'No relation,' said Bledlow Nobbs very quickly.
'Well, that was a good choice at least,' said Trev, sighing. 'Nobbsy is a clogger at heart.'
'But it's not supposed to be about clogging,' said Glenda. 'And you know what?' she added, raising her voice against the steel roar of the crowd. 'Whatever the old Dean thinks he can't stop the game, now. This place would just blow up!'
'You think so?' said Trev.
'Listen,' said Glenda. 'Yes, I think you're right. You ought to get out of here.'
'Me? Not a chance.'
'But you could make yourself useful and get Juliet out. Get her as far as Vimesy and his lot. I bet they're waiting right outside the gates. Do it right now while you can still get down the steps. Won't get a chance once they start to play again.'
As he left, Glenda walked unheeded down the touchline, to the little area where Dr Lawn was standing guard over his patients.
'You know that little bag you brought with you, sir?'
'Yes?'
'I think you're going to need a bigger bag. How's Professor Macarona?'
The professor was lying on his back, staring at the sky and wearing an expression of bland happiness. 'Sorted him out easily enough,' said the doctor. 'He won't be playing again any time soon. I've given him a little something to make him happy. Correction, I have given him a big something to make him happy.'
'And the Librarian?'
'Well, I got a couple of lads to help me turn him upside down and he's been throwing up a lot. He's still pretty groggy, but I don't think it's too bad. He's as sick as a parrot.'
'This wasn't how it was supposed to go, you know,' said Glenda out of a feeling that she should defend the bloody mess.
'It generally isn't,' said the doctor.
They turned as the noise of the nearby crowd changed. Juliet was coming down the steps glittering. The silence followed her like a lovesick dog. So did Pepe and the reassuring bulk of Madame Sharn, who might be a useful barricade in case the Hippo became a cauldron. Trev, tagging along behind them, seemed like an afterthought in comparison.
'All right, dear, what's this all about?' said Pepe.
'I ain't going,' said Juliet, 'not while Trev's in here. I ain't leaving without Trev. Pepe says he's going to win the match.'
'What have you been saying?' said Glenda.
'He'll win,' said Pepe, winking. 'He's got a star in his hand. You want to see him do it, missy?'
'What are you playin' at?' said Trev, angrily.
'Oh, I'm a bit of a conjurer, me. Or maybe a fairy godmother.' Pepe gestured around the arena. 'See that lot? Their ancestors screamed to see men killing one another and beasts tearing decent folks apart. Men with spears fighting men with nets and all that kind of ugly shite.'
'And they have cart-tail sales here every other Sunday,' added Glenda.
'It's always been the same,' said Pepe. 'It's one big creature. Never dies. Crying and screaming and loving and hating all down the generations and you can't tame it and you can't stop it. Just for you, young lady, and for the soul of Mister Trev, I'm going to throw it a bone. Won't take a mo'.'
His slim and slightly spidery form disappeared back up the steps just as the whistle blew. Glenda made out Bledlow Nobbs taking the kick, but Ridcully had made the mistake of thinking that a man who was as big as he was was as clever as he was. And there it was, it was the old game all over again. United were stampeding down the pitch, the old cloggers making way for Andy's army as they bore down against Nutt. The kick took him in the chest and lifted him into the back of the goal. The whistle blew and was followed by, 'DON'T TOUCH THAT, BOYO! YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE IT'S BEEN!' which was followed by, 'I really am very sorry about that, I don't know why it happens,' which was followed by... absolute silence.
Which was broken by one voice, 'Likely. Likely. Likely.' It started up in the stand, somewhere near where Pepe had gone.
The beast had forgotten the name 'Orc', but certainly remembered the name 'Likely', a name that had fed it so often, a name it had given birth to and eaten, a name that was football, the very heart of the beast. And here, on this broken field, it was a name to conjure with. 'LIKELY! LIKELY! LIKELY!' Hardly a grown man hadn't seen him. He was the legend. Even after all these years, it was a name that cut through other loyalties. You told your grandchildren about him. You told them how he lay there bleeding and maybe how you dipped your handkerchief in his blood and kept it for a souvenir.
'Likely,' intoned the baritone of Madame Sharn.
'Likely,' whispered Glenda and then 'LIKELY!' She could see the little figure running along the top of the stands, the chant tailing after it.