Something rotten

permitted to vote or take key jobs.'

'When did this law come into effect?'

'Five minutes ago.'

I looked up at Kaine in the VIP box. He smiled and waved at me.

'So?' asked Jambe. 'Kaine's dopey ideas have no relevance to croquet — this is sport, not politics.'

The Whackers' lawyer, Mr Wapcaplitt, coughed politely.

'In that you would be mistaken. The definition of 'key job' includes any highly paid sports personality. We have conducted some background checks and discovered that Ms Penelope Hrah was born in Copenhagen — she's Danish.'

Jambe was silent.

'I might have been born there but I'm not Danish' said Hrah, taking a menacing step towards Wapcaplitt. 'My parents were on holiday at the time.'

'We are well aware of the facts,' intoned Wapcaplitt, 'and have already sought judgment on this matter. You were born in Denmark, you are technically Danish, you are in a 'key job' and are thus disqualified from playing on this team.'

'Balls!' yelled Aubrey. 'If she was born in a kennel would that make her a dog?'

'Hmm,' replied the attorney thoughtfully, 'it's an interesting legal question.'

Penelope couldn't contain herself any longer and went for him. It took four of us to hold her back, and she had to be forcibly restrained and frog-marched from the green.

'Down to five players,' muttered Jambe. 'Below the minimum player requirement.'

'Yes,' said Mr Wapcaplitt glibly, 'it appears the Whackers are the winners—'

'I think not,' interrupted our substitute lawyer, whose name we learned was Twizzit. 'As my most esteemed colleague so rightly pointed out, the rule states: 'any team that fails to start the game with the minimum of six players forfeits the match'. The way I see it, the match has already begun and we can carry on playing with five. Your honours?'

The judges put their heads together for a moment and then pronounced:

'This court finds for the Swindon Mallets in this matter. They may continue to play into the second third with five players.'

We walked slowly back to the touchline. Four of the Neanderthal players were still sitting on the bench, staring off into space.

'Where's Stig?' I asked them.

I didn't get an answer. The klaxon for the second third went off and I grabbed my mallet and helmet and hurried on to the green.

'New strategy, everyone,' said Jambe to myself, Smudger, Snake and Biffo — all that remained of the Swindon Mallets. 'We play defensively to make sure they don't score any more hoops. Anything goes — and watch out for the Duchess'

The second third was probably the most interesting third ever seen in World League Croquet. To begin with Biffo and Aubrey whacked both of our own balls into the rhododendrons. This was a novel tactic and had two consequences: first, we weren't going to score any hoops in the middle third by natural hooping, and second, we denied the opposition any roquets off our balls. No advantage in terms of winning, clearly, but we weren't trying to win — we were fighting for survival. The Whackers had only to score thirty hoops and hit the centre peg to win outright — and the way it was going we wouldn't make the last third. Staving off the inevitable, perhaps, but World League Croquet is like that. Frustrating, violent, and full of the unexpected.

'No prisoners!' yelled Biffo, waving his mallet above his head in a display of bravado that would sum up our second-third strategy. It worked. Freed from the constraint of ball defence we all went into the attack and together caused some considerable problems to the Whackers, who were thrown by the unorthodox playing tactics. At one point I yelled 'Offside!' and made up something so outrageously complex that it sounded as if it could be true — it took ten minutes of precious time to prove that it wasn't.

By the time the second third ended we were almost completely exhausted. The Whackers now led by twenty-one hoops to twelve,

and we only won another eight because 'Bonecrusher' McSneed had been sent off for trying to hit Jambe with his mallet and Biffo had been concussed by the Duchess.

'How many fingers am I holding up?' asked Alf

'Fish,' said Biffo, eyes wandering.

'You okay?' asked Landen when I had returned to the stands to see him.

'I'm okay,' I puffed. 'I'm out of shape, though.'

Friday gave me a hug.

'Thursday?' hissed Landen in a hushed voice. 'I've been thinking. Where did that piano actually come from?'

'What piano?'

'The one that fell on Cindy.'

'Well, I suppose, it just, well.fell, didn't it? What are you saying?'

'That it was a murder attempt.'

'Someone tried to assassinate the assassin with a piano?'

'No. It hit her accidentally. I think it was intended — for you!'

'Wrho'd want to kill me with a piano?'

'I don't know. Have there been any other unorthodox attempts on your life recently?'

'No.'

'I think you're still in danger, sweetheart. Please be careful.'

I kissed him again and stroked his face with a muddy hand.

'Sorry!' I muttered, trying to rub it off and making it worse. 'But I've got too much to think about at the moment.'

I ran off and joined Jambe for a last-third pep talk.

'Right,' he said, handing out the Chelsea buns, 'we're going to lose this match but we're going to go out in glory. I don't want it to be said that the Mallets didn't fight until the last man standing. Right, Biffo?'

'Trilby.'

We all knocked our fists together and made the 'harrump' noise again, the team reinvigorated — except for me. It was true that no one could say we hadn't tried, but for all Jambe's well-meaning rhetoric, in three weeks' time the earth would be smouldering radioactive cinder, and no amount of tarnished glory would help Swindon or anyone else. But I helped myself to a Chelsea bun and a cup of tea anyway.

'I say,' said Twizzit, who had suddenly appeared in the company of Stig.

'Have a bun!' said Aubrey. 'We're going out in style!'

But Twizzit wasn't smiling.

'We've been looking at Mr Stig's genome—

'His what?'

'His genome. The complete genetic plan of him and the other Neanderthals.'

'And?'

Twizzit rummaged through some papers.

'They were all built between 1939 and 1948 in the Goliath bioengineering labs. The thing is, the prototype Neanderthal could not speak in words that we could understand — so they were built using a human voice box.' Twizzit gave a curious half-smile, as though he had produced a spare ace from his sleeve, and announced with great drama: 'The Neanderthals are 1.03 per cent human.'

'But that doesn't make them human,' I observed. 'How does it help us?'

'I agree they're not human,' conceded Twizzit, still with the ghost of a smile, 'but the rules specifically exclude anyone 'non-human'. Since they have some human in them, they technically can't fall into this category.'

There was another long pause. I looked at Stig, who stared back and raised his eyebrows.

'I think we should lodge an appeal,' muttered Jambe, leaving his Chelsea bun half eaten in his haste. 'Stig,