The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [525]
I stared up at the French rigging, found the sharpshooter and kept a close eye on him. He was less than fifty feet from Nelson. It was the easiest shot in the world. I saw his finger touch the trigger and—
“Fire!”
The lead ball flew from the slingshot and caught Nelson painfully on the knee; he collapsed on the deck while the shot that would have killed him buried itself harmlessly in the deck behind.
Captain Hardy ordered his men to take Nelson below, where he would be detained for the rest of the battle. Hardy would face his wrath come the morning and for disobeying orders would not serve with him again. My father saluted Captain Hardy, and Captain Hardy saluted him back. Hardy had marred his career but saved his admiral. It was a good trade.
“Well,” said my father, placing the slingshot back in his pocket, “we all know how this turns out—come on!”
He took my hand as we started to accelerate through time. The battle quickly ended, and the ship’s deck was scrubbed clean; day rapidly followed night as we sailed swiftly back to England to a riotous welcome of crowds lining the docks. Then the ship moved again, but this time to Chatham, moldered, lost its rigging, gained it and then moved again—but this time to Portsmouth, whose buildings rose around us as we moved into the twentieth century at breakneck speed.
When we decelerated, we were back in the present time but still in the same position on the deck, by now in dry dock and crowded with schoolchildren holding exercise books and in the process of being led around by a guide.
“And it was at this spot,” said the guide, pointing to a plaque on the deck, “that Admiral Nelson was hit on the leg by a ricochet that probably saved his life.”
“Well, that’s that job taken care of,” said Dad, standing up and dusting off his hands. He looked at his watch.
“I’ve got to go. Thanks for helping out, Sweetpea. Remember: Goliath may try to nobble the Swindon Mallets—especially the team captain—to rig the outcome of the SuperHoop, so be on your toes. Tell Emma—I mean, Lady Hamilton—that I’ll pick her up at 0830 her time tomorrow—and send my love to your mother.”
He smiled, there was another rapid flashing of lights, and I was back in the SpecOps Building, walking down the corridor with Bowden who was just finishing the sentence he had begun when Dad arrived.
“—trating the Montagues?”
“Sorry?”
“I said, ‘Do you want to hear my plans for infiltrating the Montagues? ’ ” He wrinkled his nose. “Is that you smelling of cordite?”
“I’m afraid so. Listen, you’ll have to excuse me—I think Goliath may try to nobble Roger Kapok, and without him we have even less chance of winning the SuperHoop.”
He laughed.
“Photocopied bards, Swindon Mallets, eradicated husbands. You like impossible assignments, don’t you?”
22.
Roger Kapok
Contrition Rates Not High Enough to Meet Targets
That was the shocking report from Mr. Tork Armada, the spokesman for OFGOD, the religious-institution-licensing authority. “Despite continual and concerted efforts by Goliath to meet the levels of repentance demanded by this authority,” said Mr. Armada at a press conference yesterday, “they have not managed to reach even halfway to the minimum divinity requirements of this office.” Mr. Armada’s report was greeted with surprise by Goliath, who had hoped their application would be swift and unopposed. “We are changing tactics to target those to whom Goliath is anathema,” said Mr. Brik Schitt-Hawse, a Goliath spokesman. “We have recently secured forgiveness from someone who had despised us deeply, something that counts twentyfold in OFGOD’s own contrition-target goals. More like her will soon follow.” Mr. Armada was clearly not impressed and simply said, “Well, we’ll see.”
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.