Howzat! (4 page)

‘Toby Jones?’ the guard said, walking back into the main room carrying my bat by the blade. Relieved, I stepped forward to take it.

Smale quickly closed the
Wisden
and pushed it back into its place on the shelf. ‘Wasn’t there something else in there?’ he said. ‘A batting glove or something?’ He strode away to his office, Ron following.

‘Well, that’s all I’m missing,’ I called, scarcely believing my luck.

‘No more wandering about the place, young Jones, especially after curfew,’ Smale called.

I barely heard him. I grabbed the parcel, held it close to my chest and headed for the door. I turned once, briefly, at the top of the stairs. The entrance to the library was deserted. I ran the rest of the way, bat in one hand, the mystery parcel in the other. My heart was racing by the time I got back to our corporate box. Jimbo was waiting, eager to hear what had kept me.

‘You might have to cover for me,’ I said, carefully prising open one end of the parcel, wondering whether I was already too late. I was sure it was a
Wisden
—right weight and shape. The yellow book slid out easily: the 2002 edition.

‘But Jim can’t mean for you to go tonight,’ Jimbo said. ‘There’s no way you’d have got the parcel in time.’

‘Unless my cricket bat was stolen so that I’d go down there looking for it,’ I said. There was a letter inside the cover of the
Wisden
. I quickly scanned it.

‘Yeah, but how could Jim know you’d go to the library? What if it’s a trick?’ Jimbo said.

‘The letter’s from Jim,’ I told him. ‘It’s all arranged—for tomorrow morning. I’m going to have to miss the first session. We’re in the nets again, aren’t we?’

‘Yep. What will you say?’

‘I’m sick. Got lost. Went to the wrong place. I dunno. Hopefully I won’t be too late back. Maybe half an hour at the most. Jim says, all being well, we should be back between nine and nine-thirty. Here.’ I held the letter out to Jimbo.

My dear Toby

It is arranged, finally. These instructions are brief—I’m sure you understand why. Lord’s is too dangerous. We must travel to the Oval instead. Please use the 2002 Wisden here and travel at precisely 8.30 a.m. You are to use page 448 and focus on the number 157 alongside Steve Waugh’s name in the scorecard showing Australia’s first innings. I will carry Ally there and you will bring us all back.

I do hope the cricket camp is all that you thought it would be, and that this interruption doesn’t compromise your involvement in it.

I remain your dear friend,

Jim

‘Wow. So this is it. Can I check out the game?’ Jimbo asked. I passed over the
Wisden
.

‘I’m going to bed,’ I said. ‘I’m totally whacked and I reckon tomorrow’s going to be a long day.’

Jimbo sighed. ‘Check this out. There were three Aussies who made centuries and Justin Langer retired hurt.’

‘Yeah? Why?’

‘Hang on.’ Jimbo flicked back a page. ‘Here it is. It says: “Langer scored his eighth Test century in his familiar understated style. Four overs later, he retired hurt, having been hit on the helmet trying to hook Caddick, but there seemed no other way to stop him.”’

Leaving Jimbo to the
Wisden
, I put on my pyjamas, brushed my teeth and crawled into bed. I knew it would be a while before I fell asleep.

Tuesday—morning

Tap. Tap.
My eyes blinked open and I jumped out of bed, thinking I’d slept in. I stood in the middle of the room, dazed, wondering why I was there.

Tap. Tap
. The knocking sound again. That was what had woken me up.

‘Jimbo!’ I hissed, checking my watch. It was 7.35 a.m. Jimbo stirred momentarily, then appeared to settle again, the
Wisden
on his bed falling to the floor. ‘Jimbo!’ I whispered, louder. ‘There’s someone at the door.’

‘I ordered room service,’ he said, yawning. ‘Forgot to tell you.’

‘Room service?’

Jimbo sat up on one elbow, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

‘Who is it?’ I said, walking towards the door.

‘Toby, it’s David. From the library. We need to speak.’

‘David!’ I flung open the door.

David looked around furtively then ducked into the room. ‘Jam croissants and hot chocolate,’ he said, placing two large brown bags onto my bed. Jimbo was suddenly wide awake, the smell of food drawing him out of bed and over to join us.

‘David, there was a parcel for me,’ I began. ‘Down in the library.’

‘You’ve got it?’ he gasped.

‘I’ve got it,’ I replied, surreptitiously pushing the
Wisden
under Jimbo’s bed.

David sat down with a heavy sigh, reached into a bag for a croissant and started munching. ‘I nearly died when I saw that your parcel was missing when I arrived this morning,’ he said. ‘Thank goodness it’s already with you. Jim had warned me to be careful with it, though I can’t imagine why. So when I saw it was gone…’ His voice trailed off and he took another bite of croissant.

‘Well, thanks.’ I didn’t know how much David knew about Phillip Smale’s evil doings, and I wasn’t about to go into details now.

David stood up, brushed the crumbs off his shirt and headed towards the door. ‘I expect I’ll see you boys down in the library at some stage during the week.’ He gave us a cheery wave and left.

We spent the next half-hour eating our breakfast and planning how I’d make my departure. Jimbo had already found the correct spot in the
Wisden
.

After a brief walk to check there hadn’t been any changes to the morning routine, we returned to our room a few minutes before eight-thirty. There was no sign of Phillip Smale, which I was relieved about. I didn’t want him getting in the way again.

Taking a last look down the corridor, I closed the door and went and sat next to Jimbo, who already had the
Wisden
open and ready. ‘Time to go see some cricket,’ he said, pointing his finger into the swirl on the page that was open in front of me.

‘Don’t know how much cricket I’ll be seeing,’ I muttered. The words had barely left my lips before I felt the familiar sensation of swirling noise rushing through my ears. It was like holding my head beneath the waves in the ocean.

I stared at the 5 of the number Jimbo was pointing to, trying to ignore the wash of black and white around it. ‘A hundred and fifty-seven,’ I said. Suddenly the surging noise intensified…and I was gone.

I remembered Jim saying that a time traveller had never been discovered arriving. All the same, I got to my feet quickly and searched the sea of people in front of me for a surprised glance, a frown or even an expression of absolute horror. But everyone’s attention was on the cricket. A couple of kids jogged past on the pavement just in front of me, not even glancing in my direction.

I stared out at the oval. Kensington Oval. The other home of cricket in England. An enormous
gasometer—a massive open drum of iron and steel—stood next to some tall, brown brick houses.

I wasn’t worried that I wouldn’t find Jim. I’d come at the right time. I glanced at the players out in the middle. Damien Martyn punched a ball on his pads to mid-wicket and the batters jogged through for a single. The score moved on to 4 for 641. No wonder the Australians won the match. Steve Waugh was on 157 and was about to declare. He drove the next ball a bit uppishly back past the bowler and then started walking. The declaration. Maybe Jim had timed it for just this moment. Perhaps there’d be an announcement, or Jim would find me. I couldn’t control where I arrived and he knew that.

Everyone was standing and clapping. The players were walking off the field. I looked at Steve Waugh. He’d been badly injured during the third Test and most people were amazed that he’d been able to come back and play in the fifth Test. He must have been a tough cricketer.

Something caught my eye. Something white moving quickly. I looked again, straining to bring into focus the floating shape that was gliding slowly around the far side of the ground.

‘Well, that wasn’t too difficult,’ a voice said in my ear. Crying out in surprise, I swung around. Phillip Smale. The familiar grip of fear knotted in my stomach and a wave of nausea swept over me.

‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you to Jim and your friend Ally.’

‘You know about them?’ I said, staring at him. Surely Jim hadn’t included Smale in his plans? He’d be the last person Jim would think to involve.

‘Oh, yes. I helped Jim get here with the scorecard. You didn’t think he could bring Ally by himself, did you?’

Before I could reply, Smale set off at a brisk pace, heading for the large main entrance. I took one last glance around the ground. The white shape was getting closer; half walking, half floating, it shimmered like a mirage. It passed close to the crowd but no one paid it the slightest attention.

Why would Jim involve Smale, I wondered. Why hadn’t he mentioned it? Why were we at the Oval and not Lord’s? And why hadn’t Jim and Ally come to the MCG so we could travel together? Where were they? There were suddenly way more questions than answers.

‘Come on,’ Smale called.

Hurrying after him, I wondered whether I was walking into a trap. Jimbo had been suspicious about my missing cricket bat turning up in the library last night, but I hadn’t paid much attention. Then again, Jim
had
been worried about making the trip. Maybe he had asked Smale to help. But surely he would have told me if the plan had changed?

We were near one of the entrances to the ground by now. No one was about apart from a couple of officials chatting by a gate and a family heading out. Smale followed them. I paused again. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked, a few safe metres behind him.

Smale took a step towards me. ‘Jim told me to bring you here and then disappear,’ he said quietly, shrugging his shoulders. ‘He wouldn’t elaborate any further.’

‘But I was supposed to meet him at Lord’s,’ I said, searching his face for some sign that he was telling the truth.

‘Jim did say that the person you are meeting felt it was too dangerous at Lord’s. Something about the risk of being seen by certain Lord’s members.’ He started walking again.

What should I do? Follow Smale and risk going further and further away from Jim and Ally? That was if they were at the ground at all. I’d been there for twenty minutes already and had seen no sign of them.

‘I’m going back to the Oval,’ I called out.

‘Jim said you’d be hard to convince. But he also said that his safety and Ally’s wellbeing depended on you playing your part,’ Smale said. He sighed, as if making his mind up about something. ‘Look, Jim came to me a week ago threatening to expose all the silly things I’d done unless I helped. I’m taking you to him now, and then that’s it.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now, come on.’

I felt I didn’t have a choice. Keeping a few metres behind him, I followed Smale to the entrance of an underground train station. We went down a long escalator and then another one, thinner and even longer.

‘Are we catching a train?’ I asked. We’d come too far. A sense of dread surged through me.

Smale walked briskly ahead along the deserted platform. A train had just left the station and the passengers were all heading up staircases or escalators.

‘I’m going back!’ I shouted. ‘This is stupid.’

‘Suit yourself, Toby Jones. I don’t really care. But your old friend Jim is just through here.’ Smale walked towards a door and opened it.

‘Jim?’ he called. ‘Oh, there you are.’

It looked like some sort of fire escape. One quick look, then I was out of here, I thought. I jogged over to the door. It had almost closed when I got to it. ‘Hello?’ I called, peering in. There was no sign of anyone there. ‘Jim?’

A bolt of pain shot up my arm as my wrist was grabbed hard, nails digging into my skin. In a flash I was dragged into the room. Something clicked and then there was another searing shock of pain, this time in my backside, like I’d been stung. I looked in horror at my arm. Someone had clicked a handcuff over my wrist. The other end was fastened around the metal banister of the stairs.

‘Wha—’

‘Do you know how long I’ve been rehearsing this moment?’ Smale laughed quietly, holding a syringe in front of my eyes. The back of my leg throbbed from where he’d stuck the needle into me. ‘Let’s see the brilliant Toby Jones get himself out of this little fix,’ he sneered, tossing the needle to the ground. ‘In
twenty minutes you’ll be fast asleep. I wonder what you’ll look like after eight hours away from your own time.’

Two lines of the poem, I thought, already starting to feel dizzy and sick. That was all I needed.

So hide your home, your age, your soul

To roam this place and seek your goal.

They were the first words that came into my head. I said them aloud, my eyes shut tight in concentration. Nothing happened.

Smale laughed. ‘Not so easy when you’re shackled to part of the good old London Underground, eh? Well, I must get going. Who knows where you’ll wake up or what you’ll look like? I expect the medicos will have a field day trying to work out what the hell happened to you.’

Tears streamed down my face. I desperately tried to keep my head clear but heaviness was overtaking me. I could barely hold my eyes open. The sharp pain in my leg had turned into a dull throbbing ache, and was slowly creeping through my body. I slouched against the wall, momentarily losing my footing.

That was better, I thought, resting my head against the bricks, more comfortable sitting. Two lines of the poem. Surely the power of the
Wisden
s and the time travel could win over a metal handcuff? Maybe I’d said them wrong. Random words of the poem drifted in and out of my head.

Whisper clear then unhinged, broken, dead…

Something about lives and boasting ahead…

But every word that boasts ahead

Means lives unhinged, broken, dead.

I closed my eyes again, willing my body to leave this place and return to Jimbo at the MCG. There was a tearing, rushing noise somewhere above me—or was it from inside my head—but suddenly I was there, back in our room. Jimbo was lying on his bed, flicking through the
Wisden
.

‘Jimbo!’ I cried, relief surging through me. Jimbo didn’t look up. I called his name again—maybe my voice was weak from the sleeping drug Smale had injected into me. I reached a hand out, but there was nothing in front of me. I looked down at myself and saw space. I had no body.

‘JIMBO!’

I was yelling but he wasn’t moving. Was I dreaming? The pain in my wrist suddenly brought me back to reality. Now I could see it again—the metal pinching my skin had made it bleed. My cheek, resting against the cold wall, felt numb.

‘Help!’ I yelled. My voice sounded faint and distant. My tongue was swollen and I could barely get the word out. My head dropped to my chest again and a wave of extreme tiredness swept over me. I knew I was in London; I knew I was out of time; and I knew I’d been trapped by Smale. But it didn’t matter any more.

BANG!

Something outside hit the door hard. It crashed open straight into my back. I barely noticed. One man, then another, burst through the small opening. ‘Oh God, help me!’ a voice shrieked close by me.

Slowly I looked up. Was I still dreaming? Was this really Smale back in the fire escape stairwell with me? And who was the tall guy with the pale white face and spiky white hair looming over us both?

‘You snivelling little man,’ a hoarse-sounding voice said. ‘Give me the scorecard. You have no right to it.’

I watched in horror as an enormous hand clasped Smale around the neck and lifted him off the ground. Smale turned red and his eyes were bulging. He tried to say something but could only gasp and wheeze. The white man dropped him and he collapsed next to me.

‘L-locker 26,’ Smale spluttered, sucking in air in huge gulps. ‘In a
Wisden
. Th-that’s how I t-travel.’

‘I know how you travel and I know you don’t have a
Wisden
with you.’ For the first time the man looked at me. ‘Where are you from?’ He glanced at the handcuff. ‘Well?’ The man was glaring at me now. Blue veins bulged in his forehead and neck. His skin looked almost transparent. I realised he was the pale shape I’d seen floating around the Oval ground.

I swallowed, then opened my mouth. ‘I’m…I’m—’

He was too impatient to wait for my explanation. ‘Stay here if you want to stay alive,’ he ordered, and strode out onto the platform again.

‘Two lines of the poem, Jones. Hurry!’ Smale said, getting up and reaching into his pocket. I stared blankly at him. ‘Come on, stay awake,’ he said, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me. I felt myself drifting away again, almost as if I was floating. The room was shrinking all around me.

‘Please, boy. Think!’ Smale was fumbling with a key near my hand. Suddenly the tension eased on my wrist.

The poem. Just two lines and I was home. Concentrating hard, fighting off the drowsiness that was making me feel numb, I found the first two lines of the poem somewhere deep in my brain. In small, faltering speech, I forced them into the air between Smale and me.

What wonders abound, dear boy, don’t fear

These shimmering pages, never clear.