The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [527]
“Really?” I said. “I’d not noticed. I’ll come straight to the point, Mr. Kapok. Has anyone tried to dissuade you from playing this Saturday?”
“No. And you probably just heard me telling the team to ignore the Seventh Revealment. We aim to win for our own sakes and that of Swindon. And we will win, you have my word on that!”
He smiled that dazzling reconstructed Roger Kapok smile that I had seen so many times on billboards throughout Swindon, advertising everything from toothpaste to floor paint. His confidence was infectious, and suddenly our chances of beating the Reading Whackers seemed to move from “totally impossible” to “deeply improbable.”
“And what about you?” I asked, remembering my father’s warning that he would be the first one Goliath would try to nobble.
“What about me?”
“Would you stay with the team no matter what?”
“Of course!” he replied. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from leading the Mallets to victory.”
“Promise?”
“On my honor. The code of the Kapoks is at stake. Only death will keep me off the green on Saturday.”
“You should be on your guard, Mr. Kapok,” I murmured. “Goliath will try anything to make sure Reading wins the SuperHoop.”
“I can look after myself.”
“I don’t doubt it, but you should be on your guard.”
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 a 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 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, and then I 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 if anyone had been watching, but fortunately no one had. Instead an altercation seemed to be going on between the team members. I dropped the mallet and hurried up.
“You can’t leave!” cried Aubrey Jambe, hoop defense. “What about the SuperHoop?”
“You’ll do fine without me,” implored Kapok, “really you will!”
He was standing with two men in suits who didn’t appear 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, but it was the tall one who spoke.
“We’re scouts for the Gloucester Meteors, and we think Mr. Kapok would like to come play for us.”
“Less than a week before a SuperHoop?”
“I’m due for a change, Miss Next,” said Kapok, glancing 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 percent accurate—you said so yourself!” I retorted. “Who are you two really?”
“Leave us out of it,” said the tall suited man. “All we