It’d been a rough morning for David Hillborough. His alarm had rung too early to be bearable, thanks to his wife’s insistence of her newly-discovered four-am workout sessions online. His oldest child, fourteen year-old Shawna, had decided that the only way to deal with early morning wake-up’s for school was to practice their drumming in the garage two hours after their mother had already woken up. His youngest two, five-year old Luci and six-year old Lewis, couldn’t agree on what to eat for breakfast, or what to watch whilst eating it, or what to pack for school, or who was going to sit where in the car—and when David had suggested eating something different than the other child, or watching different programs on different TV’s, or packing separately for school they’d started to yell and berate him for even suggesting it.
“No, you’re dumb, Daddy,” Luci screamed.
“Yeah, you’re really dumb, Daddy,” Lewis yelled, stomping his feet.
David rubbed his forehead now and yawned as he sat down at his desk. Even just remembering the battle he’d had to leave the house was tiring. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t agreed to take care of getting the kids to school in the morning, whilst his wife dealt with the pick-up’s. Maybe the pick-up’s would’ve been easier. ‘No’, he told himself. ‘Carly probably has it just as bad in the afternoon… if not more. At least I can drop them off at school and get away to work.’
He reached over to his telephone and pressed on the bottom button.
There was a buzzing noise as his assistant, Melody, answered on the other side of the large glass doors into his office. “Yes, Mr Hillborough?” she asked.
“Hi there, Melody. I was wondering if you could get me a coffee—as strong a coffee as you can get, preferably.”
“Of course, Mr Hillborough. Is everything okay, sir? You usually wait until the afternoon before drinking caffeine.”
David rubbed his temples again. Oh yes, his routine that he and his wife started together before she subsequently gave up two weeks later. It usually worked so well for him but the way he felt today he knew he wouldn’t survive any of his meetings for the day without something to keep him awake from the start. “No, I’m fine, thank you, Melody. Is there any messages?”
“Your meeting with the creative team of ‘Holly Fields’ has been moved forward to ten o’clock.”
Of course it had. He looked at the clock—an hour to prepare and finish his notes. “Yes. And, anything else?” he asked.
“They’re having some problems on the production of the latest ‘Stringer’ films—Praxton wants you to weigh in on it. Oh—and a parcel arrived for you. I left it on your desk.”
He looked over his desk and saw the small brown-paper parcel sat at the edge on top of the rest of his papers. “I usually don’t receive scripts without asking for them, Melody.”
“It’s not a script, sir. The note said it was a gift from an old friend of yours—Ellen Bankroft. Anyway, security said it looked fine.”
“Ellen Bankroft?” David reached over and pulled the parcel in front of him. “Amazing. I haven’t heard that name in a while. Er—Thank you, Melody. Can you bring up that coffee quick-ish?”
“Of course, sir.”
The phone clicked and he pressed the button again to turn off the static-y noise that followed. Sometimes he’d wished he’d taken up the chance to update the telecom system but, at the time, he’d wanted to focus all of the budgets on projects already in the works.
He started to rip into the brown-paper. It had been a long time since he’d seen Ellen. Although he received a Christmas card from her and her family every year, they hadn’t actually spoken face-to-face since she’d retired and moved to the other side of the world to live with her family… And she’d never even considered sending him a gift.
He finally got it open and pulled a book out. Edgar and Philly? By Rachel Cairns? Why would Ellen think he would need this? He already had most of the Edgar and Philly books somewhere in his storage boxes in the garage, he knew it.
He opened the front cover, assuming that maybe there was something written inside of more interest. Instead he was hit by a bright white light and found himself being sucked into the pages. The next thing he heard was the loud ring of a boat’s bell and the smell of salt-water.
“Wake up, sleepy-head,” Edgar yelled into the startled man’s ears.
David was laid on his stomach, head down on the deck of the boat and he could feel his stomach churning. His face turned a pale shade of green as he stumbled up onto his feet, gripping onto the edge of the swaying boat. “W—What? Wh—Where am I?”
“Come on, you’re the head of that Moving Pictures Studio. Surely you recognize your own properties?” Edgar smirked and placed his hands on his shoulders. He propped one foot up on a wooden crate and looked upwards to the sky dramatically.
David’s eyesight started to spin and he leaned over the edge of the boat and vomited over the side.
“Well, that’s just rude. Do they not teach you any manners in that world of yours?” Edgar stepped down off his box and grabbed the arm of the very-wobbly, sickly David leading him to a large table and chairs that had been placed in the centre of the deck. A large white sheet, which due to the bits of rope tied through the middle and edges David assumed used to be one of the sail’s of the boat, was laid over the top. After Edgar had pushed David onto a seat he poured a large glass of dark blood-red wine into a deep wine glass and shoved it into David’s hand, causing a few splashes to go over David’s clean white shirt.
“Watch it. A true gentleman would never spill wine like that,” Edgar said, frowning down at David. “Philly, he’s here,” he yelled.
‘Philly?’ David thought, still unable to speak and desperately needing to vomit again. The boat would not stop swaying. In the past when he’d gone on a sea-voyage he’d always made sure to bring his motion-sickness bracelet and medicine. But—how was he on a boat now? Had he fallen asleep at work after losing all of that sleep this morning? He rubbed his eyes, confused, as Philly—a giant in a large striped-blue shirt—kicked open a door in front of him, carrying a large platter of food.
“It’s a pleasure to make your—well, you know,” Philly said, putting the food down in front of David.
David looked around him in a panic. The smell and sight of roast pork, pickled cabbage, smoked herring and a large accompaniment of other items for the one-man feast Philly had put down made his stomach spin as much as his eyesight. He leaned over and vomited underneath the table.
“Oh, mighty sorry, sir. I know this boat can be pretty bad. Edgar, grab the mop,” Philly said.
Edgar pulled a face. “I’m no mop boy, Philly. Let’s not forget who’s the lead in this story, okay? It’s not Philly and Edgar. It’s Edgar and Philly. You get the mop.”
“Fine,” Philly grumbled. He reached behind the door and grabbed the mop and water-filled bucket.
As he mopped underneath the table Edgar decided to be a bigger hinderance to him and sit on a chair next to David, blocking Philly’s path. Philly grumbled again and got down on his knees to reach underneath the chair.
“So, you must be wondering why you’re here—Mr Hillborough, isn’t it?” Edgar said, starting in on the dinner that Philly had made for their guest.
David nodded and slumped in his chair. “Wh—What’s going on here? Where am I?”
“Wow, I would’ve thought you would’ve caught on by now. We’ve said it enough times. Why, this is the world of Edgar and Philly. You know Edgar and Philly, of course.” Edgar bit into a large chunk of roast pork and continued to talk with his mouth full. “I know it’s strange. All of you lot from your world seem to panic like a maniac when we bring you here. You should’ve seen the last lad, he almost passed out multiple times—though, at least he didn’t blow chunks everywhere.” He raised an eyebrow at David and David squirmed in his chair, knowing how badly he wanted to do it again.
“But, you see, the thing is Hillborough—we’re in need of your unique services.”
“My services?” David whimpered. He was still struggling to see. The person sat to the side of him at the table was merely a fuzzy blob.
“You’re a Moving Pictures guy, aren’t you? Well, we need you to make one of those—and then pay your, what-do-you-call-it, pay for the rights to Ms Rachel Cairns—so she can afford to write some more stories for us.”
“What?”
Philly crawled out from under the table and towered above David, causing David to squirm even more in his chair. He couldn’t see Philly very well but he could tell he was an intimidating man he wouldn’t want to get into a ‘disagreement’ with.
“What he means is, you need to hire Rachel to write a new Edgar and Philly script—and pay her for the rights too,” Philly said.
Edgar nodded his head. “That’s what I said. Pay her to write the script and for those rights of hers.”
“But—” David began.
“But what?” Edgar asked, his eyebrow lifting again as he bit into a piece of smoked herring. “You make an Edgar and Philly film, you get your money, Rachel gets hers and we get a new story. Seems fair to me.”
Philly rolled his eyes as he watched the food be swished around Edgar’s mouth. All of his hard work for nothing. “I hate to agree with Eddie—”
“Edgar,” Edgar corrected, stopping eating as he glared at his friend.
“I hate to agree with—Edgar—but it seems fairly simple to me too.”
“But I can’t just make a new movie—er—moving picture. Not when there’s no guarantee it’ll do well. And Edgar and Philly—well, it hasn’t been popular for years. I’m not sure it has any fans left.”
“No fans? Why, of course we have fans,” Edgar yelled, defiantly. “We’re the most popular story that’s ever existed. They write songs about us—literally. Have you heard Edgar’s Folly? It’s a masterpiece!”
David squirmed again and loosened his tie. It felt like a noose around his neck. “I—I’m sorry. If it were profitable—but the love for Edgar and Philly’s run it’s course. I can’t just go making any movie I want to. If I did that, and it failed, well then the shareholders would seriously question whether I should be in my job.”
Philly looked outwards, over the pier towards the eerily quiet seaside town. “So, all you need is proof that Edgar and Philly’s still popular? That people want a new moving picture?”
“Well, it’s a bit more nuanced than that…” David started.
Edgar jumped up onto the table, looking towards the sunset and raising a hand dramatically into the air. In the process he managed to knock the rest of David’s wine onto his lap and the pickled cabbage into David’s face. “Then we will find you our hoard of fans and they will prove to you that Edgar… and Philly, I suppose—are names that will go down in infamy.”
Philly headed over to his pile of phone-books again, shaking his head, whilst David threw up on top of his already stained lap.
The Literary Onion 