Chapter 25- It has to be You

Wonka's eyes were fixed on one person. He only saw one person. This was a man who could feel the pulse of life in all things, could weave it into a tune and work magic with it; who knew that the universe existed in all things, big and small, but right now, could only see it in the eyes of one small, insignificant English boy.

Charlie's own thoughts weren't quite so articulate. He had seen a lot of things that had confused him. A lot of things that had happened he didn't understand. He was just an ordinary boy, no faster or cleverer than any other boy; all he understood was that he loved this man, and whatever it took, he would save him. Even if it meant saving him from himself.

"Charlie," said the voice from the conch. It sounded dreadfully weary. "Do you see now? That's the kind of man he is. You only loved him because you never really knew him. He really doesn't care about anyone other than you and himself. Do you understand what that means? He'd fight anyone to get to you. Your parents. Your grandparents. He'd fight the world and he wouldn't care how many causalities he went through. Are you sure that's the kind of life you want?"

Something was stirring in Charlie's heart; both painful and wonderful. He said, "That film. Was it all true?"

"Yes. But he got hold of it at the last minute and edited it," –bitterly—"to make himself look better."

And Charlie said, the words bursting from him, "But he just doesn't understand! That's the only problem. He doesn't realise that people care about him. If someone could just make him understand…"

"Yes, could. But they can't, because there's no reasoning with someone whose skull is that thick." He sighed. "Let me out now Charlie. It's my fight next. I'll promise you I'll do my best, even if I have to beat sense into his skull with my fists."

But he didn't sound very positive about this.

Charlie asked, "How can we get you out?"

"This is a conch, so you have to blow it. I've been thinking all this time we'd have to get him to do it. But I realise now; it has to be you."

"I can do it?"

"I think you're the only one who can. You see, he locked me away in the smallest part of his heart because he couldn't bear to see what he'd become. I don't think he could let me out now, even if he wanted to. But you Charlie—you're different. He's let you into his heart. You've the only one who can help us."

Again, that feeling grew inside him, intensified. Both terribly painful and terribly wonderful, like someone had reached inside him and crushed his chest with their fingers. He said, "But you don't understand Willy! Sometimes, how I feel with Mr Wonka. Like I'm a shadow; less than a shadow. He's so brilliant and I… I… what am I? I love him so much, and yet I…"

"You mean everything to him," Willy said simply. "One day, he'll tell you himself. He's not brave like you, that's all. But if it wasn't for you, he wouldn't be here now."

"When he tried to…" Charlie couldn't even finish. "I just don't understand. He had the factory, all his inventions, all the Oompa-Loompas. He had everything, didn't he?"

"No. He had nothing."

Charlie watched as Wonka flexed for the silent crowd.

He said, "You're sure I'm the one to get you out?"

Willy said, "If you can't, no one will."

So Charlie raised the conch to his lips. Hesitantly, he blew. At first, nothing happened. No music, not even the silly wet raspberry sound he'd got from shells at the seaside. He blew harder, till his cheeks deflated like sunken pools and his lips were dry. Even then he blew harder, even when like Violet Beauregard, his face started turning blue. He blew until he felt he would pass out, until the pain in his head was deafening, like the roar of ocean waves. He couldn't give up, even then, when the pain was causing him to slip under those waves—he had, had, had to help Mr Wonka!

He wasn't aware he'd fallen to the floor till Willy reached his hand down towards him, smiling shyly in his gawky braces. He helped Charlie to his feet. He asked, "Are you alright?"

"I think so," Charlie said, still rather breathlessly.

Willy said, "Nobody's ever put themselves through pain for my sake before." He looked up at Charlie from under his eyelashes. "I've never had a friend like you before Charlie." There was an utter devotion in his eyes, similar, in fact, to the same devotion Charlie looked at Wonka with.

"You should have done," Charlie said. "It's not fair you had to be alone for so long."

Willy nodded, quickly wiping away a tear from his eye.

"And now—" announced Billy B Bobbity. Not a real man—behind the broken glass he was a straw doll, slumped against his microphone. He exclaimed; "—The final match of the night. He's fought the entire world, and now, he's going to fight himself! Give it up for Wooooooonka V Wooooonka!"

Willy let go of Charlie's hand, and looking towards the ring his face hardened, jaw set. Looking towards the man he'd become he was angry, bitter again. Grabbing hold of the ropes, Willy swung himself into the ring, where Willy faced Wonka.

"It's you," said Wonka, rather sourly.

"You didn't have enough fighting the whole world so you have to fight yourself too?" said Willy.

"Of course," said Wonka, like it was obvious. His lips twisted in obvious irritation; "How'd you get out, anyway?"

Proudly, Willy announced, "Charlie let me out."

Wonka looked over at Charlie- standing so close up to the ring he was clutching the ropes- in such blank, innocent surprise that, to tell the truth, it was beginning to become hard to tell who was the adult and who was the child. Then he twisted back around to glare at Willy petulantly.

"He did not," he said.

"He did so!" Willy sung, triumphant.

"Did not."

And like this, the fight begun. The bell clanged; on 'not' Wonka swung.

"Did so."

On 'so' Willy swung back!

"Didn't."

"Did!"

"Didn't!"

And the oddest thing about it was that each stood there, and took it. Did as Jesus would say, and turned the other cheek.

"Uh-uh!"

"Nuh-uh!"

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"No—I mean yes—"

WHAM! And Willy reeled back, winded. But immediately, he was back in again, exclaiming;

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes!"

A quadruple blow—WHAM! Across the jaw. BAM! The torso. KA-POW! The cheek. WA-BUSH! Across the other.

"No. No. No. No!"

Back at him. And now, the words so fast they merged, bred into a slur;

"Yesyesyesyesesesessess-!"

Talking over the top of him, trying to drown him out;

"Nonononononononononnonononono-!"

"Yes times a hundred."

"Well, no times a thousand!"

"Then yes times a million."

"No times a million-million."

"Yes times a billion!"

"No times a billion-zillion-quazillion!"

"There's no such thing, stupid," said Willy.

"Then yes times infinity, padlocked, no returns!" said Wonka.

"You can't do that! It's cheating. Against the rules!" exclaimed Willy shrilly.

They broke apart, circling one another slowly, searching for weaknesses.

"We need to decide," he continued. "What rules are we playing by?"

"The same rules I live by; no rules!" said Wonka.

The circle tightened again as Wonka and Willy closed in on one another.

"I think you're lying," Wonka said. "Charlie is my friend."

"Actually," Willy said, "I think you'll find he's mine."

"You've only just met him," Wonka scoffed.

"He's closer to my age," Willy said.

"Our bond encompasses age," said Wonka quickly.

"Ours encompasses the laws of time and space," said Willy even more quickly. (Closing the gap, closer and closer, till they were forehead to forehead, nose to nose.)

"How would you know? You're much too short."

"How would you know? You're much too tall."

"Just an ignorant little kid—"

"Just a no-good, dirty adult—"

"A crying, blubbering baby!"

"A perverted horny old goat!"

This was a hit that hurt. Staggering up, Wonka exclaiming, "EXCUSE ME?" Getting up; tripping on his robe; falling again.

"You heard me, old man," said Willy. "You can't protect Charlie. You'll only hurt him."

Snatching the robe out the way, sweeping it behind him with a flourish.

"I would never hurt Charlie."

KA-POW! The force of conviction, straight into Willy's kisser. He recovered quickly.

"That's what you say now. You said before you'd never act on your feelings, that you'd never corrupt his innocence."

"People change!"

"EXACTLY!" BAM! The force of hypocrisy, hard, into Wonka's temple. "They become cold, hard, monstrous!"

A triple blow, forcing Wonka back. He could only block, all the while being forced back into a corner.

"You couldn't open up, so you sucked him in. Forgot your own magic, so dazzled him with tricks. You couldn't tell the truth, so you lied to him."

"To protect him," Wonka cried. But the punch didn't connect. He was forced back, further, into the corner.

"To protect yourself. Because you knew if you let him find out what you really were, he'd leave you."

"Oh, be quiet—"

"Like that boy! The one you murdered—"

"You're mumbling!"

"And all those awful things you did to those kids, when you were a kid yourself—"

"MUMBLER!"

"You don't even remember what's it like to be a kid, so you act worse than one—"

"How would you know? Your mother never loved you!" said Wonka, triumphantly, but—

But even in matches with no rules, there are still lines we never cross. Punches we don't throw, because they hurt all of us.

The triumphant sneer faded from Wonka's face, dropped like a stone. They stared at one another, tears burning in Willy's eyes, would have burned in Wonka's too, if he hadn't gone and done something stupid like forgotten to cry.

"Dung-brained whangdoodle," Willy whispered.

"Son of a seven-snouted hornswoggler," said Wonka, low and upset and fierce.

They threw off their boxing globes, and like children in a playground brawl, began to push one another, trying to rile each other up for a fight neither of them really wanted.

"Face of a baboon's bottom."

"Bottom of a baboon's bottom."

"Stinky sandpapered squirrel's droppings."

Willy pulled Wonka's hair; Wonka pinched Willy. All the same their voices didn't rise; remained low, like they could hardly believe what they were saying.

"Brain the size of a knat, and all the charm of one too."

"By the lameness of that retort, the intelligence too."

Willy used Wonka's thick, bulky robe to pull him down; Wonka tugged on Willy's oversized braces.

"Weirdo Willy," said Wonka.

"Willy Wanker," said Willy.

"Brace face," said Wonka.

"Loser," said Willy.

"Loner," said Wonka.

"Mama didn't want you," said Willy.

"Papa didn't love you, "said Wonka.

Even as they said the words, it hurt them. Faces clenched with pain, as they pinched, slapped, pulled. Hurt them terribly, and yet they said them anyway, every name they'd ever been called, taunted, pinched, pulled, slapped, abused with.

With a voice that could be Willy, or Wonka, or both, "Nobody will ever love you!"

During this, the crowd had begun to boo and hiss and grumble. They stamped their feet and threw invisible popcorn bags and cans of coke and now they walked out, leaving a silence deeper than the ocean. It was so silent Charlie begun to wonder if there really had ever been an audience. If this weren't just an empty stadium with make-believe commentators, and one man, going around in circles. Wonka and Willy seemed to be stuck in a loop, a record player repeating itself, hitting a wall, the same wall every time, which there is no going round.

Even now, starting up again;

"I don't believe you."

"Believe it."

"Nuh-uhh."

"Yuh-uhh."

And was it just Charlie, or was the scoreboard hanging at a slant? And were the seats always covered in dust? And were the bleachers always, from decay, cracked and crumbled, turning into ash? Since when had the stadium stopped being a stadium and become the Castle of Illusions, refracting like diamonds the fragile light of the moon? Or had these things been there all along, but being inside the castle- not, as Willy had incorrectly assumed, out—these things were naturally hidden, distorted, changed, by a hall of mirrors?

The ludicrousness of the fight, hidden by the pomp, the glamour, the Wonka-showmanship, became crystal clear. Just one man, alone, beating himself up.

Of course Willy couldn't help him. When we become trapped in glass castles of our own making, how has it ever been possible that we should be able to help ourselves?

Charlie climbed up into the ring, slipping through the ropes. He approached the kicking, scratching mess that was Willy and Wonka and said, "Stop it! This is pointless. It's not going anywhere." When they didn't stop, didn't even see to hear him, he forced himself between them, trying to prise them apart. But Willy and Wonka didn't even feel him; they kept on fighting. "Stop it! Stop it!" said Charlie. They kept fighting, even when Charlie was in the middle of them and one of them, Willy or Wonka, it doesn't matter which, hit Charlie in the face, hard.

"Mr Wonka, stop! You're hurting me!"

Immediately, Wonka flinched back. Willy stood stock still, horrified. Charlie's lip was split.

"I promised I'd never hurt you," said Wonka.

"And yet I did," said Willy.

"Despite my best intentions," said Wonka. (Strangely now, their voices had begun to sound similar.)

"My boy, I'm sorry," said Willy. (Stranger, how they had begun to even resemble one another, so that Charlie struggled to tell them apart.)

"I'm so sorry," whispered Willy Wonka, and then the lights went out.

To be continued...

In the next chapter; Wonka films the scene he edited out of his autobiography for a live television audience. His hard head requires something stronger than a hammer and Charlie is driven to desperate measures to make his mentor see sense.

Notes; Do you know how dodgy that scene where Charlie blows the conch was to write? I had to phrase it very carefully because it kept coming out as Charlie put Willy to his lips and blew. *smacks head* This isn't that kind of story!

I imagined Wonka's last line delivered just like when he announces he's closing his factory.

When I was writing Willy and Wonka fighting over who was Charlie's friend I was so tempted to have Charlie rush in and say, "Please don't fight; you can both marry me!" in Grandpa Simpson style.

…Suffice to say I behaved myself. (I was sorely tempted though.)