by Brett Lee
‘Jim? Is it really you?’ I opened the door slowly. He stood there smiling, his arms outstretched. I didn’t move.
‘Toby, it’s all right—’
‘Where’s Georgie?’
He seemed momentarily taken aback. ‘Georgie is still in the scoreboard.’
I looked carefully into his eyes, trying to detect any sign at all that this wasn’t Jim, but there was nothing about his appearance that indicated Father Time’s spirit was inside him now. Had Father Time’s possession of Jim now had enough time to be complete and therefore undetectable?
‘I need the scorecard, Toby. I need—’
‘NO!’ I shouted. ‘You gave me the scorecard. You said I was to look after it. Not to give it to anyone.’
His eyes flashed black and a shadow passed over his face. I shivered. The room had gone suddenly cold. The tingling in my stomach had become a grinding pain.
‘Don’t be foolish, Toby. Georgie is your friend. Your best friend. Her life is in danger.’
‘You’re not Jim.’ I backed away; suddenly horrified that Father Time himself was standing here in my home. The man took a step forwards. The door closed behind him—on its own.
‘You’re a smart boy, as the old man warned me.’ He was slowly moving towards me. ‘But your time of tricks and escapades is over. The Timeless Cricket Match has resumed. I have at my disposal every player who has played Test cricket and is to play. Once the scorecard is destroyed, I and I alone will be the only being travelling through time.’
‘I’ll never give it up. I’ll destroy you first!’
The man in front of me stood still and laughed softly. ‘You see, Toby Jones, therein lies your problem. For if you destroy me, you destroy any chance of the old man passing on his wisdom and knowledge about time travel to you. And where will that put you? I’m not sure that you’d survive.’
Someone was moving in the corridor outside. Should I call out? As if sensing my thoughts, the figure of Jim suddenly vanished. The curtains billowed slightly and I felt a rush of cool air. He had gone.
14
The Battle with Father Time
Monday—afternoon
There was only one place he could have gone. It was where Georgie was; it was where maybe all the Test cricketers were. He knew I’d follow. This was it. I felt light, detached; as if it wasn’t me moving quickly around my room, getting the scorecard from beneath my pillow, putting on a change of clothes, picking up the cricket ball. A sense of calm had taken over. There was a job to do and I knew with a crystal clear clarity that there was only one person who could do it.
‘You’re off again?’ Mum said, walking past my room on her way into the kitchen.
‘Things to do, you know.’
She laughed. ‘Since when does a boy on holidays have things to do?’
I shrugged, grabbing an apple and a snack bar from the cupboard.
‘Is that breakfast?’ Mum asked.
‘I won’t be long, Mum.’ Walking out the front door, I wondered how close my prediction would be to the truth.
No one was answering at Ally’s house when I phoned but Rahul was home when I tried him.
‘Rahul, I need a favour,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m on my way round, okay?’
‘Sure, Toby. Have you heard?’ We chatted on the phone about the disappearances while I rode to his house. It took 15 minutes, so by the time I arrived Rahul knew as much as I did about Jim, the missing cricketers and my plans. There wasn’t much to tell about my plans. I had my cricket ball and not much else except any power I had as a Cricket Lord.
‘I’ve got a Wisden ready,’ Rahul said, meeting me in his front garden. We walked around to a secluded area of shrubs and bushes.
‘Thanks, Rahul.’
‘Will you return to this spot?’
‘Will I return, more to the point. Find a zero. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter.’
Rahul opened the new Wisden in his hands and flicked through some pages. ‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty on this page.’
‘Australia must have been bowling,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood.
‘They were.’ For a moment I thought he was going to give me all the details of the match.
‘Don’t forget to let go as soon as my finger touches the zero, okay?’
‘Of course.’ Rahul guided my finger to the spot. The zero flew out at me so quickly from the messy swirl of numbers and letters that I almost looked away. But I held my gaze and an instant later I felt the familiar chill of my new surroundings cool my flesh.
I never arrived in the same place, and I sensed straight away I was some distance from the cricket ground. Perhaps the faster you travelled to get here, the more removed you were from the Timeless Cricket Match.
I took a moment to get my bearings. Like last time, worn tracks wound their way through the dry and dead terrain. I followed the main track, occasionally stooping and ducking to avoid sharp overgrown branches jutting out over the path. At one point it got quite dark, but I pressed on. What choice did I have?
From the distance, some way ahead of me, came a sound I hadn’t heard before. It was a soft kind of rumble. It was the noise of a crowd, though no one was cheering. It was the sound of a hundred voices; maybe a thousand. Quickening my pace, I wondered if the noise could be the terrified voices of all the lost cricketers.
This time it was a short, steep climb up a barren path that brought me into view of the cricket ground. I was coming in from behind the scoreboard and for a few moments all I could see was its broad, wooden back. But as I climbed the small hill, my eyes took in the huge stand to its left.
I stopped dead. It was full to bursting with people, colourfully dressed people. People of all shapes and sizes: babies, toddlers, children, young adults and the elderly. Most of them were sitting down.
A line of Grubbers paced up and down in an area between the bottom of the stand and the ground. Were they guards, keeping everyone in place?
The noise from the ground became a dull, thunderous roar as I got closer to the oval. It was a strange mixture of wailing and shouting; I could hear loud and animated conversation mingled with cries of despair and anguish. The stand was overflowing with people. They spilled out into a smaller open stand, further away to the left, and there were still more people bunched in tightly on wooden benches that ran around the entire half of the oval.
‘Quite a sight, Toby Jones!’ a harsh voice called from above. Jim’s face peered through one of the scoreboard slats. And then another head appeared.
‘Georgie!’ I called, rushing towards the ladder.
‘If you want her life spared, then bring me the scorecard.’
‘What about everyone else?’ I shouted. I’d reached the stairs. I stumbled upwards, blind panic taking over the bolt of fear that had initially gripped me when I’d heard Father Time’s raspy voice.
‘Let go of her,’ I cried, bumping my way across the first level and reaching the next set of stairs. They were on the third level. I rushed past two Grubbers, who paid me no attention at all. They were concentrating on the scoring.
Finally I reached the top level. The figure of Jim stood with his arms folded, his back to the openings on the face of the scoreboard and the ground beyond.
‘You can’t—’
‘Silence!’ he bellowed. The old scoreboard shook as his voice echoed into every corner of the wooden room. ‘I have been watching you for some time, Mr Jones. You are very nearly the last Cricket Lord left and thus are going to perish like the rest of them.’ He tossed his head, indicating the crowd outside. ‘But, as a Cricket Lord myself, I am capable of respect. It’s your choice. Give me the scorecard and your life is saved. You simply remain here in the scoreboard for the rest of time, scoring the match.’
‘Where’s Jim?’ I cried.
‘Slipping further and further away. Every time you speak to me, Toby Jones, you give me strength and power to take over the old man’s body more completely. Every word you utte
r pushes him further and further away. Talk to me, Toby Jones.’
I’d had enough. I made a dash for Georgie, who had been standing as though in a trance, looking blankly from me to the figure of Jim. Suddenly she started moving, walking towards me like a zombie.
‘You really don’t get it, do you?’ Father Time snarled. Georgie’s speed increased. I swerved at the last moment as she came hurtling towards me before smashing herself into the front of the scoreboard.
‘Georgie!’ I screamed, rushing to her. Some invisible force was lifting her off the floor. Reaching up I managed to grab onto her jacket. I held on grimly, feeling my own feet slowly rise from the wooden floorboards.
‘Give me the scorecard and save your friend.’
‘Georgie, wake up,’ I pleaded, ignoring the voice. As my hold on her loosened, my fingers closed around something round and hard in her pocket. The material of her jacket slipped through my fingers but I clasped the object firmly in my left hand, turning my body to conceal my find. Was it a magic cricket ball like mine?
I spun round and hurled it at the figure of Jim. A roar of pain filled the tiny room. He staggered back, his eyes wide with shock. Behind me I heard Georgie’s body collapse to the floor.
Taking out my own cricket ball, I ran towards Father Time. But I didn’t notice the black square of wood flying towards me. It crashed into my hand as I went to release the ball and there was a loud crack as it connected with my wrist.
I gasped, reeling back in pain, and watched despairingly as the cricket ball fell to the floor and rolled slowly towards Father Time. Another wooden board flew towards me but I managed to duck just in time, feeling the wind as it whistled millimetres above my head and crashed into the wall opposite.
I lunged for Georgie’s cricket ball, but just as my fingers grasped its edge, a foot crashed down on my wrist. The pain was excruciating. I was pinned to the ground.
‘Stop this now,’ Father Time said, but his voice was different. It was less harsh; softer. The ball had hurt him. As his hand reached down, searching for the scorecard, I rolled onto my back, kicking out with both legs with all the strength I had.
He staggered back slightly. It was all the time I needed. Quickly grabbing both the cricket balls, I hurled them simultaneously. The left arm throw was weak, my wrist throbbing and bruised, but he was still knocked backwards. His head hit the wall behind him, knocking a stack of wooden numbers to the floor. Dust billowed in a cloud over his head. Retrieving both balls, I got to my feet and moved towards him. His face—Jim’s face—was twisted in pain, his black eyes staring at me with menace and hatred.
‘I can toy with you as I like,’ his voice quavered. My mind suddenly went blank. It was as if someone had removed my entire memory. All I knew was that I was in an old dusty room staring at an old man. I started to cry. A baby’s cry; loud and piercing.
‘What are you going to do now, Toby Jones? You’re three years old and of no use to anyone.’ A loud voice was shouting at me. I cried louder. ‘Or shall we move ahead, hmm? Would you like that?’
The dust in my nose tickled but the sensation was taken over by an extreme burning pain in my hand. But that too disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
I looked down in surprise and then dropped one of the balls in horror. My hand had suddenly become wrinkled and blotchy, covered in red and purple sores.
As I fell to my knees I just managed to release the ball from my right hand, but it was a lame throw—the throw of an old man. My withered arm felt like it was about to fall off with the effort.
‘You’re ninety years old and dying,’ Father Time sneered. I held his gaze, sensing that he was uncomfortable with my stare. From behind me I could hear the faint sound of someone moving, but I was too tired to react. I was struggling to fight an overwhelming desire to just lie down and rest. To sleep forever. But somehow, from somewhere deep within me, a small voice was telling me to maintain eye contact with Father Time. Nothing else mattered.
New pains and aches were breaking out all over my body. My legs felt stiff and my arms were frail and useless, yet still I continued to stare into his evil black eyes. Slowly the Jim figure recoiled, stumbling backwards.
A sense of overwhelming power was pouring out of me. It was frightening, but it was having the desired effect. My skin started to prickle as I felt it gently pull and stretch, gradually returning to its normal smooth state.
‘Toby!’ a voice yelled. My concentration broken, I turned away from the Jim figure. A great cloud of white dust billowed around his head as he waved his arms. His body was jerking uncontrollably.
‘Georgie? Is that you?’
‘Where am I?’ she shrieked. A terrifying gust of wind was spinning violently just above the Jim figure. Covering my head, I dived for the cricket balls as the ghostly image of Father Time reared over me. I could barely make out the shape of the twisted body as it spiralled in the air.
‘Get out, Georgie!’ I shouted, then hurled the fastest, hardest throw I could manage directly at Father Time’s head. There was an explosion of sound as the ball connected; it then stopped in the space where his head had been. The spinning tornado was whipping up boards and chunks of wood, hurling them about the room in a frenzy of terrifying mayhem.
‘Again, Toby,’ I heard a voice call over the noise of the wind and a howling cry of anguish. The cricket ball was stuck in the spinning air, sucking the life out of Father Time. I hurled the other ball at the grey and black cloud as a plank of wood tore off the rear section of the wall, flying into the room.
More wood started to break away from the walls as the wind whipped around the room. My eyes stinging, I clung on to the frame of an open window overlooking the ground. I was hanging on grimly, my arms wrapped around the thin ledge of wood.
Outside, the crowd had gone silent; they were watching in amazement as the scoreboard was torn apart by this raging frenzy of ghostly wind. Even the cricketers and umpires on the field had paused.
I watched in horror as a section of roof blew clean away. Just when I thought I couldn’t hold on any longer, the screaming sound stopped. Nervously I glanced around. Jim lay motionless on the floor, covered in dust and black blocks of wood.
‘Georgie?’ I whispered, slowly untangling myself from the window. Half the walls had disappeared along with most of the wooden numbers. ‘Georgie, are you okay?’ And then I saw her, lying on the ground at the foot of the scoreboard. One leg was angled awkwardly, bent and twisted.
‘Nothing can be done,’ a hoarse voice whispered from behind me. I spun around. ‘I’m so sorry, Toby.’
‘Jim!’ I cried, rushing over to him. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Do not approach her, Toby. Do you understand?’ I was surprised by the harshness in his voice, thinking suddenly that Father Time was still somehow dwelling in his frail body. But the cruelly twisted face was softer, gentler.
‘But, Jim, is she all right?’ He closed his eyes briefly. I turned away, but felt his weak grip squeeze my arm.
‘Just promise me that you will not touch her,’ he wheezed, then started coughing. Carefully I removed the blocks of wood and other debris that had half buried him.
‘Jim, what’s happened?’ I choked, desperately trying to keep the tears of shock away. ‘Jim?’ I nudged him gently. He opened his eyes slowly, trying to focus on me. I took his hand and held it firmly. ‘Come on, Jim. Tell me what to do.’ He licked his dry lips.
‘Toby,’ he said finally, drawing me closer to him. His voice was barely a whisper. ‘Only the guards are left. You must destroy the guards and free the cricketers.’
‘But how?’
‘Beneath the stand.’ His voice was faltering.
‘Jim?’ I breathed, bending even closer. ‘I can’t leave you.’
‘You must, Toby. I have one more journey to make.’
‘Journey? Where?’
‘Go, Toby. Go to the turnstile beneath the stand.’ He paused again, catching his breath.
‘
Jim, will you be all right?’ Again he ignored me.
‘You will be asked a question, Toby. Answer the question and then ask for the cricket balls. Only then—’
‘Jim?’ I shook his shoulders, trying to rouse him. His breathing was laboured. ‘Please, Jim, wake up.’ His face looked suddenly peaceful. Easing my arm from beneath his head, I gently rested his head back on the floor.
‘I’ll be back,’ I whispered, more determined than ever to finish what had to be done.
Grabbing the two cricket balls, I charged down the stairs, glancing quickly at the broken body of Georgie, lying limp and alone in a crumpled heap at the foot of the scoreboard. I forced myself to turn away, recalling the tone of Jim’s words and his warning about not going near her.
James Anderson, playing for England against Australia in an international Twenty/20 match at Sydney in 2007, conceded a massive 64 runs off his four overs. His economy rate (average amount of runs hit off each over) was 16.
15
Through the Turnstiles
Monday—afternoon
Tempted as I was to run straight to the throng of Test cricketers packed into and around the main stand, I realised that I had to first obey Jim’s instructions.
I ran across a grassy bank, hardly noticing the ground beneath my feet. Yet again the game had paused, but the umpires and players were still on the field. The Grubbers who were guarding the Test players appeared agitated, running around and swooping menacingly over the frightened crowd.
Turning my head away, I sprinted across the slope, unaware of the long arm and icy hand of a Grubber reaching out towards me as he came at me from my back. It was only when I heard the rush of air behind me that I realised he was on me.
There was a gurgling, choking sound as the Grubber penetrated into my body. Pressing the cricket ball into his chest, I mumbled the magic words, then stumbled and crashed to the ground. I could hear a sucking noise as I felt his being suddenly withdraw from my body.
I rolled over, sensing him coming at me again. As he dived on top of me, his face centimetres from mine, I thrust the ball hard into the air, again muttering the words. I felt the ball and my whole arm pierce his chest, going right through him. He shuddered and then collapsed in a heap beside me.