39

Sudden Death

'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

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.