And so Dr Hix was now tolerated as a useful, if slightly irritating member of the Council largely because he was allowed (by statute) to say some of the naughty things that the other wizards would really have liked to say themselves. Someone with a widow’s peak, a skull ring, a sinister staff and a black robe was expected to spread a little evil around the place, although university statute had redefined acceptable evil in this case as being inconveniences on a par with shoelaces tied together or a brief attack of groinal itch. It wasn’t the most satisfactory of arrangements, but it was in the best UU tradition: Hix occupied, amiably, a niche that might otherwise be occupied by someone who really got off on the whole mouldering corpses and peeled skulls thing. Admittedly, he was always giving fellow wizards free tickets to the various amateur dramatic productions he was obsessively involved with, but, on balance, they agreed, taking one thing with another, this was still better than peeled skulls.

For Hix, a crowd like this was too good to waste. Not only was there a plethora of bootlaces to be expertly tied together, but there were an awful lot of pockets as well. He always had some flyers for the next production in his robe[9], and it wasn’t the same as picking pockets. Quite the reverse. He stuffed them into any he could find.

The day was all a mystery to Nutt, and it stayed a mystery, becoming a little more mysterious with every passing minute. In the distance a whistle was blown and somewhere in this moving, jostling, crushing and in most cases drinking mob of people there was a game going on, apparently. He had to take Trev’s word for it. There were Oos and Aahs in the distance and the crowd ebbed and flowed in response. Trev and his chums, who called themselves, as far as Nutt could make out over the din, the Dimwell Massive Pussy, took advantage of every temporary space to move nearer and nearer to the mysterious game, holding their ground when the press went against them and pushing hard when an eddy went their way. Push, sway, shove… and something in this spoke to Nutt. It came up through the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands, and slid into his brain with a beguiling subtlety, warming him, stripping him away from himself and leaving him no more than a beating part of the living, moving thing around him.

A chant came past. It had started somewhere at the other end of the game and, whatever it had been once, it was now just four syllables of roar, from hundreds of people and many gallons of beer. As it faded, it took the warm, belonging feeling away with it, leaving a hole.

Nutt looked into the eyes of Trev.

‘Happened to you, did it?’ Trev said. ‘That was quick.’

‘It was—’ Nutt began.

‘I know. We don’t talk about it,’ said Trev flatly.

‘But it spoke to me without—’

‘We don’t talk about it, okay? Not that sort of thing. Look! They’re being pushed back. It’s opening up! Let’s shove!’

And Nutt was good at shoving… very good. Under his inexorable pressure people slid or gently spun out of the way, their hobnailed boots scraping on the stones as, short of an alternative, the owners were rolled and squeezed alongside Nutt and Trev and deposited behind them, somewhat dizzy, bewildered and angry.

Now, though, there was a frantic tugging at Nutt’s belt.

‘Stop pushing!’ Trev shouted. ‘We’ve left the others behind!’

‘In fact my progress is now hindered by a pease pudding and chowder stand. I have been doing my best, Mister Trev, but it has really been slowing me down,’ said Nutt over his shoulder, ‘and also Miss Glenda. Hello, Miss Glenda.’

Trev glanced behind him. There was a fight going on back there, and he could hear Andy’s battle cry. There was generally a fight going on around Andy, and if there wasn’t, he started one. But you had to like Andy, because… well, you just had to. He—Glenda was up ahead? Surely that meant that she would be there too?’

There was a commotion further on and a vaguely oblong thing, wrapped now in tatters of cloth, rose up in the air and fell back, to cheers and catcalls from the crowd. Trev had been right up to the game face many times before. It was no big deal. He’d seen the ball dozens of times.

But how long had Nutt been pushing a pudding stall in front of him like a snowplough? Oh my, Trev thought, I’ve found a player! How can ’e do it? He looks half-starved all the time!

In the absence of any way round in the press of people, Trev scrambled between Nutt’s legs, and for a moment looked down an avenue of coat hems, boots and, right in front of him, a pair of legs that were considerably more attractive than those of Nutt. He surfaced a few inches away from the milky-blue eyes of Juliet. She did not look surprised; surprise is an instant thing, and by the time Juliet could register surprise, she generally wasn’t. Glenda, on the other hand, was the kind of person who instantly whacks surprise on the meat slab of indignation and hammers it into fury, and as their gazes locked and metaphorical bluebirds cleared their throats for the big number, she appeared between them and demanded: ‘What the hells were you doing down there, Trevor Likely?’

The bluebirds evaporated.

‘What are you doin’ up front here?’ said Trev. It wasn’t repartee, but it was the best he could do now, with his heart pounding.

‘We got shoved,’ growled Glenda. ‘You lot were shoving us!’

‘Me? I never did!’ said Trev indignantly. ‘It was—’ He hesitated. Nutt? Look at him standing there all nervous and skinny, like he’s never had a good meal in his life. I wouldn’t believe me, and I am me. ‘It was them behind,’ he said lamely.

‘Trolls with big boots on, were they?’ said Glenda, her voice all vinegar. ‘We’d be in the game if it wasn’t for Mister Nutt here, holding you all back!’

The unfairness of this took Trev aback, but he decided to stay there rather than argue with Glenda. Nutt could do no wrong in her eyes, and Trev could do no right, which he couldn’t contest, but rather felt should be amended to ‘never did any serious wrong’.

But there was Juliet, smiling at him. When Glenda looked away to talk to Nutt she slipped something into his hand and then turned her back on him as if nothing had happened.

Trev opened his hand, heart pounding, and there was a little enamel badge in black and white, the colours of the hated enemy. It was still warm from Her hand.

He closed his hand quickly and looked around to see if anyone had spotted this betrayal of all that was good and true, i.e. the good name of Dimwell. Supposing he got knocked down by a troll and one of the lads found it on him! Supposing Andy found it on him!

But it was a gift from Her! He put it into his pocket and rammed it down to the bottom. This was going to be really difficult, and Trev was not a man who liked problems in his life.

The owner of the pudding stand, having enterprisingly sold a number of portions to passing trade during its journey, strolled up to Trev and offered him a bag of hot pease.

‘Tough mate you got there,’ he said. ‘Some kind of troll, is he?’

‘Not troll. Goblin,’ said Trev, as the sounds of the strife drew nearer.

‘I thought they were little buggers—?’

‘This one isn’t,’ said Trev, wishing the man would go away.

There was a sudden, localized silence. The kind of noise made by people who are holding their breath. He looked up and saw the ball, for the second time in the game.

There was a core of ash wood in there somewhere, then a leather skin and finally dozens of layers of cloth for grip, and it was dropping with pinpoint inevitability towards the beautiful, dreamy head of Juliet. Trev dived at her without a moment’s thought, dragging her under the cart as the ball thumped on to the cobbles where She had been gracing the world with Her presence.