I didn't get an answer. The klaxon for the second third went off and I grabbed my mallet and helmet and hurried on to the green.

'New strategy, everyone,' said Jambe to myself, Smudger, Snake and Biffo — all that remained of the Swindon Mallets. 'We play defensively to make sure they don't score any more hoops. Anything goes — and watch out for the Duchess'

The second third was probably the most interesting third ever seen in World League Croquet. To begin with Biffo and Aubrey whacked both of our own balls into the rhododendrons. This was a novel tactic and had two consequences: first, we weren't going to score any hoops in the middle third by natural hooping, and second, we denied the opposition any roquets off our balls. No advantage in terms of winning, clearly, but we weren't trying to win — we were fighting for survival. The Whackers had only to score thirty hoops and hit the centre peg to win outright — and the way it was going we wouldn't make the last third. Staving off the inevitable, perhaps, but World League Croquet is like that. Frustrating, violent, and full of the unexpected.

'No prisoners!' yelled Biffo, waving his mallet above his head in a display of bravado that would sum up our second-third strategy. It worked. Freed from the constraint of ball defence we all went into the attack and together caused some considerable problems to the Whackers, who were thrown by the unorthodox playing tactics. At one point I yelled 'Offside!' and made up something so outrageously complex that it sounded as if it could be true — it took ten minutes of precious time to prove that it wasn't.

By the time the second third ended we were almost completely exhausted. The Whackers now led by twenty-one hoops to twelve,

and we only won another eight because 'Bonecrusher' McSneed had been sent off for trying to hit Jambe with his mallet and Biffo had been concussed by the Duchess.

'How many fingers am I holding up?' asked Alf

'Fish,' said Biffo, eyes wandering.

'You okay?' asked Landen when I had returned to the stands to see him.

'I'm okay,' I puffed. 'I'm out of shape, though.'

Friday gave me a hug.

'Thursday?' hissed Landen in a hushed voice. 'I've been thinking. Where did that piano actually come from?'

'What piano?'

'The one that fell on Cindy.'

'Well, I suppose, it just, well.fell, didn't it? What are you saying?'

'That it was a murder attempt.'

'Someone tried to assassinate the assassin with a piano?'

'No. It hit her accidentally. I think it was intended — for you!'

'Wrho'd want to kill me with a piano?'

'I don't know. Have there been any other unorthodox attempts on your life recently?'

'No.'

'I think you're still in danger, sweetheart. Please be careful.'

I kissed him again and stroked his face with a muddy hand.

'Sorry!' I muttered, trying to rub it off and making it worse. 'But I've got too much to think about at the moment.'

I ran off and joined Jambe for a last-third pep talk.

'Right,' he said, handing out the Chelsea buns, 'we're going to lose this match but we're going to go out in glory. I don't want it to be said that the Mallets didn't fight until the last man standing. Right, Biffo?'

'Trilby.'

We all knocked our fists together and made the 'harrump' noise again, the team reinvigorated — except for me. It was true that no one could say we hadn't tried, but for all Jambe's well-meaning rhetoric, in three weeks' time the earth would be smouldering radioactive cinder, and no amount of tarnished glory would help Swindon or anyone else. But I helped myself to a Chelsea bun and a cup of tea anyway.

'I say,' said Twizzit, who had suddenly appeared in the company of Stig.

'Have a bun!' said Aubrey. 'We're going out in style!'

But Twizzit wasn't smiling.

'We've been looking at Mr Stig's genome—

'His what?'

'His genome. The complete genetic plan of him and the other Neanderthals.'

'And?'

Twizzit rummaged through some papers.

'They were all built between 1939 and 1948 in the Goliath bioengineering labs. The thing is, the prototype Neanderthal could not speak in words that we could understand — so they were built using a human voice box.' Twizzit gave a curious half-smile, as though he had produced a spare ace from his sleeve, and announced with great drama: 'The Neanderthals are 1.03 per cent human.'

'But that doesn't make them human,' I observed. 'How does it help us?'

'I agree they're not human,' conceded Twizzit, still with the ghost of a smile, 'but the rules specifically exclude anyone "non-human". Since they have some human in them, they technically can't fall into this category.'

There was another long pause. I looked at Stig, who stared back and raised his eyebrows.

'I think we should lodge an appeal,' muttered Jambe, leaving his Chelsea bun half eaten in his haste. 'Stig, have your men limber up!'

The judges agreed with us. The 1.03 per cent was enough to prove they weren't non-human and thus could not be excluded from play. While Wapcaplitt ran off to search the croquet statutes for a reason to appeal, the Neanderthals, Grunk, Warg, Dorf, Zim

and Stig, limbered up as the Whackers looked on nervously. Neanderthals had often been approached to play as they could run all day without tiring, but no one until now had ever managed it.

'Okay, listen up,' said Jambe, gathering us around, 'we're back in the game at full strength. Thursday, I want you to stay on the benches to get your breath back. We're going to fool them with a Puchonski switch. Biffo is going to take the red ball from the forty-yard line over the rhododendron bushes, past the Italian sunken garden and into a close position to hoop five. Snake, you'll take it from there and croquet their yellow — Stig will defend you. Mr Warg, I want you to mark their number five. He's dangerous, so you're going to have to use any tricks you can. Smudger, you're going to foul the Duchess — when the vicar gives you the red card, I'm calling in Thursday. Yes?'

I didn't reply; for some reason I was having a sudden heavy bout of deja vu.

'Thursday?' repeated Aubrey. 'Are you okay? You look like you're in a dream world!'

'I'm fine,' I said slowly, I'll wait for your command.'

'Good.'

We all did the 'harrump' thing and they went to their places whilst I sat on the bench and looked once again at the Scoreboard. We were losing twenty-one hoops to twelve.

The klaxon went off and the game started with renewed aggression. Biffo whacked the yellow ball in the direction of the up-end hoop and hit the Whackers' ball. Warg took the roquet. With an expert swing the opponent's ball tumbled into the Italian sunken garden, and ours sailed as straight as a die over the rhododendrons; a distant clack was mirrored by a roar from the crowd, and I knew the ball had been intercepted by Grunk and taken through the hoop. Aubrey nodded at Smudger, who took out the Duchess in grand style: they both careered into the tea party and knocked over the table. The klaxon sounded for a time-out while the Duchess was pulled clear of the tea things. She was conscious but had a broken ankle. Smudger was given the red card but no hoop penalty as the Duchess had been shown the yellow card earlier for concussing Biffo. I joined the fray as play started up again but the Whackers' early confidence was soon evaporating under a withering attack from the Neanderthals, who could anticipate their every move simply by reading their body language. Warg passed to Grunk, who gave the ball such an almighty whack that it passed clear through the rhododendrons with a tearing of foliage and was converted by Zim on the other side towards an undefended hoop.

Three minutes from time we had almost caught up: twenty-five hoops to the Whackers' twenty-nine. Firmly rattled, the Whackers missed a roquet, and with only a minute to run scored their thirtieth hoop with us only two behind. All they had to do to win was 'peg out' by hitting the centre post. While they were trying to do this, and we tried our best to stop them, Mr Grunk, with eight seconds to go and two hoops to make, whacked a clear double-hooper that went through one up-end hoop, the entire forty yards down the green and through the mid. I'd never heard a crowd yell more.