Something rotten by Jasper Fforde

Author:Jasper Fforde [Fforde, Jasper]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Women detectives, Alternative histories (Fiction), England, Next, Mystery & Detective, Thursday (Fictitious character), Fantasy fiction, Mothers, Political, Detective and mystery stories, General, Books and reading, Women detectives - Great Britain, Great Britain, Mystery fiction, Women Sleuths, English, Characters and characteristics in literature, Fiction, Women novelists, Time travel
ISBN: 9780143035411
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2005-07-25T23:00:00+00:00

Report in Goliath News, July 17, 1988

I trotted up the road to the thirty-thousand-seat croquet stadium, deep in thought. Goliath’s contrition rate had been published that morning, and thanks to me and the Crimean Mass-Apology Project, switching to a religion was now not only possible but probable. The only plus side was that in all likelihood it wouldn’t happen until after the SuperHoop, which raised the possibility—confirmed by my father—that Goliath would try and nobble the Swindon team. And getting to the captain, Roger Kapok, was probably the best way to do it.

I passed the VIP car park, where a row of expensive automobiles was on display, and showed my SpecOps pass to the bored security guard. I entered the stadium and walked up one of the public-access tunnels to the terraces and from there looked down upon the green. From this distance the hoops were almost invisible, but their positions were marked by large white circles painted on the turf. The ten-yard lines crossed the green from side to side, and the “natural hazards”—the Italian Sunken Garden, rhododendron bushes and herbaceous flower beds—stood out from within their positions on the green itself. Each “obstruction” was scrupulously constructed to World Croquet League specifications. The height of the rhododendrons was carefully measured before each game, the herbaceous border stocked with identical shrubs, the sunken garden with its lilies and lead fountain of Minerva was the same on every green the world over, from Dallas to Poona, Nairobi to Reykjavik.

Below me I could see the Swindon Mallets indulging in a tough training session. Roger Kapok was amongst them, barking orders as his team ran backwards and forwards, whirling their mallets dangerously close to one another. Four-ball croquet could be a dangerous sport, and close-quarters stickwork that managed not to involve severe physical injury was considered a skill unique to the Croquet League.

I ran down the steps between the tiered seating, which was nearly my undoing; halfway down I slipped on some carelessly deposited banana skins and if it hadn’t have been for some deft footwork I might have plunged headfirst onto the concrete steps. I muttered a curse under my breath, glared at one of the grounds-men and stepped out onto the green.

“So,” I heard Kapok say as I drew closer, “we’ve got the big match on Saturday, and I don’t want anyone thinking that we will automatically win just because St. Zvlkx said so. Brother Thomas of York predicted a twenty-point victory for the Battersea Chargers last week, and they were beaten hollow, so stay on your toes. I won’t have the team relying on destiny to win this match—we do it on teamwork, application and tactics.” There was a grunting and nodding of heads from the assembled team, and Kapok continued. “Swindon has never won a SuperHoop, so I want this to be our first. Biffo, Smudger and Aubrey will lead the offensive as usual, and I don’t want anyone tumbling into the sunken garden like at last Tuesday’s practice.

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