Foul Ball

  Soon another cock came by to join in the action, and Starburst turned on that.

  Cormack could see the damage that had been done to his chosen chicken. It was dead, sure enough. The wager was lost. Proton, who hadn’t clocked what had happened yet, being caught up in the action and from the looks of him as he snarled and dipped with the fighting, zoomorphised to a killer chicken, would be furious when he realized what had happened.

  ‘It’s dead,’ said Cormack. ‘Killing Machine is dead.’

  ‘It surely is,’ said Stanton Bosch.

  ‘I lost the bet.’

  ‘No you ain't,’ said Stanton Bosch. He gave a signal to his brother, Hilton Bosch, who was near the pit.

  Hilton at once got up and pulled at the referee inside the ring. He was whispering in his ear and the referee looked concerned. Then he leant into the pit and reached for the red handkerchief that was still on the ground, raising it above his head. Hilton Bosch grabbed at Starburst, who had just killed another cock, the last still standing save him, and showed him to the referee. There was a confusion in the crowd, and boos and jeers and heckles. The referee gave a final wave.

  It was over and no one could understand what had happened.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Cormack.

  ‘Technical infraction,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Me brother would have pointed it out to the referee.’

  ‘Ladies and Gentleman!’ shouted the referee. ‘The Battle Royal has been stopped. All bets are off!’

  There were roars from the crowd. Betting slips were flying in the air. Small fights were breaking out.

  ‘I am so sorry. But I must have order. As I said, all bets are off. There has been a major technical infraction – Starburst is disqualified!’

  ‘Disqualified for what?’ said Cormack

  ‘Impersonating a cock,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘She’s not a cock at all. She’s a hen. She got teeth. Hens has got teeth on Foul Ball. Every damn fool knows that. They’re supposed to check for these things. Too late now she killed them all. But here’s your money, skinny man. You can see my brother for the chicken. You’ll have to take Starburst cos it’s the only one left alive.’

  ‘I thought all bets were off.’

  ‘Bets through the tote. Not a little friendly side bet like we had. Killing Machine ain't lost so you win the wager.’

  Proton was all ears and wanted to be convinced.

  ‘Cormack, my boy, you see how divine providence works? You picked the sickest, weakest bird there and still it came through for you. I knew you were the one, Cormack! When I first laid my eyes on you, I knew you were the one!’

  ‘But I would have won whichever cock I bet on. Except perhaps Starburst, because she wasn’t a cock at all. But Stanton Bosch told me not to bet on her.’

  ‘True enough, skinny man. True enough,’ said Stanton Bosch, and he surveyed the Arena shiftily, as though he were hunting for someone in the crowd that might have been listening.

  ***

  Chapter Eighteen

  Geoffrey loomed large at the head of the table, gavel in hand, ready to bang them to order.

  ‘First point of order – approval of the minutes from our previous meeting.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Bellingham. If we are to maintain proper records in council.’

  She sat distractedly, staring through the French windows at the garden beyond.

  ‘Approval of the minutes from our previous meeting. Show of hands. And approved. Moving on…’

  ‘Can I have an agenda please, Geoffrey?’

  ‘You didn’t get one, Douglas?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mrs. Bellingham – Douglas, didn’t get an agenda.’

  ‘Oh!’

  She rose to the pile that she had copied and pulled one off the top.

  ‘Here you are, Douglas.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Pamela.’

  ‘Item one again…’

  ‘Traction, Traction...’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘A little sherry, I think. Anybody for a little sherry?’

  ‘Yes please, Pamela.’

  ‘Item one… again… Report on the torture of the Juval Councillor.’

  ‘Shouldn’t Finance report first?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It says the Juval Councillor is first on the agenda.’

  ‘But normally Finance reports first.’

  ‘Let’s go with the Juval Councillor seeing as that’s what it says on the agenda. Graham – your report please.’

  ‘We could go with Finance first if you want. It really doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No, I think, we’re agreed we want the Juval Councillor first.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely we’re sure.’

  Silence, while Graham stared into space.

  ‘Go ahead, Graham.’

  ‘Oh! Well, I suppose I will come right out with it. Thing is the chaps got a little carried away. Not really used to this kind of thing. It requires a subtlety that they appreciably lack. I’m afraid they rather did her in.’

  ‘She’s dead?’ said Mrs Bellingham loudly.

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t be dead, would she, Graham?’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Well, she is rather.’

  ‘Oh, my good God!’

  ‘Yes, so the rest of the agenda is probably going to have to change to suit. I see, item five for instance – further methods of torturing the Juval Councillor – all that’s rather dependant on her coming out of item one alive, which she hasn’t.’

  ‘Did she contact the Pastry Chef before she died?’ asked Mrs. Bellingham.

  ‘Oh yes. That was all done. He was keen to cooperate in fact. And he’s asking for a certain poison. The balm from the Fractious Jub-Jub tree. He wants it sent. Apparently it’s his preferred methodology.’

  ‘The balm from the Fractious Jub-Jub tree? What in heaven’s name is a Fractious Jub-Jub tree?’ said Douglas.

  ‘Over there,’ said Mrs Bellingham, pointing through the French windows to a huge spreading tree with leaves of olive green and a boled trunk, twenty feet wide. It gave shade across most of the croquet lawn. ‘Nearest the hydrangeas.’

  ***

  Chapter Nineteen

  They hardly slept that night. The cow was bivouacked in the refrigerator and Cormack got up periodically to attend to the cold presses that Stanton Bosch had prescribed for her stumps.

  The morning, when it came at last, was cold and clear. Proton was on the Tropico’s sun deck, performing his exercises in a canary yellow ski-suit, when Cormack came upon him with a mug of coffee.

  ‘Look at the SplatterHorn!’ said Proton, as he jumping-jacked. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  Cormack looked beyond the balustrade and saw the mountain for the first time. It had lost its shroud of fog and was standing clear and stark against the pale blue sky. It did look magnificent - a classical conical volcano, lolling huge in the distance and unconcernedly steaming a pale flume of smoke into the cold mountain air as though it were the side-stream from its post-coital cigarette.

  ‘Are we really going to climb it, Proton?’ asked Cormack.

  ‘Sure are, mate! Don’t worry, it’ll be a breeze. You’re with a team of survival experts.’

  ‘Is the cow coming too?’

  ‘Cormack, the cow is an unnecessary burden. And remember, we have the chicken to worry about now as well. We can leave her in the fridge in the hotel. She’ll be fine until we get back.’

  ‘If wes get back,’ said Stanton Bosch, who had arrived on the terrace wearing tight lederhosen and a felt mountaineering hat sporting a tiny red feather.

  ‘Stanton Bosch! Top of the morning to you! How did you sleep?’ said Proton.

  ‘Not so good.’

  ‘You’ve finished the preparations?’

  ‘Aye, we have,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Me brothers are all here. They’ll be acting as your Sherpas.’

  ?
??I’m not going without the cow,’ said Cormack peevishly.

  ‘You know the cow might come in useful to us, Captain,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘A little jerky in a blizzard…’

  ‘He wants to take the living cow.’

  ‘I’m not going without her.’

  In the end, they acceded to Cormack’s request without telling him why, and the cow was tied to a stretcher that the Boschs had procured from a haberdashers they had found in town. She was to be raised like an Indian Princess on a howdah by a team of four and was enthralled at the prospect.

  ‘Ooooh, Cormack,’ she said quietly, feeling a little chirpier. ‘And me a little Zargonic cow what’s lost me legs. Why ever are they treating me so?’

  By nine, breakfast having been consumed and bags packed and bills satisfied, they were all set. Proton was to lead off with Stanton Bosch as his guide. Then would come Cormack, walking, and the cow, lifted by the other Boschs, both surrounded by a phalanx of Guards to prevent escape.

  The road from Bartislard was at first tarmaced and in good condition, but soon it deteriorated into a cobbled track and then, after they had marched for a couple of hours, it fell away completely and became a tightly wound footpath, lightly pebbled, that cut through the jungle vegetation wonkily and seemed at times to be leading them away from the mountain.

  After a couple hours, Proton had them stop by a clear, cold stream to take on water and refill their canteens. He had the chicken in a little cage, tied to his backpack, and it was in constant flight, clucking and fussing and pecking at him like a bad conscience.

  Cormack found Stanton Bosch standing barefoot in the stream, washing his feet.

  ‘Three days march, skinny man,’ he said. ‘We camp tonight a little way up from the foot of the mountain. Then the next night we’ll be halfway up. ‘Tis only on the third night we’ll make the summit. Conserve your energy. It will be a tough march.’

  They chugged on when they had filled their canteens, along the path that began to wind upwards now. The vegetation gave way a little and soon they were amongst scrub and gorse. There were grazing animals that looked like sheep or goats, but with long curled horns, pulling at the moss with broken yellow teeth.

  They stopped for lunch at noon, under Proton’s instruction, and had quite a picnic of bread and cheese and chocolate, propped on a succession of terraced bands, evidence that the land had once been farmed.

  The tropical fug of Bartislard had dissolved into a temperate balm, and it felt summery and fresh. The cow was able to turn herself to one side inside the straps and whisper to Cormack that she wanted grass. He pulled a handful from the side of the path, and fed her some, putting the rest in his backpack. Soon enough they were off again at Proton’s command.

  It was tougher going now. The path was rising more steeply, but the Guards and the Boschs, even with the cow as a burden, made a good pace and Cormack struggled to keep up.

  They were closing on the mountain inexorably. They could see how the path bent around the rocky outcroppings of solidified lava, and how it would lead them west and through a small gorge, and then to the volcano’s base. And they could see the threaded way that was scored back and forth along the southern flank, and wound up it like a piece of looped cotton, and how it would take them to the summit.

  It looked impossibly steep.

  ‘Aye, it’s a tough march. Not many attempt it this time of year. You see the snowcap?’ Now they were closer, Cormack could see the white frosting that from afar had been lost against the sky. ‘It can be a dangerous place up there.’

  They stopped at six as the sun was setting and made camp with the tents there in the bracken.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty

  Mrs. Bellingham broke it down for them.

  ‘You can still continue. The Pastry Chef does not know his wife is dead. How can he? He will still cooperate. We will send him the balm from the Fractious Jub-Jub tree.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I will deliver it.’

  ‘You will deliver it, Pamela?’

  They were in yet another meeting of the Resistance Committee in her dining room. She wondered why they couldn’t acquire another venue, now that she was no longer Chairwoman.

  ‘I will deliver it. The tree is native to Crampton. It is not much known throughout the Empire. I suppose that’s why the Pastry Chef wants it. There would be little chance of his getting caught. The sap is highly poisonous when it’s distilled and incendiary if it’s oxidized. It requires careful handling. Really, I am the expert. It should be me that goes. I will carry him news of his son and perhaps of his wife. It will sound better coming from me.’

  ‘You can’t just go to Zargon 8, Pamela. It will be highly suspicious. You will be watched.’

  ‘But I have been invited.’

  ‘Invited?’

  ‘Yes, Douglas. By the Emperor himself.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He’s having a tournament. A polo tournament. He has invited a team from Crampton to compete.’

  ‘Well, what luck!’

  But Mrs. Bellingham didn’t feel luck had much to do with it.

  She had told Traction to wait outside and that he was no longer to attend to them during committee. He had shuffled anxiously and almost spluttered an objection before thinking better of it. Then he had nervously slunk to the kitchen, and she had caught him in the back larder, amongst the Double Gloucesters, with a glass to the wall.

  But she would go anyway. She had had enough. Enough of being alone in that huge, draughty house, just her and the dogs and Traction; enough of Douglas, and his fumbled solicitations; enough of that peculiar new man, who sat at the head of her dining room table as though he were in a restaurant and about to order trout; enough of Crampton; enough of everything.

  She would feed the dogs, and there were the horses to attend to, and then she would cut the grass on the farthest remote with the Bratton Davis. Stripe the bailey.

  Time enough for the composting tomorrow.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty One

  The night passed with little incident. They were up early and, after a breakfast of beans and bread, ready for the off again.

  They walked for close on two hours, across scrubby grassland that led to the base of the volcano, and then they came upon a small bridge that crossed a clear stream. They traversed it with care, Proton leading the way, delicate as a ballerina. They could feel the boards move beneath their feet but it held fast, and when they were across, they were right beneath the mountain itself. Then the path began to rise, switching back and forth across the south face.

  It was slow, sweaty progress, especially for the Boschs lifting the cow. They marched upwards at a funereal pace like convicts on a chain gang.

  When Proton called for lunch at noon, they stopped on the curve of a wide switchback and surveyed the view, magnificent now they were some five thousand feet up. Bartislard stood crouched in the valley below, slopped from the city walls and into the jungle, and they could see the Leech, a brown thread snaking through the green forest, and the sea beyond.

  ‘I said it was a beautiful planet,’ said Proton, trying not to mind his chicken which was clucking and fretting at him in the cage on his back.

  ‘It’s lovely from up here,’ said Cormack.

  ‘There be dangers up here too,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Keep your eyes open.’

  The wind was picking up and there was an edge to it, so they didn’t stop long.

  All that afternoon they made measured progress, moving carefully back and forth along the switchbacks, until Stanton Bosch recommended a ridge where they could stop to make camp for the night.

  ‘This be the place,’ he said to Proton.

  Proton was not so sure. There would be little room for the tents and it was very exposed, windward to the gusts that were whipping ash and dust at them.

  ‘But this be the best place all the same,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Until we gets to the summit.’

>   They unpacked their tents and arranged them as best they could in a tight semi-circle, backed against the mountain. Then the Boschs set the fire going and started boiling water for their tea.

  Proton set the chicken down in its steel basket next to his tent and went to talk to Stanton Bosch. They stood near the drop-off and pointed down the valley in an animated fashion, as though they were military strategists planning a raid.

  Cormack was sat with the cow by the fire.

  She appeared to have had a relapse and was loathed to talk – the stretcher borne at a tilt for most of the day had made her nauseated.

  After supper round the fire and nervous talk of tomorrow’s exertions, they all, save a few Guards and a couple of Boschs who were into the whisky, repaired to their tents. It was very cold, and they would be up at dawn for an early start.

  Cormack was exhausted, and crawled into his sleeping bag to try to get some sleep. Disconcerting images passed through his mind as he stared at the pin pricked canvas: Proton, armoured with his plastic codpiece, perched on a rock promontory like the Archangel Gabriel above Gomorrah; the gontail, tight around the cow, slicing her as though she were sausage; the face of Stanton Bosch, his liver spots linked and draining one into the other like a succession of oil strikes. Absurd, mad pictures, like frames from a cartoon. Foul Ball’s a dangerous planet, he kept thinking - Proton's words from the Tropico, running around his head, over and over like a mantra, until he could stand it no more and fell asleep.

  He awoke with a start minutes later.

  There were sounds of a scuffle from behind his tent, and then a man screamed.

  He heard tent flaps zipped open, and saw beams from flashlights on the walls of his tent. There was shouting and yet more screaming.

  He lay quite still for a while, and when he could bear it no longer, he unzipped the flap and went out into the cold night air.

  The screams were coming from the farthest side of the camp, where there was quite a scrum around one particular tent.