There was nothing for it but to seek a judgment. Since the rules regarding on-field litigation had been relaxed ten years earlier, it was not uncommon for the first half-hour of a match to be taken up with legal wranglings by the teams' lawyers, of which each side was permitted two, with one substitute. It added a new form of drama to the proceedings, but one not without its own problems; after a particularly litigious Superhoop six years previously when a legal argument was overturned in the High Court two years after the match was played, it became mandatory that three High Court judges be ready to give an instant, unquestionable ruling on any legal point.

We approached the Port-a-Court and our respective lawyers made their representations. The three judges retired to their chambers and returned a few minutes later to announce:

'It is the finding of this Croquet Appellant Court in the action Mallets versus Whackers (Neanderthal player legality) that the Whackers' complaint is upheld. In the eyes of English law Neanderthals are not human, and cannot play.'

The Reading side of the crowd erupted into joyous yells as the judges' ruling was run up on the screen.

Aubrey opened his mouth but I pulled him aside.

'Don't waste your breath, Aubrey.'

'We can prepare an appeal in seven minutes,' said Mr Runcorn, one of our lawyers. 'I think we can find a non-human precedent in the Worcester Sauces versus Taunton Ciders Superhoop semifinals of 1963.'

Aubrey scratched his head and looked at me.

'Thursday?'

'A failed appeal could result in a two-hoop forfeit,' I pointed out. 'I say we get the lawyers working on it. If they think it's worth a try we'll lodge an appeal at the end of the first third.'

'But we're five players down and we haven't even picked up our mallets!'

'The game's not lost until it's lost, Aubrey. We've got a few tricks up our sleeve, too.'

I wasn't kidding. I had visited the lawyers' pavilion earlier when they were performing background checks on every player on the opposing side. The Whackers' striker, George 'Rhino' McNasty, had fourteen unpaid parking violations and our legal team successfully pleaded that his case should be heard here and now; he was sentenced to an hour's community service, which effectively had him picking up litter in the car park until the end of the second third. Jambe turned back to Mr Runcorn.

'Okay, prepare an appeal for the end of the first third. We'll start with what we've got.'

Even with our substitute brought on, we still had only six players to their full complement of ten. But it got worse. To play on a local side you had to have been born in the town or lived there for at least six months before playing. Our substitute, 'Johnno' Swift, had lived here only for five months and twenty-six days when he began his career at the Mallets three years before. The Reading lawyers argued that he was playing illegally in his first match, a transgression that should have won him a life ban. Once again, the judges upheld the complaint, and to another excited yell from the crowd, Swift walked dejectedly back to the dressing rooms.

'Well,' said O'Fathens, putting out his hand to Jambe, 'we'll just accept you've conceded the match, okay?'

'We're playing, O'Fathens. Even if Swindon were to lose by a thousand hoops, people would still say this was their finest—

'I don't think so,' interrupted the Whackers' team lawyer with a triumphant grin. 'You're now down to only five players. Under Rule 681 g, subsection (f/6): Any team that fails to start the game with the minimum of six players forfeits the match.'

He pointed out the entry in volume seven of the World Croquet League rule book. It was there all right, just under the rules governing the minimum raisin requirement in the buns served at the concession stands. Beaten! Beaten even before we'd picked up a mallet!

Swindon could weather it but the world could not — the Revealment would be proven false and Kaine and Goliath would carry on with their perverse plans unmolested.

I'll announce it,' said the umpire.

'No,' said Alf, clicking his fingers, 'we do have a player we can field!'

'Who?'

He pointed at me.

'Thursday!'

I was gobsmacked. I hadn't played for over eight years.

'Objection!' blurted out the Whackers' lawyer. 'Miss Next is not a native of Swindon!'

My inclusion would be of questionable value — but at least it meant we could play.

'I was born at St Septyk's,' I said slowly. I'm Swindon enough for this team.'

'Perhaps Swindon enough,' said the lawyer, consulting a rule book hurriedly, 'but not experienced enough. According to Rule 23f subsection (g/9) you are ineligible to play international-standard croquet since you have not played the minimum of ten matches to county standard.'

I thought for a moment.

'Actually, I have.'

It was true. I used to play for the SpecOps Middlesex team when I was based in London. I was quite good, too — but nothing like these guys.

'It is the decision of the Croquet Appellant Court,' intoned the three judges, who wanted to see a good game as much as anyone, 'that Miss Next be allowed to represent her city in this match.'

O'Fathens's face fell.

'This is preposterous! What kind of stupid decision is that?'

The judges looked at him sternly.

'It is the decision of this court — and we find you in contempt. The Whackers will forfeit one hoop.'

O'Fathens boiled with inner rage, but held it within him, turned on his heel and, followed by his lawyers, strode to where his team were waiting.

'Good one!' Aubrey laughed. 'The whistle hasn't even gone and we're winning!'

He tried to sound full of enthusiasm but it was difficult. We were fielding a six-strong team — five and a quarter if you counted me — and still had an entire game to play.

'We've got ten minutes to the off. Thursday, get changed into Snake's spare set — he's about your size.'

I dashed off to the changing rooms and dressed myself up in Snake's leg guards and shoulder pads. Widdershaine helped me adjust the straps around my chest and I grabbed a spare mallet before running back on to the field, fiddling with my helmet strap just as Aubrey was beginning his strategy talk.

'In past matches,' he said in a hushed tone, 'the Whackers have been known to test a weak side with a standard "Bomperini" opening tactic. A deflective feint towards midhoop left but actually aiming for an undefended backhoop right.'

The team whistled softly.

'But we'll be ready for them. I want them to know we're playing an aggressive game. Instead of backfooting it we'll go straight into a surprise roquet manoeuvre. Smudger, you're to lead with a sideways deflection to Biffo, who'll pass to Thursday—

'Wait,' put in Biffo, 'Thursday is here making up the numbers. She hasn't hit a ball in years!'

This was true. But Jambe had bigger plans.

'Exactly. I want them to think Thursday is a dark horse — that we planned this late addition. With a bit of luck they'll waste a good player marking her. Thursday, drive it towards their red ball and Spike will intercept. It doesn't matter if you miss — I want them to be confused by our tactics. And Penelope -just frighten the other team.'

'Urg,' grunted the wingwoman.

'Okay, keep it tight, no more violence than is necessary and keep an eye out for the Duchess. She's not averse to a bit of ankle swiping.'

We all tapped our fists together and made a 'harrump' noise. I walked slowly to my place on the green, my heart beating with the pump of adrenalin.

'You okay?'

It was Aubrey.

'Sure.'

'Good. Let's play some croquet.'