Wish You Were Here (42 page)

The doctor frowned. ‘If he's having a new robe, then I really ought to get that impact screwdriver I put in for last month. I mean, it is actually a tool of my trade, and the time I waste having to drill out neck axis pins that've rusted in solid. I mean, fair's fair—'

‘Yeah, but what about my new wrist?' whined a goblin. ‘I've been waiting weeks, and if he's getting a screwdriver—'

‘'Scuse me—'

‘Or,' the goblin went on, suddenly smiling, ‘if it's easier, I could go on the sick until the delivery arrives. I expect it'd make the paperwork easier, too.'

‘A new battleaxe four months I waiting have been. Fair fair's, as he the man said.'

‘Quiet!' Once again, Wesley's voice surprised him, and he found himself automatically standing up straight and trying to shove an imaginary conker through where he remembered the hole in the lining of his jacket used to be. ‘Now then,' the voice that was coming out of Wesley went on, ‘let's get this straight, shall we? I'm supposed to be your new boss, right?'

‘You got it, Chief.'

‘So it would seem,' Wesley said irritably. ‘Apparently from a great height, too. Would this be anything to do with me falling in the lake?'

‘You go—I mean, yes, Chief. Your heart's desire.'

‘Was it?' Wesley demanded, shocked. ‘Can't have been. And anyway, it didn't work.' He looked up at the row of attentive, profoundly weird faces and mentally revised the last statement. ‘I assume it didn't work. Did it work?'

‘You bet, Chief.'

‘And I wished to be in charge of you lot, did I? Seriously.'

The bear shrugged. ‘You must have done,' he said.

‘He did,' Skellidge broke in. ‘I seem to remember it was something vague about wishing he lived in a magical fairy-tale land and how he wished he could be a noble or a baron or some such. According to the old saying, there's one thousand, four hundred and forty just like him born every day, in which case God help us all.'

Wesley hesitated. Someone had dumped a whole load of gubbins in his windpipe, making it hard for him to breathe, and his vocal cords had been repossessed by the finance company. Apart from that, he felt just fine. And he understood. In a sense. Up to a point.

‘So it did come true,' he said. ‘Gosh.'

‘Bit slow, isn't he?' whispered a goblin. ‘Mind you, I'm not saying that's a bad thing in a boss. Probably the reverse.'

‘Yes, but there's slow and there's half-witted,' replied the doctor. ‘And when you think about it, who's going to get the blame when everything goes wrong? Give you three guesses.'

So it had come true, Wesley repeated to himself. Amazing; but there it was. And now, presumably, his whole life would change for ever and he'd be . . .

His whole life. For ever.

Um . . .

Maybe what he was thinking seeped through on to his face, because one of the bears stepped forward and gave him a friendly pat on the back. ‘Look,' said the bear, ‘I know what you're thinking. And you're right.'

‘I am?' Wesley replied, once his head had stopped reverberating. ‘But . . .'

‘What you've got to do,' said the bear, ‘is look on the bright side. Be positive. After all, it's not as if you're leaving anything particularly wonderful behind, is it?'

‘True,'Wesley conceded, as his memory put together a quick montage of all the things that were nice about his daily routine back in Brierley Hill. It didn't take long.

‘You see?' said the bear. ‘Look at it this way. Whatever it turns out to be like running this place, it can't possibly be worse than what you're leaving behind, surely.'

Wesley frowned. ‘Actually,' he said, ‘it could. I might get killed, or horribly maimed, or I might get a hideous disease or even just toothache, which'd be bad enough without dentists or antibiotics. And what about food and somewhere to live and, er, toilet facilities, and a pension plan so I can make sensible provision for my old age? Or there could be wars and violence and stuff. Or mosquitoes, and I haven't got one of those net things you sleep under, so what'd happen if I got malaria? And I don't suppose there's central heating anywhere, and it's supposed to be very difficult to light a fire if you don't know how, and I haven't got any matches or anything, and what am I supposed to do about clothes, or are they provided? Or . . .'

‘Boss,' sighed the bear, ‘shut up. Just take it from me, will you? It's better here. For someone like you, with an untrammelled imagination that can never find rest in the mundane, everyday . . .' The bear stopped talking and sucked its lower lip. ‘Mind you,' it said, ‘you do have a point. Hadn't you considered that before you made the wish?'

‘Well, no,' Wesley replied. ‘I just sort of assumed, you know. That there'd be food and proper toilets and somewhere you could have a bath without fish nibbling at you.' He stared at the bear with frightened, unsettling eyes. ‘I don't think I want my heart's desire, after all,' he whispered. ‘Especially not if I've got to be in charge of anything. I've never been in charge of anything in my whole life before.'

‘You'll manage,' the bear replied, with at least forty-five per cent sincerity. ‘Just you wait and see. And besides,' it went on, looking away, ‘you haven't got a choice. You've got to be in charge. Goes with the territory.'

‘Ah,' Wesley said. ‘I see.'

‘Should've been more careful what you wished for, huh?'

‘I suppose I should,' Wesley said. ‘And I'm very grateful to you and everyone else, it's really nice of you to go to all this trouble. But—'

‘No buts, Chief,' said the bear. ‘And you can't just jump back in the lake and wish for it all to go back exactly the way it was. Which is odd, when you think about it,' it added. ‘Inconsistent, really.'

‘Yes.'

‘Like Life, in fact; which, of course, this is. You going to do roll-call now, then?'

Wesley shrugged. Projected against the backs of his eyelids he could see exactly what it was going to be like from now on; his future life flashing before his eyes, in fact, which was a subtle variation on the old drowning routine. It was endless, and boring, and there wasn't even death to look forward to, let alone lunchtimes and weekends and evenings and two weeks holiday a year. And no money, either; not that there'd be anything to spend it on, except for the pitifully few black-market goodies Captain Hat might be able to come up with - a new pair of socks once every ten years, a half-empty tube of toothpaste, three peppermints at the end of a ragged paper roll.

‘It's like this,' said the bear, compassionately. ‘You only get out of the lake what you put into it to begin with. And what you put into it is always you. Which means you always get you out of it, ultimately.'

‘Great,' Wesley said, bitterly but with resignation. ‘You've no idea how cheered up that doesn't make me. All right, where's the register? S'pose I'd better get on with it.'

‘That's the spirit,' said the bear. ‘Wish fulfilment's a bitch and then you die. She always used to keep the register under that rock there.' The bear walked back to join the rest of the redcoats, who were dwelling lovingly on the last few crumbs of their food. ‘Some of them find it helps to have a hobby,' it said. ‘Talks To Squirrels shoots people, for instance. The Vikings play Monopoly every Tuesday fortnight. They made the set themselves out of stones and bits of tree bark. I expect if you ask them nicely they'll let you be the little racing car.'

 

To begin with, they tell you there's magic. Elves live in woods, there are witches under the stairs and trolls in the airing cupboard. Father Christmas brings you presents if you're good, and the horrible green slimy thing that lives in the toilet cistern will get you if you aren't. There's magic, and there's justice, and you know where you stand.

Later on, they tell you there's no magic; but there's electricity and physics and computers and all sorts of machines for flying and killing and making you better, which do the same things as magic used to do, only cheaper and better and without the need for skilled labour. But there's no justice, there's not even any logic, and you know that if you stand there, chances are something's going to fall on you and make you go
splat
!

In the end you come to realise that there are still witches under the stairs and trolls in the airing cupboard, and the green slimy thing can take many forms and live in many places besides the cistern; and yes, jolly fat men do come down the chimney from time to time, but in reality they turn the place over and take your video and your CD player with them when they go.You do have the option of resisting, of fighting back with everything you've got; but don't let them catch you doing it, or you'll go to prison. Most of all, you come to realise that you've got nothing except what you stand up in, and that's somehow never enough.

Lake Chicopee exists all right; and the magic does work. The fact remains that the most anybody's ever got out of jumping into it is a bad cold.

 

The lake is quiet now. A few ducks chug up and down, steering with their feet. An otter ploughs a V-shaped wake through the reflected mountains. They have the sense not to be under the surface of the water, and to have no wishes whatsoever.

You only get out of it what you put into it, and what you put into it is never enough.