Howzat! (21 page)

‘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.

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.

I watched in horror as his body materialised. The spirit was turning into flesh. In a matter of moments an old man was lying on the ground. Tentatively I touched his wrist, feeling for a pulse. His skin was clammy and cold; there was no life in him.

Fearing another attack, I got up quickly and sprinted on. The area behind the stand was deserted. A man wearing a grey coat stood at an entrance gate at the back of the main stand. I approached him warily.

‘You cannot enter,’ he said in a strange, vacant voice.

‘I am Toby Jones,’ I said, moving towards him. He appeared harmless enough, though he was a spirit, like the Grubbers.

‘The Cricket Lord?’ He looked at me for the first time. I nodded.

‘What was the result of the fifth Ashes Test match of 1926?’ Resting my hands on the cool iron turnstile, I closed my eyes. For a brief moment I panicked,
wondering where the answer would come from, but then it was there; as if I’d known it all my life.

‘England won by 289 runs.’

He didn’t smile. ‘Who made 120 for England at Trent Bridge in 196–’

‘John Edrich,’ I snapped, pushing at the metal bar. There was a click and suddenly I was inside the stand.

‘About time too,’ I thought I heard the man say. I spun around, suddenly remembering that I’d forgotten to ask about the cricket balls, but to my amazement he had vanished. Taking a few tentative steps, I glanced left then right. A Grubber was moving away from me to my left. I waited until he was out of view then headed in the opposite direction. Almost straight away I found myself in a narrow passage. As I followed it, I had the awful sense that someone was following, though whenever I turned, there was nothing behind me except an empty corridor. I pressed on another 20 metres, stopping when I saw yet another figure in a grey coat, standing outside a door. Just as I was about to call out I sensed movement ahead of me. I froze, edging back into the darkness of a small recess in the passage wall. A Grubber floated past. He paid no attention to the grey-coated figure, though surely he must have seen him. Were they partners after all? Was I being led into a trap?

I took a tentative step back into the corridor and turned to face the figure.

‘I…I—’

‘The Cricket Lord?’ Again the voice was soft and lilting.

‘Yes,’ I said, edging closer. ‘Are you going to ask me another question?’

He smiled and shook his head.

‘What about the Grubber?’ he asked.

‘He didn’t see me,’ I replied. The figure took a step to one side, reached around, opened the door behind him, and then, like the one I met at the turnstile, disappeared.

I entered the room quickly and stopped dead. It was like the Sanctum back at the MCG, the space inside totally out of proportion to the size it should have been. In the middle of the room was a chair and on the chair a note.

‘Welcome, Cricket Lord,’ it read. ‘May your strength and courage win the day.’ I glanced around. The wall to my left was lined with old wooden shelves and on the shelves were stacks of boxes. On the other side of the room was an old, dark green gate. I moved closer. ‘The turnstile,’ I breathed, touching its iron poles. Was this the gateway back to our time?

I turned around and rushed over to the shelves of boxes, tearing off the lid of one of them. Twelve neatly arranged shiny new cricket balls were nestled inside. Their newness seemed at odds with the rundown feel of the place.

I picked one up and knew straight away from the feeling it gave me that this was no ordinary cricket
ball. There must have been hundreds of boxes. For the first time in ages I smiled. If I could just get these into the hands of the Test players upstairs in the stands, I thought, grabbing two of the boxes.

Hurling away the lids, I raced out into the corridor, almost colliding with a Grubber. Snatching one of the balls, I chucked it at him as hard as I could. The ball burst through him, smacking against the wall behind. The Grubber vanished in an instant.

‘Beauty,’ I whispered, picking up the ball. I turned and ran, and was straight away confronted by two more Grubbers. Two quick throws later, they had vanished into thin air and the way ahead of me was clear again.

I arrived at the bottom of a huge set of wide wooden stairs. I could clearly hear a rumble of noise as I charged up the steps. I reached the top and gasped. The stand was packed with men, women and children. The air was filled with the sound of crying as adults tried to comfort young kids. I hadn’t yet been noticed by any of the hundreds of Grubbers patrolling the aisles of the stand. I turned to the person next to me.

‘Who are you?’

‘Kerry O’Keeffe,’ he said, staring at me quizzically. ‘And when I wake up from this bloody nightmare I’ll be a very relieved man.’

Kerry O’Keeffe. Australian leg spin bowler, 53 Test wickets, batting average of 25.76. The information poured into my head.

‘G’day, Kerry,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’

‘If it means I don’t have to talk to this old codger, then I’m all yours,’ he said, bouncing up off his seat and moving away from the elderly cricketer next to him. ‘Except for these blasted spooks,’ he muttered, sitting back down again as a Grubber swept by. I shoved my hand—which was holding the ball—into the Grubber’s stomach as he loomed up in front of me. There was a soft hissing sound and a moment later he disappeared.

‘Here, take this box of balls. Throw them at the Grubbers.’

‘The what?’

‘The spooks,’ I grinned. ‘Go find anyone you think can throw a ball and get them to help you hit the spooks. With the cricket balls,’ I added.

‘It can’t get any weirder,’ Kerry mumbled, taking the box of balls from me.

There was no hope of finding Jimbo or Scott but I scanned the crowd anyway, desperately hoping I’d recognise someone. Finally my eyes came to rest on a familiar figure, a few rows down and away to my right.

‘Freddy,’ I gasped, moving towards him. He’d made it to Test cricket after all. ‘Freddy!’ I shouted. He glanced to his left, his face lightening suddenly. Kerry was already causing a commotion. He’d gathered together about six players or ex-players and they were carving their way through the army of
Grubbers down along the fence line. Many more people were standing up, wanting to join them.

Freddy was out of his seat and edging past a group of kids of similar age.

‘What kept you?’ he said, slapping me on the shoulder.

‘Have you seen Jimbo or Scott?’ I asked, grabbing his arm.

‘Yeah, they’re further over. Benny?’ he called, turning back to where he’d been sitting. ‘Go and get those two Aussie guys I was telling you about.’

‘Meet us at the top of the stairs here,’ I added. ‘You guys, with us. Hurry!’ The six kids who’d been sitting next to Freddy looked up at me nervously. ‘Come on!’

‘Do it!’ Freddy added. I didn’t wait to see if they were following. We needed more of the cricket balls.

‘What’s going on?’ A tall man in a suit addressed me. His face looked familiar; I was sure I’d seen him on TV. There was a calm, confident air about him.

‘We need to get everyone downstairs. First room on your left. There’s a green turnstile in there. It will take everyone home,’ I told him, remembering Jim’s instructions. The look of bewilderment on his face quickly changed to amazement as a Grubber swooped up the stairs from behind him. Thrusting my arm out, I smashed the ghostly figure into oblivion right in front of the man’s eyes.

‘What shall I do?’ he asked, staring around him, looking for the Grubber.

‘Marshal everyone down these stairs and into the room below,’ I said. ‘But hurry. These Grubbers might change their minds about all of you.’

With the others following, I charged back down the stairs and into the turnstile room.

‘Grab a box of balls each and take it upstairs,’ I shouted, taking a box from the shelf and shoving it into Freddy’s hands. ‘Get anyone who can throw a ball to hit the ghosts!’

‘With a cricket ball?’ one of them asked, staring suspiciously at the box in his hands.

‘Asani, it works. Believe me,’ Freddy said, taking two boxes himself and rushing out. The others followed.

I ran back to the door and was met by the guy in the suit. He was leading a line of men and women carrying babies and small kids.

‘It’s absolute chaos out there,’ he grimaced. ‘I hope you know what you’re talking about.’

‘This way,’ I said, pointing to the metre-high turnstile.

‘What is going on here?’ the man said, aghast, staring at the structure.

‘Trust me. This is the gateway.’ And if it works, I thought, then at least I know Jim is his old self again, and not still being controlled by Father Time.

‘What’s he saying?’ asked a woman who was carrying a tiny child, asleep on her shoulder.

‘Um, did you come with the baby?’ I said, as she stepped up to the turnstile.

‘Of course I didn’t. I’ve got no idea where I am or whose child this is and I can’t find its mother.’

I took a deep breath.

‘Listen, if I’m right, this turnstile is going to take you back to the place you came from. You might end up in your place or you might end up in the child’s place. I don’t know. But you will be back.’

‘By walking through this turnstile here?’ She scoffed, turning to the man.

‘I believe him,’ the man said finally. ‘It can’t hurt.’ Others in the line were pressing forwards, wondering what was happening.

‘Go!’ I yelled, as two Grubbers swept into the room. I threw a cricket ball at the first one and he flew up into the air, crashing into the wall behind him. A quick-thinking guy further back in the line picked up the ball and flicked it at the other Grubber, who vanished into the air.

The woman with the baby stepped forwards, carefully pushing the green rails as she walked through the turnstile. There was a click as the iron gate swung over and then she was gone.

‘Oh my God,’ said the man. An elderly guy stepped up to go next. We watched him gently push the metal gate. It clicked and he too vanished.

‘Tony, come and supervise here!’ the man in the suit shouted. ‘Women, children and the elderly. Get them through.’ The man glanced at me once more, nodded, then headed off.

‘Hey, buddy, I want to stay and fight,’ a guy said, grabbing me by the shoulder. He was the person who’d thrown a ball a few minutes ago.

‘Great. We need to get all these boxes of balls upstairs,’ I said. Together we gathered more boxes and raced back upstairs.

The scene we were confronted with was one of absolute chaos. There were people pushing and screaming. Word had spread quickly that there was an escape route downstairs and people were now charging for the exits. The spell of the Grubbers had been broken. Even as I watched, they were disappearing in droves, powerless to stop the onslaught of cricket balls being hurled with amazing accuracy at them.

‘Order!’ a man shouted. ‘Stay calm, everyone.’ His loud voice seemed to have the desired effect and everyone began to shuffle slowly towards the stairwell. What if I was wrong? What if I was actually sending them to another place, even worse than this? Had Jim really spoken those words? Or had it been Father Time?

‘Toby?’ I spun around. Someone down near the fence was waving his arms frantically.

‘Jimbo?’ I battled my way through the throng of people all heading in the opposite direction. Scott was with him.

‘We’re getting out of here?’ he asked. Relief swept over me.

‘We are,’ I said. ‘You guys okay?’

‘Better for seeing you,’ Scott said, then grinned. ‘I guess you never thought you’d hear me say that.’
I looked out at the ground. The players and umpires were standing with their arms folded, watching the action in the stand.

‘Who are they?’ Jimbo asked, his gaze following mine. ‘Do they talk?’

‘All I know is that they’re the spirits of past cricketers. And I think that’s what everyone here was destined to become—a spirit. At some point in the future every person here in the stand would have gone out onto the ground to play cricket. That’s what Father Time had organised,’ I explained.

‘And all these creepy ghost things that were guarding us?’ asked Scott.

I looked at him. ‘The same. They were frustrated, but harmless enough. They were waiting their turn to go and play out there.’

I glanced over at the scoreboard. Wisps of smoke trailed from a couple of the openings. The area beneath it was littered with broken pieces of wood and other sections of the scoreboard. I felt an overwhelming urge to go to Georgie, whose lifeless shape I could just make out among the debris. I turned away, recalling Jim’s words.

It took half an hour for the Grubbers to be eliminated. By then, a sense of calm and order had been restored as more and more of the past Test players organised everyone into lines that slowly wound their way up to the top of the stand, then snaked towards the room that held the turnstile. The stand had emptied completely and there was not a
Grubber to be seen. The only evidence of the battle that had just taken place were the hundreds of shiny red cricket balls that littered the stands and walkways. Some had made their way onto the actual oval. The old men were now slowly moving towards them. I watched as they gently tossed the balls back towards the fence.