Neanderthal ruling.

'Yes? Do we have a case?'

'I'm afraid not. I can't seem to find any grounds. The non-human 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 offence?' 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 that 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. He smiled and waved at me.

'So?' asked Jambe. 'Kaine's dopey ideas have no relevance to 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 any 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 sought judgment on this matter. You were born in Denmark, you are technically Danish, you are in a "key job" and 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: "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 honours?'

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 on to 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: first, we weren't going to score any hoops in the middle third by natural hooping, and second, we denied the opposition any roquets off our balls. No advantage in terms of winning, clearly, but we weren't trying to win — we were fighting for survival. The Whackers had only to score thirty hoops and hit the centre 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 defence 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 only won another eight 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!'

'Wrho'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 'harrump' noise again, the team reinvigorated — except for me. It was true that no one could say we hadn't tried, but for all Jambe's well-meaning rhetoric, in three weeks' time the earth would be smouldering radioactive cinder, and no amount of tarnished glory would help 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 per cent human.'

'But that doesn't make them human,' I observed. 'How does it help us?'

'I agree they're not human,' conceded Twizzit, still with the ghost of a smile, 'but the rules specifically exclude anyone "non-human". 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 per cent was enough to prove they weren't non-human 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 it.

'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 get your breath back. 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?'

I didn't reply; for some reason I was having a sudden heavy bout of deja vu.

'Thursday?' repeated Aubrey. 'Are you okay? You look like you're in a dream world!'

'I'm fine,' I said slowly, I'll wait for your command.'

'Good.'

We all did the 'harrump' thing and they went to their places whilst I sat on the bench and looked once again at the Scoreboard. We were losing twenty-one hoops to twelve.

The klaxon went off and the game started with renewed aggression. Biffo whacked the yellow ball in the direction of the up-end hoop and hit the Whackers' ball. Warg took the roquet. With an expert swing the opponent's ball tumbled into the Italian sunken garden, and ours sailed as straight as a die over the rhododendrons; a distant clack was mirrored by a roar from the crowd, and I knew the ball had been intercepted by Grunk and taken through the hoop. Aubrey nodded at Smudger, who took out the Duchess in grand style: they both careered into the tea party and knocked over the table. The klaxon sounded for a time-out while the Duchess was pulled clear of the tea things. She was conscious but had a broken ankle. Smudger was given the red card but no hoop penalty as the Duchess had been shown the yellow card earlier for concussing Biffo. I joined the fray as play started up again but the Whackers' early confidence was soon evaporating under a withering attack from the Neanderthals, who could anticipate their every move simply by reading their body language. Warg passed to Grunk, who gave the ball such an almighty whack that it passed clear through the rhododendrons with a tearing of foliage and was converted by Zim on the other side towards an undefended hoop.

Three minutes from time we had almost caught up: twenty-five hoops to the Whackers' twenty-nine. Firmly rattled, the Whackers missed a roquet, and with only a minute to run scored their thirtieth hoop with us only two behind. All they had to do to win was 'peg out' by hitting the centre post. While they were trying to do this, and we tried our best to stop them, Mr Grunk, with eight seconds to go and two hoops to make, whacked a clear double-hooper that went through one up-end hoop, the entire forty yards down the green and through the mid. I'd never heard a crowd yell more.

We had levelled the score and desperately tried to get our ball to the peg in the scrum of players trying to stop the Whackers from doing the same. Warg grunted to Grunk, who ran towards the scrum and tore into them, taking six players down as Warg whacked the ball towards the now unprotected peg. It hit the peg fair and square — but a second after the klaxon had sounded. Play had ended — in a draw.

39

Sudden Death

NEANDERTHALS TURN DOWN CROQUET OFFER

A group of Neanderthals unwisely turned down an exciting and unrepeatable offer from the Gloucester Meteors yesterday following their astonishing performance at the 1988 Whackers versus Mallets Super— hoop on Saturday. The generous offer of ten brightly coloured glass beads was rejected by a Neanderthal spokesman, who declared that conflict, howsoever staged, was inherently insulting. The offer was raised to a set of solid-bottomed cookware, and this was also roundly rejected. A spokesman for the Meteors later stated that the Neanderthal tactics displayed on Saturday were actually the result of some clever tricks taught them by the Mallets' team coach,

Article in The Toad, 24 July 1988

'Good work,' said Alf as we sat on the ground, panting hard. I had lost my helmet in the scrum somewhere but hadn't noticed until now. My armour was dirty and torn, my mallet handle had split and there was a cut on my chin. The whole team was muddy, bruised and worn out — but we were still in with a good chance.

'What order?' asked the umpire, referring to the 'sudden death' penalty shoot-out. It worked quite simply. We took it in turns to hit the peg, each time moving back ten yards. There were six lines all the way back to the boundary. If we got them all, we started again until someone missed. Alf looked at the players who were still able to hold a mallet and put me seventh, so if we went round again I was on the easiest ten-yard line.

'Biffo first, then Aubrey, Stig, Dorf, Warg, Grunk and Thursday.'

The umpire jotted down our names and moved away; I went to see my family and Landen again.

'What about the steamroller?' he asked. 'What about the steamroller?' 'Didn't it nearly run you over?' 'An accident, Land. Gotta go. 'Bye.'

The ten-yard line was simple; both players hit the peg with ease. The twenty-yard line was still no problem. The Whackers' supporters roared as Reading hit the peg first, but our side roared equally when we hit ours. Thirty yards was no problem, either — both teams hit the peg — and we all moved back to the forty-yard line. From this distance the peg was tiny and I couldn't see how anyone could hit it, but they did — first Mays for Reading, then Dorf for us. The crowd roared their support, but then there was a slight rumble of thunder and it began to rain, the full significance of which was yet to dawn.

'Where are they going?' asked Aubrey as Stig, Grunk, Dorf and Warg ran off to find shelter.

'It's a Neanderthal thing,' I explained as the rain increased dramatically to a downpour, the water streaming down our armour and on to the turf. 'Neanderthals never work, play or even stand in the rain if they can help it. Don't worry, they'll be back as soon as it stops.'

But it didn't stop.

'Fifty-yard penalty,' announced the umpire. 'O'Fathens for the Whackers and Mr Warg for the Mallets.'

I looked at Warg, who was sitting on the bench under the stands, staring at the rain with a mixed expression of respect and wonder.

'He's going to lose us the game!' muttered Jambe in my ear. 'Can't you do something?'

I ran across the soggy green to Warg, who stared at me blankly when I implored him to come and take the penalty.

'It's raining,' he replied, 'and it's only a game. It doesn't really matter who wins, does it?'

'Stig?' I implored.

'We'd work in the rain for you, Thursday — but we've taken

our turn already. Rain is precious; it gives life — you should respect it more, too.'

I returned to the fifty-yard line as slowly as I could to try to give the rain time to finish. It didn't.

'Well?' demanded Jambe.

I shook my head sadly.

'I'm afraid not. Winning has never been of any interest to the Neanderthals. They played only as a favour to me.'

Aubrey sighed.

'We'd like to delay the next penalty until it stops raining,' announced Twizzit, who had appeared holding a newspaper over his head. He was on legal marshland with this request and he knew it. The umpire asked the Whackers whether they wanted to delay but O'Fathens stared at me and said that he didn't. So the next person on the list took their turn at the fifty-yard line — me.

I wiped the rain from my eyes and tried even to see the peg. The rain was coming down so heavily that the cascading droplets created a watery haze a few inches above the turf. Still, I had the second shot — O'Fathens might miss too.

The Whackers' captain concentrated for a moment, swung and connected well. The ball went sailing high towards the peg and seemed set to hit it fairly and squarely. But with a loud 'plop' it landed short. There was an expectant rumble from the crowd.

The word was relayed up the field — O'Fathens had landed four feet from the peg. I had to get closer than that to win the Superhoop.

'Good luck,' said Aubrey, giving my arm a squeeze.

I walked up to the fifty-yard line, the now muddy ground oozing around my boots. I removed my shoulder pads and cast them aside, made a few practice swings, wiped my eyes and stared at the multicoloured peg, which somehow seemed to have retreated another twenty yards. I squared up in front of the ball and shifted my weight to maintain the right poise. The crowd fell silent. They didn't know how much was riding on this, but I did. I didn't dare miss. I looked at the ball, stared towards the peg, looked at the ball again, clasped the handle of my mallet and raised it high in the air, then swung hard into the ball, yelling out as the wood connected and the ball went sailing off in a gentle arc. I thought about Kaine and Goliath, about Landen and Friday and the consequences if I missed. The fate of all life on this beautiful planet, decided on the swing of a croquet mallet. I watched as my ball plopped into the soggy ground and the groundsman dashed ahead to compare distances. I turned away and walked back through the rain towards Landen. I had done my best and the game was over. I didn't hear the announcement, only a roar from the crowd. But whose crowd? A flashbulb went off and I felt dizzy as the sounds became muted and everything appeared to slow down. Not in the way that my father could engineer, but a post-adrenalin moment when everything seems odd, and other. I searched the seating for Landen and Friday but my attention was distracted by a large figure dressed in a duster coat and hat who had vaulted over the barrier and was running towards me. He drew something from his pocket as he ran, his feet throwing up great splashes of muddy water on to his trousers. I stared at him as he came closer and noticed that his eyes were yellow and beneath his hat were what appeared to be ... horns. I didn't see any more; there was a bright white flash, a deafening roar, and all the rest was silence.

40

Second First Person

YACHT CHOICE OF FAMED LITERARY DETECTIVE A MYSTERY

The shooting of Thursday Next last Saturday leaves the question of her favourite yacht unanswered, our Swindon correspondent writes. 'From the look of her I would expect a thirty-two-foot ketch, spinnaker-rigged and with a Floon automatic pilot.' Other yachting commentators disagree and think she would have gone for something larger, such as a sloop or a yawl, although it is possible she may only have wanted a boat for coastal day work or a long weekend, in which case she may have gone for a compact twenty-footer. We asked her husband to comment on her taste in sailing but he declined to give an answer.

Article in Yachting Monthly, July 1988

I was watching her, right up to the moment she was shot. She looked confused and tired as she walked back from the penalty, and the crowd roared when I shouted to get her attention, so she didn't hear me. It was then that I saw a man vault across the barrier and run up to her. I thought it was a nutty fan or something and the shot sounded more like a firecracker. There was a puff of blue smoke and she looked incredulous for a moment and then she just crumpled and collapsed on the turf. As simple as that. Before I knew what I was doing I had handed Friday to Joffy and jumped over the barrier, moving as fast as I could. I was the first to reach Thursday, who was lying perfectly still on the muddy ground, her eyes open, a neat red hole two inches above her right eye.

Someone yelled: 'Medic!' It was me.

I switched to automatic. For the moment the idea that someone had shot my wife was expunged from my mind; I was simply dealing with a casualty — and heavens knows I'd done that often enough. I pulled out my handkerchief and pressed it on the wound.

I said: 'Thursday, can you hear me?'

She didn't answer. Her eyes were unblinking as the rain struck her and I placed my hand above her head to shield her. A medic appeared at my side, sloshing down into the muddy ground in his haste to help. He said:

'What's happened?'

I said: 'He shot her.'

I reached gingerly around the back of her head and breathed a small sigh of relief when I couldn't find an exit wound.

A second medic — a woman this time —joined the first and told me to step aside. But I moved only far enough for her to work. I kept hold of Thursday's hand.

The first medic said: 'We've got a pulse,' then added: 'where's the blasted ambulance?'

I stayed with her all the way to the hospital and let go of her hand only when they took her into theatre.

A friendly casualty nurse at St Septyk's said: 'Here you go,' as she gave me a blanket. I sat on a hard EHS chair and stared at the wall clock and the public information posters. I thought about Thursday, trying to figure out how much time we had spent together. Not long for two and a half years, really.

A boy next to me with his head stuck in a saucepan said: 'Wot you in here for, mister?'

I leaned closer, spoke into the hollow handle so he could hear me and said: 'I'm okay but someone shot my wife.'

The little boy with his head stuck in a saucepan said: 'Bummer,' and I replied: 'Yes, bummer.'

I sat and looked at the posters again for a long time until someone said:

'Landen?'

I looked up. It was Mrs Next. She had been crying. I think I had, too.

She said: 'How is she?'

And I said: 'I don't know.'

She sat down next to me.

'I brought you some Battenberg.'

I said: 'I'm not really that hungry.'

'I know. But I just don't know what else to do.'

We both stared at the clock and the posters in silence for some minutes. After a while I said: 'Where's Friday?'

Mrs Next patted my arm.

'With Joffy and Miles.'

'Ah,' I said, 'good.'

Thursday came out of surgery three hours later. The doctor, who had a haggard look but stared me in the eye, which I liked, told me that things weren't terrific but she was stable and a fighter and I wasn't to give up hope. I went to have a look at her with Mrs Next. There was a large bandage around her head and the monitors did that beep thing they do in movies. Mrs Next sniffed and said: 'I've lost one son already. I don't want to lose another. Well, a daughter, I mean, but you know what I mean — a child.'

I said: 'I know what you mean.'

I didn't, having never lost a son, but it seemed the right thing to say.

We sat with her for two hours while the light failed outside and the fluorescents flickered on. When we had been there another two hours Mrs Next said:

'I'm going to go now but I'll be back in the morning. You should try and get some sleep.'

I said: 'I know. I'm just going to stay here for another five minutes.'

I stayed there for another hour. A kindly nurse brought me a cup of tea and I ate some Battenberg. I got home at eleven. Joffy was waiting for me. He told me that he had put Friday to bed and asked me how his sister was.

I said: 'It's not looking very good, Joff.'

He patted me on the shoulder, gave me a hug and told me that he and everyone at the GSD had joined the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx and the Sisters of Eternal Punctuality to pray for her, which was good of him, and them.

I sat on the sofa for a long time until there was a gentle knock at the kitchen door. I opened it to find a small group of people. A man who introduced himself as Thursday's 'Cousin Eddie' but whispered that actually his name was Hamlet said to me:

'Is this a bad time? We heard about Thursday and wanted to tell you how sorry we were.'

I tried to be cheery. I really wanted them to sod off but instead I said: 'Thank you. I don't mind at all. Friends of Thursday are friends of mine. Tea and Battenberg?'

'If it's not too much trouble.'

He had three others with him. The first was a short man who looked exactly like a Victorian big-game hunter. He wore a pith helmet and safari suit and had a large bushy white moustache. He gave me his hand to shake and said:

'Commander Bradshaw, don'tcha know. Damn fine lady, your wife. Appreciate a girl who knows how to carry herself in a scrap. Did she tell you about the time she and I hunted Morlock in Trollope?'

'No.'

'Shame. I'll tell you all about it one day. This is the memsahib, Mrs Bradshaw.'

Melanie was large and hairy and looked like a gorilla. In fact, she was a gorilla, but had impeccable manners and curtsied as I shook her large coal-black hand which had the thumb in an odd place so was difficult to shake properly. Her deep-set eyes were wet with tears and she said: 'Oh, Landen! Can I call you Landen? Thursday used to talk about you all the time when you were eradicated. We all loved her a great deal — I mean, we still do. How is she? How is Friday? You must feel awful!'

I said: 'She's not really very well,' which was the truth.

The fourth member of the party was a tall man dressed in black robes. He had a very large bald head and high arched eyebrows. He put out a finely manicured hand and said: 'My name's Zhark but you can call me Horace. I used to work with Thursday. You have my condolences. If it will help I would happily slaughter a few thousand Thraals as a tribute to the gods.'

I didn't know what a Thraal was but told him that it really wasn't necessary. He said: 'It's really no trouble. I've just conquered their planet and I'm really not sure what I should do with them.'

I told him that this really, really wasn't necessary and added that I didn't think Thursday would have liked it, then cursed myself for using the past tense. I put on the kettle and said:

'Battenberg?'

Hamlet and Zhark answered together. They were obviously quite keen on my mother-in-law's speciality. I smiled for the first time in eight hours and twenty-three minutes and said: 'There's plenty for everyone. Mrs Next keeps on sending it over and the dodos won't touch it. You can take away a cake each.'

I made the tea, Mrs Bradshaw poured it and there was an uncomfortable silence. Zhark asked whether I knew where Handley Paige lived, but the big-game hunter gave him a stern look and he was quiet.

They all talked to me about Thursday and what she had done in the fictional BookWorld. The stories were all highly unbelievable but I didn't think to question any of them — I was just glad of the company, and happy to hear about what she had been doing over the past two years. Mrs Bradshaw gave me a rundown of what Friday had been up to as well; and even offered to corne and look after him whenever I wanted. Zhark was more interested in talking about Handley, but still had time to tell me a wholly unbelievable story about how he and Thursday had dealt with a Martian who had escaped from The War of the Worlds and turned up in The Wind in the Willows.

'It's a "W" thing,' he explained, 'in the titles, I mean. Wind-War, Worlds-Willows, they are so similar that—

Bradshaw nudged him to be quiet.

They left two hours later, slightly full of drink and very full of Battenberg. I noticed that the tall one in the black cloak had rifled though my address book before he left and when I looked he had left it open at Handley's address. I returned to the living room and sat on the sofa until sleep overcame me.

I was woken by Pickwick wanting to be let out, and Alan wanting to be let in. The smaller dodo had some paint spilled on him, smelt of perfume, had a blue ribbon tied around his left foot and was holding a mackerel in his beak. I have no idea to this day what he'd been getting up to. I went upstairs, checked that Friday was sleeping in his cot, then had a long shower and a shave.