The plan proceeded as planned, until it didn't. Willy saw good reason to halt his progress on the far corner of the last street they had to cross. Ahead, he could see a big, shiny, metal fly in the ointment, with white side-walled feet, and it was killer. "I thought he'd have left by now, Charlie. And that they, these others we see... Wouldn't you think, avec ma voiture étant plus rapide que la leur, they'd assume it's a fait accompli, that you're in school, that there's nothing left to see, and, am I right, with that being the case, that they themselves would leave?"

The slump of his shoulders said it all. Charlie, like Willy, could see the problem. No one had left. There was something to see. It was Willy's car, on the drive at the bottom of the steps leading to the school's entrance, sitting like a duck on a pond, waiting to be shot. "Wasn't Dad supposed to leave right away?"

"After pulling in, popping out, dashing up the steps, in close proximity to some other kid going in, pretending it was you, waving at the door, dashing back down, popping back into the car, and then skedaddling? Yeah, that was the plan. I admit it was a bit audacious at this end, I knew that, but it coulda worked, if the driving side of it had stayed ahead of those busybodies, and that should have been easy. I've already said my car is faster than what they have. But this plan can't work if the car stays put. We're cooked, Charlie."

Charlie kept still. He didn't know. They might be. This certainly wasn't the usual reception he got when he arrived at school. Charlie scanned the knots of media personnel, arrayed amidst their assorted paraphernalia where the school's property line intersected with its entrance drives. He could see their hunger from here, and knew firsthand how compelling hunger could be. The trouble was, Charlie felt he was the food they were after. Was it worth it? Charlie was still wondering why Willy wanted to do this, this way. Wasn't it Willy they were after? Charlie shivered. There was nothing comforting in that thought, either. "Is why you say you're doing this really why you're doing this, Willy? Because as bothersome as this must be for you, I don't think it really is."

"Why, Charlie Bucket, tu accuses!" Willy spared a giggling sideward glance at the top of Charlie's head. "An ulterior motive? Lil' ol' me?" Though his plan was in tatters due to Bucket mis-execution, Willy couldn't help but be pleased with his protégé's insight, and his pleasure was in his voice. "Are you this blunt in class? Do your teachers hate you?"

Charlie took no notice; he rarely spoke in class, and rarely was that noticed, by his teachers, or anyone else. Paler than usual, Charlie giggled at the thought that those who hadn't bothered to notice him before were sure to notice him now. "Mum and Dad told me this was going to happen, no matter what we did, once people realized we were living in your Factory."

"Told ya that was a—" and then Willy darn near drew blood biting down on his tongue, because he'd been about to say, 'bad idea to move into the Factory', but he hadn't told Charlie that, he'd told Terence that, and Terence, more's the pity, wasn't here to nod his affirmation, which, were he smart—which he was—he wouldn't do, so maybe he, Terence, was smart not to be here. At this exact moment, Willy wished Willy weren't here.

"Told me what?" asked Charlie, confused at Willy's sudden silence.

"I don't remember."

Disbelieving, Charlie looked up.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, not likely, but the crowd over there has made me forget what I was going to say, and I'm sticking with that. I will say this: this is unacceptable."

Ever his father's son, Charlie shrugged, resigned to reality. "This is what happens when you're a celebrity. Mum and Dad are impressed you're not having me—any of us—go this alone. That you're doing this is making them happy."

"They are? It is? With this mêlée? Are they nuts? What about you?"

"What about me? It is what it is."

As his fist tried to compress into a smaller diameter the part of his walking-stick he was holding, Willy felt its resistance, and he turned to the lurker stopped six feet behind them. "You, there! Is it?"

The reporter, suddenly addressed by his quarry, clawed to open his notepad, almost dropping it. "Is it what?" Wonka had said nothing until now, save that wretched commercial he was so fond of, and, on this walk, that had stopped early on. On this walk, silence, and police on every corner—on some corners more than one—had been the order of the day. Clever, the reporter had thought it, as their presence had kept fans and hecklers—whose call-outs had prompted the droning liturgy of that commercial—at bay, ultimately discouraging them. Before long, the curious and contentious had melted away, like concerned mice, seeing cat after cat. All except himself, of course. He'd follow, but give badgering the reclusive Chocolatier a rest. He'd seen badgering fail, time and again over these past few days. He'd hang back; keep to himself. The sidewalks were public, after all, and doing that, he couldn't very well be chased away.

"I asked, is it what it is?"

"Ummmm—"

"As overcome by your eloquence as I am—my, such a way with words you have!—I don't think making a prolonged 'um' noise in your throat is answering my question."

"Ummmm—"

"You are a reporter, are you not?"

"Ummm," he finally got his tongue in gear, "Yes, yes, yes I am, yes, but you—"

"Dele, dele, dele, too many 'yes's, one would do… Which paper?"

"—startled me. The Evening Standard."

"Isn't that the rag Ficklegruber-the-Younger works for?"

"We're not a rag—"

"May as well be, if you employ him."

The reporter wracked his brains—he didn't know everyone at the paper—but it was important that he show the great Chocolatier that he knew something. "Do you mean Felix Ficklegruber?" Mr. Wonka winced. "He's suspended."

"So you say; so I've heard."

"Something about a park… You're going to put in a park where the Bucket house stood. Are you? Why did you move the Bucket house into your Factory? Wasn't it," he glanced at Charlie, and changed the words he had planned to use, "in disrepair? Why bother with that? Will they be staying indefinitely? Temporarily? Why are you—"

"Has he answered my question, Charlie?" Hearing the narrowing of Willy's eyes in his voice, and seeing it in the set of Willy's jaw, Charlie shook his head. "And yet, he has asked me all these others, most already answered, and with time ticking by. We can't stand here all day. Look at Mrs. Stemple over there, wondering at our reluctance, though the reason is obvious. Charlie, this man has zero, zip, nada, nein, manners."

Mr. Wonka was in the process of turning his back, and the reporter saw his toe-hold crumbling. So much for his not badgering, and his lapse was going to sink him as it had the others. "What was the question, again?"

Mr. Wonka turned back, head cocked. "You're a reporter, and you don't remember? You're convincing me the standards at the Standard are seriously substandard, even without Freddie's spawn the stain on the premises it must surely be."

"What it is," began the reporter, with difficulty, by now his mouth a desert. "Y-y-you were asking, 'what it is'. I was asking again to check for word accuracy."

Over-sized, purple-rimmed, dark-lensed, fish-eye goggles stared him down, and then Mr. Wonka chuckled. Under his breath, the reporter let out his breath.

"What it is, isn't what it is, if it's not in the right order, is it? That's your story? Okay, snoop, I'll buy that; good save. You are the sole sheep brave enough to brave the loss of your flock to be standing here with us, which is notable. Which is why I'm talking to you. Say your name."

His eyes merry, the boy at the man's side shot the man with the pad a look, the ghost of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. The reporter thought better of the straight answer, and went with the suggestion the boy was implying he take. "Your name."

Willy giggled, and rocking on his heels, whipped his walking-stick behind his back, holding it parallel to the ground. "Well, Your Name, forget the earlier question. Answer this: is that," Willy turned his walking-stick into a pointer, "on-going attack on privacy over there acceptable?"

"The law says it is."

"Eww." Willy was silent for a minute. "And yet, you're over here."

"True."

"Why?"

"Because you're over here."

"Au contraire, I'm in the backseat of that Rolls, backseat driving." With a sharp rap, the tip of the walking-stick hit the concrete, as Willy repositioned his walking-stick to his side.

The reporter's eyes had followed the gyrations of the walking-stick; there was art in those moves, whose moves had pointed out his media colleagues, pressing themselves to the sidewalk, making themselves a gauntlet. Children, some curious, some upset, some ogling the Rolls, were making their way through, and into the building. At the crack of sound, the reporter continued the exchange.

"But you're not."

"They thought I was."

"So they did."

"You didn't."

"You could say that."

"I did say that. Why didn't you?"

The peppered pace of the interrogation was heating up, and the reporter judged it might be a good time to re-group. As odd as Mr. Wonka seemed, there was no doubt that commercially he was a big success, at a cut-throat level, world-wide, and that had to come from somewhere. He thought about the Chocolatier's past, looked at the slight, fresh-faced boy at his side, and decided the man might appreciate straight-forward honesty over argument or innuendo. "I did think you were in the Rolls. But if you were, what would getting down here with that pack get me? I'd be a face in a sea of faces, with you having no reason to talk to any of us. Why waste my time? I figured I'd try another day. Meanwhile, the smells at your place are wonderful—"

"Tell me something I don't know."

"And then you came out—"

"That's not it, I know that, too. How do I keep you types away from me and Charlie here?"

The reporter lowered his pad. "You don't. You can't. You're—"

"I'm beginning to believe that. I had my people call every one of the foreseeable media yesterday, and told them that those that kept away from me would get enough of my advertising dollars to stay in business for years to come. Judging from the results, I conclude that not a one of them gave the slightest hoot about that." Willy could see Charlie's eyebrows climbing. "Did you think I was out here winging it? Not at all, Charlie, but, even with my liberal sprinkling of off-duty, in uniform police, this is one recipe that has not come together the way I had hoped."

"I wondered about those police. Glad to hear the taxpayers aren't footing that bill, but as I was saying, stories sell newspapers, and you're the story."

His face a study in contempt, Willy turned back to the reporter. "Stories, schmories, shouldn't you be writing articles, relating facts, my dear scribbler? 'Course ya don't write articles, ya write stories speculating like gossips, and you might think you're doing it for your readers, but you're really doing it for your advertisers, so your readers, if you have any, will see their ads. So, there. Next topic: I pay my own way. So there." With that 'so there', Charlie thought Willy might stick out his tongue, but he didn't. "Next topic: Why are yonder bleaters moored to the sidewalk, and not swarming the school, burying my lovely Rolls under a sea of sweaty flesh, pawing paws, and flashing flashbulbs? That school is public property."

Charlie shot a glance at the reporter, wondering how he'd take that. It was as harsh as Charlie had heard Willy be. The school was as inundated as the Factory had been, but without the Factory's walls and gates.

"The school is public property, but school board policy and local ordinances mean we must treat it as if it were private property. We're not allowed on private property, unless by invitation."

"Public is private! What a good rule!" said Willy, brightening. "So, say, were my car door to open, they wouldn't push in?"

"Not unless they want to risk arrest."

"Do they?"

It was a good question. Some of them might. To answer would be pure speculation, an activity lately slammed by the figure in front of him, and in light of this, the reporter only shrugged. Briefly tightening the corner of his mouth, Mr. Wonka reached beneath his coat, took a pocket watch from his vest, and checked it. "We should cross, Charlie, if we're going to."

"If we're going to?"

"If, Charlie; Your Name has said that's the key, private property, and I know where there is some," he paused, "though it's not as close as that some over there." Rising on his toes before sinking down again as he pivoted back to face the reporter, Willy flashed one of his most sunny smiles at their listening-in companion. "My dear Mr. Your Name, would you care to make yourself useful?"

"Ummmm—"

"'Um' again? Please don't be boring. It's 'yes' or 'no'. Easy!"

"Yes!"

"Then I'd like a page from your notepad."

The reporter did one better, handing over the notepad and a pencil. With the slightest bow of his head, Willy took them, deftly flipped to a clean page, and in the middle of the page, drew a fat, round dot that he partly filled in with one of his curly-cue 'W's. Around that he drew a large circle of conjoined, elongated droplets, the dot at its center. At the bottom, with a chuckle, he drew an exclamation mark, and ripping out the page, he folded it in half, wrote 'Mr. Bucket' across it, and handed all back to the giver. "You will continue useful if you deliver this to Mr. Bucket. He's sitting in the driver's seat of my carriage." The reporter, who had taken the items, hesitated. Cocking his head, Willy shifted his weight to his other foot, as if to take a step away. "Nada problem if you'd rather not, I'm sure Mrs. Stemple would be happy to oblige."

The reporter looked up, seeing the crossing-guard on the other curb observing their every move. She knew who these two were. Perhaps he ought to have a talk with her… "I'll do it. I'm only concerned they won't let me in, is all."

"Is all? Is nothing. You're a messenger at the moment, not a reporter! I don't see a Press badge on ya, so scoot! Go! You're doing this at my invitation, and Mr. Bucket is in my conveyance, parked on the property!"

It was all true. What did he have to lose? With a last glance at Mr. Wonka, and a glance at the note as he crossed the street, the reporter got on with the task. Willy, having taken off his top-hat, started back the way they had come. "Chop, chop, Charlie, you don't want moss growing on you, do you? Green is not your color. Did you see what that reporter did? He looked at the note. He is a snoop!"

Smiling through his confusion, Charlie caught up. "We're not going to the school?"

"I'm not. No way I'm gettin' involved in that mess. Your parens will be so disappointed in me."

"What about me?"

"That mess shouldn't be your fate, either." They walked a little more. "What's happening back there?"

Wanting to know himself, Charlie turned round, and began walking backwards. "He's at the car. He's tapping on the window. Dad is rolling it down. He's giving him the note. What did it say?"

"It said, 'dot-inside-a-circle, exclamation point' using no letters."

"It was a drawing."

"You bet your bippy it was."

"What does that mean?"

"Bippy? I have no idea. People used to say that."

Charlie laughed. "I was wondering what the drawing meant."

"Keep watching."

"Dad waved a hand out the window. I think he told him 'thank you'."

"Your pater is very polite."

"He's driving around the circle. He's getting through the reporters…"

"What are they doing?"

"Getting in the way, but getting out of the way at the same time."

Willy grinned and turned round to see what Charlie was seeing. It sounded amusing. It was. The zoo was scrambling, trying to see inside the coach, getting no where with that, and then they were getting their things together, getting ready to sprint back to the Factory. "My gosh, what a waste of time! Mr. Schaefer was right about that!"

"Mr. Schaefer?"

"Shane," Willy dissolved into a fit of giggles. "Come back, Shane! I'll give you a story!"

"Shane?"

"Sorry, Charlie, that's one movie I know. My—"

And suddenly Willy sobered up, and Charlie felt afraid. It were as if Willy had transported himself to 66.33° North, and encased himself in ice. Charlie was familiar with that movie. He'd seen it through crackling static on their old television set. Through that veil of interference, the heartfelt pleading in that little boy's voice had been other-worldly…

Willy was remembering it; remembering the way The Dentist had leaned towards him as he had watched the ending, saying in that low baritone he preferred when he was reaching for the heights—depths?—of cruelty, 'Come back, Mum, come back!' That dry laugh, devoid of humor, precursor to the next: 'Your mother is never coming back, boy; never. Get used to it.' In the present, Willy raised a hand to his ear. Even now, he could feel the heat of that hateful man's breath against his ear, the cloying moisture in it, as leaning closer still, his tormentor whispered those last words…

"Willy."

"Charlie."

Charlie's bones felt like jelly from the relief he felt. "The car is coming this way."

"The car? Any car? That car?" Willy, his eyes glazed, pointed with his walking-stick at the dust kicked up by the rear tires of a passing car.

Charlie felt that desperation again. This wasn't Willy's world. His world was inside a beautiful Factory, high on a hill, and it was there that he belonged: not out here. Out here, he was prey, and there were the jackals, behind them, too close for comfort, waiting to fall on him, and break him into pieces, the way a chocolate bar is broken into pieces, without a thought, to better get at it. Charlie prayed he'd keep the alarm he felt out of his voice. He swallowed, keeping it short. "Your car."

"Goody; when it stops, get in."

At the start, it might have been a robot saying those words, but as he spoke, Willy sounded more like the Willy Charlie knew—the clever person, the creative person, the happy person—and Charlie wanted more of that person back. With the car so close, he dared ask another question, dangerous though it might be. "How did you know the reporter's name?"

"What? Oh! I'm a snoop, too, Charlie. It was on his notepad. Jump in! The cavalry has arrived."


I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading; reviews are nice; so are favs and follows, and I thank you, one and all, for one, some, or all.

It's been awhile, hasn't it? Don't answer that. But I'm back with this. Going forwards, I hope lots of things, with one of them being that you've enjoyed this chapter.

Thank you reviewers. Squirrela: Your review reminds me that events are only events, and whether they are good or bad is a judgement best not made. Linkwonka88: There's a lot to be said for traveling a lot, with returning home one of its chief pleasures, I agree. Scep: I am humbled and inspired by what you have shared here. Thank you, and thank you. I find the idea that you've drawn Terence delightfully intriguing. Crazy Cakes 23: I had fun investigating that reference, thank you. I have to say, I do see some 2005 CATCF vibe being channeled there, even to the person being helped being named Charlie ... An impressive work, but given the timeline, it is the Radio Demon emulating Willy Wonka.