Edsel Grizzler by James Roy Page B

crates, opening and inspecting them, then placing them on a conveyor that ran through the middle of each cubicle.
    Edsel peered down at the scene, his brow knotted with confusion. ‘Is this some kind of factory?’ he asked.
    â€˜No, it’s not a factory.’
    â€˜Then what is it? What is …’
    â€˜Verdada is the place of Lost Things.’
    â€˜Look, Man, I think I might be—’
    â€˜You’re not dreaming. It’s very real.’
    â€˜Did Hoagy get this far?’ Edsel asked. ‘Did he see this?’
    â€˜Wendl, comma, Hogarth didn’t so much as disembark from the conveyance in which you arrived,’ Man explained. ‘He wasn’t meant to be here, and was returned without fuss. He wasn’t right for Verdada. Neither was Sampson, comma, Kenneth. So they each returned, relatively unharmed.’
    â€˜Hang on, you’re using their real names, so why do you keep calling me something I’m not?’
    â€˜In Verdada we only ever use real names.’
    â€˜So your name really is Man?’ Edsel asked.
    â€˜That’s different.’
    â€˜Really? I don’t see how.’ Edsel turned away to look down once more on the bustling room. According to Man it wasn’t a factory, but was it a market, or a huge warehouse? So busy, so strange. He closed his eyes and pinched his forearm, hard. Maybe he’d wake up, back in his bed in West Malaise.
    But when he reopened his eyes, he was still looking down on the same airy room, with the children working away in their cubicles full of …
    â€˜Impressive, isn’t it?’ said a new voice, and Edsel spun around in alarm.
    The figure in the silver suit was gone, and in its place was another man, slim and of average height, with a kind, neatly bearded face that could have been twenty years old, or fifty. His greying hair was cut short, he wore a sharply cut charcoal grey suit, a white shirt and a tie that matched the vibrant blue of the sky beyond the glass roof. He reminded Edsel of a model from a toothpaste commercial, or from a billboard advertising luxury cars.
    â€˜Wait – who are you?’ Edsel demanded, backing away. ‘And where’s Man?
    â€˜I’m sorry to sneak up on you like that. You can call me Richard. And Man has gone, for now. You’ll see him again. But for now, his job was to welcome you.’
    â€˜Really? Because he’s kind of – don’t take this the wrong way – weird.’
    Richard smiled. ‘Yes, he takes his job very seriously. Now to the subject at hand.’ He turned towards the enormous hall, and the bustle of activity down in the cubicles. ‘This is where it all happens.’
    â€˜Where what happens, exactly? What are they doing down there?’
    â€˜It’s quite simple, really. When items are lost, they come here.’
    â€˜Items? What kinds of items?’
    â€˜All kinds.’ Richard pointed at different rooms as he gave examples. ‘Books down here, as you see, stationery there – pens, pencil sharpeners, things like that. Socks over there, caps and hats in that one, CDs and DVDs in another, keys, jewellery, Lego in that large room to your right. And the room in the corner is golf balls, which is one of our busiest divisions.’
    â€˜And that one?’ Edsel asked, pointing at a small cubicle far to the right, where three children were bent over tables that were scattered with colourful fragments.
    Richard nodded. ‘Ah yes, B-24 is an interesting room. Jigsaw pieces. Not complete jigsaws – just the missing pieces. Complete jigsaws are handled elsewhere.’
    â€˜Got you,’ said Edsel, who didn’t in fact get much at all. ‘My mum lost a pair of nail scissors the other day. Would they be—’
    â€˜Toiletries division just down there,’ Richard said, pointing. ‘Nail scissors, eyebrow tweezers, clippers—’
    â€˜Lipsticks?’
    Richard