Howzat!

by Brett Lee

  That was better, I thought, resting my head against the bricks, more comfortable sitting. Two lines of the poem. Surely the power of the Wisdens 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.

  7

  A Letter from Smale

  Tuesday—afternoon

  ‘Toby, wake up!’

  I opened one eye, took in my surroundings, then suddenly sat bolt upright. ‘Geez, what happened?’

  Shaking my head, I got off the bed and regretted the move straightaway. A wave of dizziness swept over me and I sat back down again quickly.

  ‘You okay? How did it go with Jim and Ally? Is she okay now? Toby, did you bump into Smale?’ Jimbo’s words came in a jumbled torrent.

  ‘Smale? Yes.’ I looked up at Jimbo sharply, trying to ignore the dull throb in my head. I remembered the drag on my ankle as I spoke the last line of the poem. ‘He came back with me, didn’t he?’

  ‘Well, I dunno, but I got a bit suss when I saw him racing off down the corridor when I came back to the room to check if you’d returned.’

  ‘When was that?’ I stood up again, more slowly this time.

  ‘About four hours ago,’ Jimbo said, looking at his watch.

  ‘What?’ I gasped, and then remembered the injection. I pressed a finger on the spot on my backside and immediately felt the pain. ‘Tell me everything,’ I said, picking up a water bottle. I took a long drink as Jimbo spoke.

  ‘Well, I sat here for a while—’

  ‘On your bed. You were lying on your bed, reading the Wisden, yeah?’

  ‘Um, yeah, but that was okay, wasn’t it?’ Jimbo looked worried. ‘I mean, I didn’t think you needed the Wisden once you were gone.’

  ‘No, no. That was fine. But did I come back into the room at all?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I took a deep breath. Maybe I had dreamed seeing Jimbo. Maybe it was an hallucination, caused by the injection that Smale had given me.

  ‘While you were lying on the bed reading the Wisden, did you hear me or see me?’

  ‘Nope. I only noticed you were back when I came up before lunch. That’s when I saw Smale. You were lying on the floor, sleeping like a baby. I just dragged you up onto your bed, threw a doona over you and went back down.’

  ‘Where did you say I was?’ I asked. Surely, someone would have come to check on me?

  ‘Ah, well, that was a bit tricky. I told Glenn down in the nets that you’d been called out by your parents for an important appointment.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yep. And same for Marto this afternoon.’

  ‘Marto?’

  ‘Our fielding coach. Boy, I gotta tell—’

  ‘Jimbo, have you seen Jim?’

  ‘Jim? Nope. Should I have?’ He must have noticed the look in my eyes. ‘So what happened with Jim and Ally?’

  ‘I never saw them,’ I said, reaching for my phone. ‘Smale trapped me, but I’ve got no idea how. I just hope he didn’t get Jim and Ally as well. We’ve got to move fast. I’ll ring home. Can you go and see if you can find David from the library?’

  I pressed 1 on my phone and hit send. There was a knock on the door. I switched the phone off and looked over at Jimbo, who was frowning.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called.

  ‘It’s just David. Again,’ the librarian muttered apologetically, opening the door slightly.

  ‘David? Come in!’ My mind was slowly clearing and the feeling was creeping back into my arms and legs.

  ‘You’re back,’ David said, looking at me and nodding. ‘Jim told me everything. I feel so awful.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘The parcel I left for you—have you got it? The letter?’

  I grabbed it from the table by the window and passed it to him. He read it quickly, muttering and shaking his head. ‘Oh dear. Just as we thought.’

  ‘Thought what? Who’s we? Do you mean Jim? Is he okay?’ The words gushed out.

  David held up a hand. ‘Jim and Ally are fine. They returned quickly when you didn’t show up. But I couldn’t find you anywhere. Nor you,’ he added, looking at Jimbo.

  ‘I was here all afternoon, asleep on the bed,’ I said. Jimbo nodded.

  ‘Yes, well, I was away from the ground this afternoon,’ David said. ‘Never mind. All’s well, etc, etc. But I suggest you give Jim a call.’

  ‘So what happened?’ I ask
ed.

  David sighed. ‘I do feel very bad. I never thought for a moment that Phillip Smale would return to the library last night. But he did. And he tampered with your mail.’

  ‘What do you mean, tampered?’ Jimbo asked, looking from me to David.

  ‘He opened it, took out Jim’s letter and substituted it with another letter. One, I imagine, that lured you somewhere.’ David sat on the bed, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘Jim spoke to me about the letter he wrote to you. I can’t remember all the details, but I can assure you it wasn’t telling you to meet up with Phillip Smale. You were to meet Jim at the MCG.’

  ‘Here?’ I asked, incredulous.

  ‘Well, not exactly here, as in here right now.’ David chuckled.

  ‘C’mon, Toby, we’ve got a session out on the ground, looking at the pitch,’ Jimbo said, heading for the door.

  ‘You go. I’ll meet you out there. I’m just going to ring Jim.’

  When Jimbo and David had left, I picked up the phone again and hit call. Dad answered after only a few rings. After a brief chat, I asked him to put Jim on the phone.

  ‘My dear boy,’ Jim began, sounding surprisingly cheerful given that I’d stuffed up.

  ‘Is Ally okay?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s fine. Another day won’t hurt, I’m sure. But I am very sorry about what occurred, Toby. I’m glad you’re safe. Tell me, what happened?’

  I told Jim about meeting Smale at the Oval and his plan to force me to stay beyond the two-hour limit by handcuffing me to the fire escape stairs. ‘But I think I might have travelled anyway,’ I said, describing the vision I’d had of Jimbo lying on his bed reading the Wisden.

  ‘Very odd indeed,’ Jim said after a pause. ‘Smale restrained your body, but perhaps your mind travelled.’

  ‘You mean I was a ghost?’

  ‘You say Jimbo didn’t see you?’ Jim asked, ignoring my question.

  ‘I shouted and shouted but he didn’t look up once,’ I explained.

  ‘I’m not sure, Toby.’ Another pause. ‘But I must say, if you did in fact travel then you were extremely lucky to get back to that stairwell in the London Underground. Extremely lucky.’

  When I told Jim about the pale-faced guy who was after Smale’s scorecard, I heard his sharp intake of breath. He was silent so long I thought I’d lost the call.

  ‘Jim?’ I said.

  ‘This man had white hair?’ Jim asked sharply.

  ‘Yep. Short and spiky. And his face was so pale. It was if—’

  ‘As if he were a ghost.’ Jim finished the sentence.

  ‘Well, yeah, I guess. Not that I’ve ever seen one. It was as if he was dead. Or should have been.’

  ‘Did he speak to you? Did he know who you were?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He asked me where I was from, that’s all.’ I remembered something else. ‘And he knew that Smale didn’t have the Wisden with the scorecard in it. That’s why he left—to go and get it.’

  Jim groaned. ‘And so Hugo Malchev now has the scorecard?’

  ‘Who?’ I said. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I know of him, Toby, yes.’ Jim paused. ‘Well, you can tell me more tonight. Ally and I will be in the library at 8 p.m. Georgie is coming along too.’

  ‘But what about Smale? What if he’s there? He’s still got the scorecard. He had it on him all along.’

  ‘Well, it’s a relief that Malchev didn’t get it,’ Jim said. ‘Don’t worry about Phillip—David’s seeing to that. You know, that was really very clever of Smale,’ he went on. ‘He opened the parcel I gave to David to give to you, read the letter, realised what was happening and then rewrote the letter to lure you to England.’

  ‘To leave me stranded there for ever. What would have happened to me?’

  ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, Toby. We should just be grateful that Malchev intervened and saved you.’

  I stared out the window at the group of kids gathered around the MCG cricket pitch. The coach with them was pointing to a spot down at the southern end. Maybe they were the bowlers’ footmarks. I wanted to get out there too, but I had one more question to ask Jim. Something that had been bothering me ever since our conversation had started.

  ‘Jim, if Smale read your original letter, doesn’t that mean he knows where we’re taking Ally? Isn’t that going to make it dangerous for her?’

  ‘Leave these matters to me, Toby. I’ve made appropriate alterations to our travel plans.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope I don’t run into Smale again,’ I said. ‘Or the albino guy with the spiky hair. Who is he anyway?’

  Jim grunted. ‘Smale won’t bother us, but Hugo Malchev I’m not sure about. I’ll tell you about him some other time.’ His voice suddenly lightened. ‘Now, what have you been up to?’

  We talked a little about the cricket camp and the things Jimbo and I had seen and done, then I said goodbye and headed downstairs, tossing my bag, with my phone in it, alongside the others in the Frank Grey-Smith Room.

  We spent almost an hour discussing the pitch. It was fascinating. Bob, the ground curator for the MCG, talked about the effect a grass cover had on pitches, cracks and bowlers’ footmarks, and how they helped spin bowlers.

  After dinner Jimbo and I hung around the library, looking at the collection of Wisdens and watching a DVD in the viewing room of some classic Test match action. At least I wasn’t looking at my watch any more. When Jim poked his head around the corner, I was surprised to see that it was almost eight o’clock.

  ‘It’s time,’ Jim said quietly. David was standing behind him with Georgie.

  ‘Georgie, hi,’ I said, jumping out of my chair and racing over to her. There were suddenly a hundred things I had to tell her about the camp. ‘Geez, I wish you were a part of this.’ I didn’t quite know where to start. ‘The nets. They’re indoor, but there are also outdoor ones—’

  Jim held up a hand. ‘Toby, time for all that later. We have a job to do first.’ I’d never seen Jim look so anxious and serious.

  ‘Where’s Ally?’ I asked, looking round.

  ‘She’s waiting in David’s office.’

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll be heading off,’ Jimbo muttered, standing.

  ‘No, no, Jimbo. You stay here,’ David said. ‘You and Georgie can help me sort through some posters we’ve just bought. I need someone to identify them and help me build a web page. Do you know how to scan images?’

  Jimbo’s eyes lit up. ‘Sure!’ he said.

  David caught me staring at him. ‘Don’t worry. Jim’s filled me in on your time travel adventures.’ He turned back to Jimbo. ‘Thanks, Jimbo. That will be a great help. Would you and Georgie mind waiting here while I arrange for the travellers, and then we’ll get to it.’

  I gave Georgie a quick wave and followed Jim and David into David’s office. I could see one of the MCG light towers through the window and the footbridge further away. In the distance was the Tennis Centre and the roof of the Rod Laver Arena, where they played the Australian Open tennis tournament. Then I saw Ally.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, suddenly feeling nervous and awkward. I’d been waiting for this moment for so long and now it had finally arrived. Ally smiled, then stepped forwards and gave me a hug. I felt my face go red.

  ‘Let’s save the hugs till we’re back and Ally’s better,’ Jim said. He opened up a Wisden that was sitting on David’s table. ‘Toby, are you ready?’

  I licked my lips and nodded.

  8

  The Power of the Stump

  I followed Jim’s finger to the spot and a number materialised from the white and black swirl. Somewhere behind me I heard a door close but I was already in another zone; the familiar sounds and sensations washed over me as I felt Ally’s hand grip mine tighter.

  ‘The number, Toby. Do you see the number? Bob Cowper made 99.’

  ‘Nine,’ I breathed. ‘Yes. There are two of them…’

  It was the quickest, easiest trip I’d ever done. Jim mu
st have noticed my surprise.

  ‘We’ve travelled in time,’ he said, ‘but not so many metres.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ally asked, looking around.

  Jim waved us on. ‘I’ll explain on the way.’

  I hadn’t noticed the year of the Wisden, but I could see we were still at the MCG. I heard the noise of the crowd as we walked quickly down some concrete steps and into a large tunnel. We passed a first-aid room and then a block of toilets.

  ‘Which game is it, Jim? What’s happening?’

  ‘Not today, Toby.’

  Jim’s shoulders were hunched and he was walking briskly. Ally struggled to keep up. Finally he paused at the bottom of some steps and I recognised where we were. An enormous oil painting of an old cricket match took up most of the wall opposite.

  ‘It’s the old library,’ I breathed, heading up the small flight of steps.

  ‘I think we’re a little early,’ Jim said.

  We entered the library. The shelves of books looked the same as usual, though not quite as full. I glanced quickly at the Wisden cabinet to my right.

  ‘Is it 1966?’ I asked, noticing that the Wisdens stopped at 1965.

  Jim sat down in one of the chairs at the oval table. ‘Almost, 30 December 1965. Not the most exciting of Test matches played, although Bill Lawry made a couple of solid half-centuries.’ I knew Bill Lawry from the television commentary team. He was a legendary opening batsman and had captained Australia.

  ‘Did we win?’

  ‘A draw.’

  Ally rolled her eyes. ‘I thought we had to go to Lord’s, Jim?’ She sat down next to him.

  ‘So we did, Ally. But something has happened.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  Jim shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know all the details yet. Marcus will fill us in, I’m sure.’

  ‘Marcus?’ I hadn’t heard the name before.

  ‘Marcus Fleming. One of the greatest of the Cricket Lords.’

  ‘Cricket Lords? Jim, you’re losing me. What’s a Cricket Lord?’