chapter thirty‑four

They had, at last, cleared the marsh and were walking up the side of a steep hill. Above them, at the crest of the hill, was a long, low, concrete building, it had no windows and only one door was visible. A train of elephants, each one dragging a huge log, was disappearing behind the back of the building.

"Well, here we are," said Brian. "This is the Print Works, the home of the Editor."

"Charming spot, could do with a lick of paint, though," said Andrew cheerfully.

He was cheerful because he had finally accepted the fact that his left leg had not, after all, started to grow longer. Ever since he had eaten the apple he'd had the feeling that strange things were happening to his body. He had become convinced that small, almost imperceptible, changes were altering his features. It started with his right cheek, which seemed to have swollen and become slightly bigger than his left. After much pinching, poking and squeezing, he decided that the cheek was definitely larger than the other, but that this was entirely due to all the pinching, poking and squeezing. That was when he began to notice that he had to lift his leg fractionally higher than normal in order to clear the ground, concentrating on this unusual phenomenon, he had developed an awkward limp, which had persisted until his attention was diverted by the sight of the Print Works. Andrew was the sort of person who, having seen a programme on lung cancer, would then have trouble breathing for the next two days.

"This is where I leave you," said Brian, obviously not too upset by the idea.

"Oh, aren't you coming in with me?"

"I wish I could," lied Brian, "but I wouldn't last five minutes in there, and you'd be wiser not to mention me."

"Ah, yes, I forgot, the eternal battle of truth against journalism," said Andrew sardonically.

"You'd also be wiser to take their evil power more seriously."

"Are you kidding after what we've just been through? What could they possibly do to me?"

"Anything," said Brian gravely, "absolutely anything."

"That's what I like about you, Brian, always quick to look on the bright side. Well, thanks for your help."

"Goodbye," said Brian as he began walking back down the hill.

"What was that?" said Andrew pretending he didn't hear, "Good luck? Well thanks very much, Brian. You too. And I'll see you in the next place."

Brian made no response, other than shake his head despondently.

As Andrew drew closer to the door he saw two lines of men, the lines stretched from the doorway to a small circular wall of stones. Mounted above the stones was a metal handle with a rope wrapped around its centre, the other end of the rope dangled into the middle of the stone ring. One man stood apart from the two lines and turned the handle until a bucket appeared, a man at the end of the left‑hand line took the bucket off the rope and passed it to the man behind him, meanwhile the man at the end of the right‑hand line had been passed an empty bucket which he then attached to the rope. The empty bucket was then lowered back into the well. Andrew watched, in amusement, as the buckets passed up and down the lines, it looked like a snake swallowing an egg.

Andrew approached the well and peered curiously over the edge, the pit was disappointingly, but predictably, deep, dark and featureless. He waited as a bucket was hauled to the surface; it was full of a black liquid.

"What is it?" said Andrew to the man who was removing the bucket from the rope.

"It's ink, what did you think it was?" said the man aggressively.

"It might have been oil," said Andrew defensively.

"Ha, he thought it was oil," said the man scornfully as he passed the bucket to the man behind him.

The second man laughed and passed the information, along with the bucket, to the man behind him.

Andrew walked off towards the door, wondering why even total strangers felt the need to put him down.

When he reached the door he was forced to squeeze past the men who formed part of the two human chains.

One of the men turned to him and said; "What do you mean; Send Reinforcements?"

Andrew ignored him and stepped into a room labelled 'Reception'.

A young, attractive girl stood behind a wooden counter, she smiled. Andrew remembered her as being the person he had tried, in vain, to chat up in the hotel.

"Hello," said Andrew in his most ingratiating voice, "I'd like to see the Editor."

"Yes, of course, could I have your name please."

"Smith, Andrew Smith," said Smith, Andrew Smith.

The girl ran her finger down a list of names written in a book which lay on the counter in front of her.

"I'm afraid you don't seem to have an appointment, Mr Smith," said the girl apologetically.

"Ah, no," admitted Andrew.

"I'm afraid you can't see the Editor without an appointment."

"Are you sure he couldn't spare me five minutes? It's very important and it really won't take very long. I've come an awfully long way just to see him, and I'd be ever so grateful if you could squeeze me in to his schedule. I know he's a very busy man and ... and ..." Andrew ran out of grovel‑power and decided to resort to good old fashioned begging. "Please."

"I am sorry, Mr Smith-"

"Call me Andrew," interrupted Andrew desperately.

"I am sorry, Andrew, but you will have to make an appointment," said the girl sympathetically.

"Okay," said Andrew acknowledging his defeat. "When can I see him?"

"I'll just check his diary," said the girl producing another book from below the counter. "Hmm, let me see. Ah, yes, he's free all day today, so you could see him now if you like."

"But ... but ..." spluttered Andrew.

"I'll just put you in the appointments book," said the girl brightly.

Andrew let out a low moan of despair, which the girl carefully ignored.

"Now then, the Editor's office is down this corridor, turn left at the end and then it's the third door on the right. Okay?"

"Yes, thank you very much," said Andrew and waited for the girl's reaction.

Evidently she was a virgin when it came to sarcasm, because she just smiled sweetly and said, "not at all, my pleasure."

Andrew followed the instructions to the Editor's door, as he moved further into the building he became aware of a deep throbbing sound, as if some massive machinery was pounding away somewhere in the heart of the building.

Andrew knocked on the door and was disappointed when the voice which told him to enter was not, as he had hoped, Henry's.

Andrew stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, sitting behind a large paper‑strewn desk was a short plump man in his late fifties, he was almost totally bald except for a tuft of brown hair above each ear, perched on the end of his nose was a pair of wire‑framed spectacles with semi‑circular lenses.

The man was using the telephone, he gestured at Andrew, with his free hand, to sit down. Which Andrew did.

"I don't care what it takes, just get me that God‑damn story," shouted the Editor and thrust the handset back into its cradle.

"Sorry about that, I'm-" began the Editor, but he was interrupted by the phone ringing. He lifted the handset and listened for a moment. "Well, if they won't do it, sack 'em, sack the whole bloody lot of them," he hung up.

"As I was saying, I'm always being-"

The phone rang again.

"No, no, no! The, Woman gives birth to a giraffe, story must go out in this issue," he slammed the receiver down.

"I'm always being interrupted by-"

The phone rang again.

"I don't care how many words are mis‑spelt, I want that feature."

Andrew could see the telephone‑lead snaking across the floor to a socket in the wall. As the Editor hung‑up Andrew surreptitiously dragged his foot across the wire so that the plug was pulled from the wall.

"I'm always being interrupted by the tele-" he paused and snatched up the handset. "Hold the front ...", sheepishly he gently replaced the phone. He cleared his throat self‑consciously.

"Now then, what can I do for you?"

"I'd like you to change one of your stories," said Andrew.

"Change?" repeated the Editor incredulously, "we don't change stories; we make stories."

"But this story is wrong."

"Wrong? What difference does it make if it's right or wrong; it's a story isn't it?"

"It's not a very interesting story, though."

The Editor made a small convulsive movement as if he were about to pick up the phone.

"What story is it?"

"It would probably go under the title; Man gets turned into Slurg and then eats horse."

"No, it would be; Father of five caught in unnatural act with a farm animal. But you're right it's nothing new; it would only rate four lines."

"So why not drop it?"

"The people have a right to know that this kind of thing is still going on, it may be boring to you and I, Mr er, sorry I don't think I caught your name."

"That's because I didn't throw it; here catch; it's Andrew Smith."

"Yes, very humorous," said the Editor who didn't think it was at all. "You're not looking for a job, are you?" he said accusingly.

"No."

"Hey, just a minute, did you say Smith?" said the Editor with sudden interest.

"Yes, Andrew Smith."

"So you're one of Rampard's creations?"

"Er, yes he seemed to think so," said Andrew cautiously.

"Well, well, well, what's he got you working on? No don't tell me, it'll spoil the surprise. Whatever it is I'm sure it will be worth sacrificing this little four liner. He's one of our finest Roving Reporters, you know, he has an unparalleled flair for the ridiculously obscene. All right then, what can I do for you?"

"Well, the Slurg is a friend of mine, I'd like him changed back into a man and brought here."

The Editor grabbed a pen and paper from the mess on the desk; he scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"How does this sound; Man convicted of bestiality appears miraculously in Editor's office?"

"That's great," said Andrew enthusiastically.

The Editor wrote it down and a man appeared miraculously on the desk; he was naked, dripping wet and shivering uncontrollably.

"No that's no good," said the Editor. He crossed out what he had written and the man disappeared. "There's a knack to this, you see. I've got to give him some clothes and dry him off. Let's try this," he began writing as he spoke. "Known pervert breaks into Editor's office wearing water‑proofs."

The door flew open and a man in a wet‑suit stumbled into the room, he was soaking wet and had a large pair of flippers on his feet.

"No, no," said the Editor striking out his last attempt, the wet‑suited figure vanished. "Do you mind closing the door?"

"No, not at all," said Andrew standing up to close the door. "Why don't I nip out and find something to eat, this is obviously going to take a while and I'm terribly hungry."

"No, no, sit down, it won't take long," said the Editor impatiently, "I've got it! Alcoholic sex deviant dries out before dinner‑jacket banquet with mystery man Andrew Smith.

No sooner had these words sunk in than Andrew found himself sitting at a table in a elegant restaurant. Sitting beside him was a very handsome man in a very stylish dinner suit, the man was fairly young, around the mid‑twenties, with short brown hair, a wide friendly mouth, and steely‑blue eyes.

"Alex?" said Andrew uncertainly.

"The one and only," said the man with a rich deep voice.

"My God! You look like a bloody fashion model," said Andrew in awe.

"Yes I finally came up trumps," said Alex proudly. "Oh, and thanks for getting me out of that river, even if it did take forever and a day."

"You have no idea what I went through. God, but you're disgustingly good‑looking."

"Well it makes up for all that I went through. Now, tell me, did you manage to find out where Alice is?"

"Of course," said Andrew indignantly.

"Well, where is she?"

"I've forgotten," admitted Andrew, "but, I'll remember it soon," and then he added in a loud voice; "it's probably lost in the dust."

"Boy, you did have a rough time, didn't you," Alex poured some wine from the bottle which stood on the table. "Here, get some of this inside you."

"It's food I need, where's the waiter?"

"Don't tell me you could eat a horse, because I have, and it's not pleasant - the meat is okay but the bones are very heavy going."

Andrew ordered a lavish meal and in between mouthfuls recounted selected highlights of his trip through the marsh. Alex ate nothing but drank copiously. At the end of the meal Andrew relaxed back in his chair alternately sipping first brandy and then coffee.

"So, what do you think of this place?" said Andrew. "Not the restaurant," he added having seen Alex cast a critical eye about the room.

"Well it's quite fun, isn't it? Full of magic, evil forces and do‑goodery. It's just one big fairy‑tale," said Alex.

"Well that explains a lot, you're the handsome prince and I suppose Alice is the princess waiting to be rescued."

"You're not jealous, are you?"

"Well, yes I am, actually."

"You've had your chance; now it's my turn."

"Chance! Chance! She's not a bloody pin‑ball machine!" said Andrew with sudden rage.

"Oooh, you really are keen on her, aren't you?"

"Well, I don't know," said Andrew, calm again. "She's the only one around, maybe that's the only reason I'm interested," he finished off his brandy with one swig.

"But she is very intelligent."

"And witty."

"And sometimes she can be very attractive."

"A good strong character."

"That's true, nothing shallow about her."

"Nice eyes."

"Yeah," said Alex, "and I bet she's good in bed."

Andrew snapped out of his reverie, he grinned, "yeah, I bet she is too."

"Could be a tricky time ahead then," said Alex seriously.

"Well, maybe she doesn't like either of us."

"Always possible," agreed Alex.

"But if she does ..."

"We'll stay friends," said Alex offering his hand.

"Yeah," said Andrew clasping Alex's hand and shaking it.

Andrew felt his eyes begin to water, but he passed it off as too much brandy.

"Hey, I've just remembered where she is," he said breaking the spell.

"Nearby I hope."

"Beyond the Magic Forest in the Land of the Endless Dream‑Time."

"Very funny."

"It's true, I'm afraid."

"If it wasn't for my beautiful body, I could really grow to hate this place."

"That's one of the reasons why I do."

"Do you know how to get there?" asked Alex.

"I know how to find the Magic Forest."

"How?"

"Follow the elephants."

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