Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

'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.