Howzat! by Brett Lee

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 extremelylucky 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 seeingto 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 Wisden s 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