A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (155 page)

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
v.
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 nonhuman precedent in the Worcester Sauces v. 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, where 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 this 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 for only 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 a thousand hoops, people will 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 681g, 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 7 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 broken, and Kaine and Goliath would carry on 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 the same 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, held it within him, turned on his heel and, followed by his lawyers, strode to where his team was waiting.

“Good one!” laughed Aubrey. “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 count 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 onto 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 back-hoop right.”

The team whistled low.

“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 maneuver. 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
harump
noise. I walked slowly to my place on the green, my heart beating with the pump of adrenaline.

“You okay?” It was Aubrey.

“Sure.”

“Good. Let's play some croquet.”