The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [581]
“There’s still the Seventh Revealment,” I said a bit weakly.
“Win the SuperHoop? With that ragtag bunch of no-hopers? I think you grossly overrate your chances, my lady—and with Goliath and the Ovinator to help me, I can’t begin to overestimate mine!”
And he laughed again, looked at his watch and walked briskly from the hangar. We heard his car start up and drive away.
“Sorry,” said the Cat, still looking the other way. “I had to think of something quickly. At least this way he didn’t win—tonight.”
I sighed. “You did well, Chesh—I would never have thought of invoking the Blue Fairy.”
“It was quite good, wasn’t it?” agreed the Cat. “Can you smell hot buttered crumpets?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Who are you going to put on midfield?”
“Biffo, probably,” I said slowly, picking up my automatic from where it had fallen and replacing the clip, “and Stig as roquet taker.”
“Ah. Well, good luck and see you soon,” said the Cat, and vanished.
I sighed and looked around at the quiet and empty hangar. The fictional gore and corpses of Medusa, the Tyrannosaurus and Beowulf had vanished and apart from the wrecked airship, there was no evidence of the battle that had been fought here. We had scored a victory against Kaine but not the total victory I had hoped for. I was just walking back towards the exit when I noticed the Cheshire Cat had reappeared, balanced on the handle of a pallet trolley.
“Did you say Stig, or fig?” asked the Cat.
“I said Stig,” I replied, “and I wish you wouldn’t keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly—you make one quite giddy.”
“All right,” said the Cat and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone.
37.
Before the Match
Zvlkx Followers Hold Nighttime Peace March.
All seventy-six members of the Idolatry Friends of St. Zvlkx spent the night silently marching between the places of interest of their worshipful leader, who was hit by a Number 23 bus on Friday. The march began at Tesco’s car park and visited places in Swindon that St. Zvlkx held most dear—seven pubs, six betting shops and Swindon’s leading brothel—before undertaking a silent prayer at his place of death. The march went off peacefully, except for numerous interruptions by a woman who gave her name as Shirley and insisted that Zvlkx owed her money.
Article in the Swindon Daily Eyestrain, July 22, 1988
I arrived at the croquet stadium at eight. The fans were already waiting at the turnstiles, hoping to get the best seats in the stands. I was waved past and parked my Speedster in the manager’s parking spot, then made my way into the changing rooms. Aubrey was waiting there for me, pacing up and down.
“Well?” he said. “Where’s our team?”
“They’ll be here at one o’clock.”
“Can’t we get them here earlier?” he asked. “We need to discuss tactics.”
“No,” I said firmly. “They’ll be here on time. It’s senseless to try to impose human time constraints on them. They’re playing on our side—that’s the main thing.”
“Okay,” agreed Aubrey reluctantly. “Have you met Penelope Hrah?”
Penelope was a large and powerful woman who looked as though she could crack walnuts with her eyelids. She had moved to croquet because hockey wasn’t violent enough, and although at thirty-two she was at the end of her career, she might prove an asset—as a terror weapon, if nothing else. She scared me—and I was on the same team.
“Hello Penelope,” I said nervously. “I really appreciate you joining us.”
“Urg.”
“Everything okay? Can I get you something?”
She grunted again, and I rubbed my hands together anxiously.
“Right, well, leave you to it, then.”
I left her to talk strategy with Alf and Aubrey. I spent the next couple of hours