Jasper Fforde - Something rotten

Kaine laughed and Stricknene, sycophant that he was, laughed with him.

'Troops? What troops are these?'

But Hamlet was deadly serious. He glowered at them for a moment before answering.

'Her fan club. They're highly organised, armed to the teeth, seriously angry at having had their books burned and ready to move at her command. There are thirty thousand stationed near the stadium and a further ninety thousand in reserve. One word from Daphne and you're finished.'

'I have reversed the law banning Farquitt,' replied Kaine hastily. 'They will disperse when they learn this.'

'They will believe nothing from your lying tongue,' replied Hamlet softly, 'only that which Ms Farquitt tells them. Your power is waning, my friend, and destiny's inelegant toe creaks the boards to your door.'

There was a tense silence as Kaine stared at Hamlet and Hamlet stared back at Kaine. I'd witnessed quite a few stand-offs but none with so much at stake.

'You haven't a hope in hell anyway,' announced Kaine after considering his options carefully. I'm going to enjoy watching the Whackers trash you. Release him.'

The SO-6 agents uncuffed Hamlet and escorted Kaine out of the door.

'Well,' said Hamlet, 'looks like we're back in the game. I'm going to watch with your mother — win this one for the Farquitt fans, Thursday!'

And he was gone.

None of us had any time to ponder the matter further as we heard a klaxon go off and an excited roar from the crowd echoed down the tunnel.

'Good luck, everyone,' said Aubrey with a good measure of bravado. 'It's showtime!'

The crowd erupted into screams of jubilation as we trotted down the tunnel on to the green. The stadium could seat thirty thousand and it was packed. Large monitors had been set up outside for the benefit of those who could not get a seat, and the TV networks were beaming the match live to an estimated two billion people in seventy-three countries worldwide. It was going to be quite a show.

I stayed on the touchline as the Swindon Mallets lined up face to face with the Reading Whackers. They all glared at one another as the Swindon & District Wheel-Tappers brass band marched on, headed by Lola Vavoom. There was then a pause while President Formby took his seat in the VIP box and, led by Ms Vavoom, the audience stood to sing the unofficial English national anthem, 'When I'm Cleaning Windows'. After the song had finished, Yorrick Kaine appeared in the VIP box, but his reception was derisory at best. There was a smattering of applause and a few 'Hails!' but nothing like the reception he was expecting. His anti-Danish stance had lost a good deal of popular support when he made the mistake of accusing the Danish women's handball team of being spies, and arrested them. I saw him sit down and scowl at the President, who smiled back warmly.

I was standing at the touchline with Alf Widdershaine, watching the proceedings.

'Is there anything more we could have done?' I whispered.

'No,' said Alf after a pause. 'I just hope those Neanderthals can cut the mustard.'

I turned and walked back towards Landen. On his lap was Friday, gurgling and clapping his hands. I had taken him once to the chariot race in the novel Ben-Hur and he'd loved it.

'What are our chances, darling?' asked Landen.

'Reasonable to middling with the Neanderthals playing. I'll speak to you later.'

I gave them each a kiss and Landen wished me good luck.

'Dolor in reprehenderit — Mummy,' said Friday. I thanked him for his kind words and heard rny name being called. It was Aubrey, who was talking to the umpire, who, as custom dictated, was dressed as a country parson.

'What do you mean?' I heard Aubrey say in an outraged tone as I moved closer. It seemed there was some sort of altercation and we hadn't even begun play yet. 'Show me where it says that in the rules!'

'What's the problem?' I asked.

'It's the Neanderthals,' Aubrey said between gritted teeth. 'According to the rules it seems that non-humans are barred from taking part!'

I glanced back to where Stig and the four other Neanderthals were sitting in a circle, meditating.

'Rule 78b-45 (ii),' quoted the umpire, as O'Fathens, the Reading Whackers' captain, looked on with a gleeful expression. 'No player or team may use an equine or any other non-human creature to gain an advantage over the opposing team."

'But that doesn't mean players, ' I said. 'That rule clearly refers only to horses, antelope and so forth — it was brought in when the Dorchester Slammers attempted to gain the advantage by playing on horseback in 1962.'

'The rules seem clear to me,' growled O'Fathens, taking a step forward. 'Are Neanderthals human?' Aubrey also took a step forward. Their noses were almost touching.

'Well. . . sort of

There was nothing for it but to seek a judgment. Since the rules regarding on-field litigation had been relaxed ten years earlier, it was not uncommon for the first half-hour of a match to be taken up with legal wranglings by the teams' lawyers, of which each side was permitted two, with one substitute. It added a new form of drama to the proceedings, but one not without its own problems; after a particularly litigious Superhoop six years previously when a legal argument was overturned in the High Court two years after the match was played, it became mandatory that three High Court judges be ready to give an instant, unquestionable ruling on any legal point.

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 versus 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 non-human precedent in the Worcester Sauces versus 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 when 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 his case 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 only for 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.