by Cameron Jace
But no. Truckle's mind had been reaching too far—possibly an after effect of the many medication pills he swallowed like the kids gorge on M&M's.
The architects called the idea of tunnels implausible. In fact, they declared that escaping the asylum was physically impassible.
"Impossible, you mean," Dr. Truckle replied to the architects.
"No, we mean impassible," the twin architects had insisted. "Nothing is impossible." They had laughed, and Dr. Truckle hadn't understood why. "You've never read Alice in Wonderland?" one of the twin architects asked. Dr. Truckle shook his head. He hated Alice in Wonderland. "It's an inside joke," they told him. "You can only get it if you've read the book."
Dr. Truckle didn't want to get it. He wanted to know how the Pillar escaped.
Of course, the Pillar was expected to show up soon, claiming he was out buying a new hookah or something. Dr. Truckle knew otherwise: Pillar the Killer was almost uncatchable. He could escape and live in an uncharted island full of mushrooms for the rest of his life. But he didn't. He preferred to spend his days imprisoned in this stupid asylum. And his sole reason for that was Alice Wonder.
That, at least, Dr. Truckle was sure of.
But why Alice? What in the world did such a young and mad girl possess that was so valuable to the Pillar?
Dr. Truckle swallowed another pill—the fifth today—and closed his eyes to calm down. He stood next to his desk, his eyes monitoring the Pillar's cell through the surveillance screens fixed on the wall. The Pillar hadn't arrived yet.
One of the screens was broadcasting news on national TV. Dr. Truckle liked to watch the local news while he was waiting. Watching the madness plaguing the world helped him tolerate his relatively mad job in the asylum, particularly after the horrifying incident in Stamford Bridge stadium yesterday.
Since the incident, Dr. Truckle knew things wouldn't end just there. The incident of a stuffed head in a ball was the beginning of something madder. Soon enough, more bodies would pile up all over Britain, if not the whole world.
And here it was, right in front of his eyes.
The news host on national TV was announcing the discovery of another chopped-off head, found with the phrase "Off with their heads" written in blood on its forehead.
"Ramon Yeskelitch, a Ukrainian immigrant," the news reporter—a nerdy middle-aged woman with red glasses and an uptight but fancy suit—reported, "who lives near Borough Market in London, a divorced and unemployed father of two, went to buy his weekly mouthwatering watermelon today. Mr. Yeskelitch and his family have a certain liking for watermelons."
Dr. Truckle leaned forward, excited by the morbidity lurking in the air.
"Arriving back home, Mr. Yeskelitch tucked the slightly oversized watermelon in the fridge for a couple of hours," the host continued. "Then, when it was dinnertime, he decided to serve the watermelon to his children, who were eager for their weekly dose, only to be shocked by what they saw stuffed inside when they cut it open." The woman shrugged for a moment, unable to comprehend the words she was supposed to read to the nation. "Bloody, blimey, bollocks!" Her tongue slipped as she adjusted her spectacles. She raised her head back to the camera with kaleidoscope eyes of surprise. "Mr. Yeskelitch and his children found a human head inside the watermelon." Then she stopped, her eyes a bit watery, like a girl in a Japanese Manga about to burst into tears. "Another human head like the one which was found stuffed inside the ball in Stamford Bridge," she continued, almost stuttering.
Dr. Truckle wondered if she hadn't been informed of the heaviness of the subject before going live on air. Or was she occupied manicuring her fingernails, cleaning her glasses, and showing off her expensive dress?
But Dr. Truckle wasn't really interested in the pretentious world of TV—although he secretly wished they'd interview him on Good Morning Britain. The doctor was wondering whether the news had anything to do with the Cheshire killer, thus the Pillar as well.
Was it possible that the Pillar was somehow linked to the killings?
The doctor's eyes darted back to screens monitoring the Pillar's cell. The damn professor hadn't returned. Where was he?
Dr. Truckle snapped like a rubber band to the sudden ringing of his office's landline. Who used landlines these days? He had begun considering the landline operator an antique long ago.
"Dr. Truckle speaking," he answered, adjusting his tie in the mirror.
"I'm Professor Pillar's chauffeur," a mousy voice replied. "I have a message from him."
Dr. Truckle looked around, making sure no one was with him in the room. "What kind of message?" He grabbed the receiver with both hands, trying to stick his ear closer and closer.
"Professor Pillar wants you to do something right now. He says time is not on our side. We need to move fast."
"I'm not doing anything before you tell me where he is right this moment." Dr. Truckle almost cracked the handset open with his intensity.
"You really want to know?"
"I do." He was almost panting like a dog longing for a bone.
"He's playing football with an oversized watermelon in Hyde Park," the chauffeur said. "Oh, wait."
"Wait for what?" Dr. Truckle panicked. "What's happening?"
"Oh, nothing," said the chauffeur. "The watermelon split open. There is someone's head inside."
6
WALLED GARDEN, RADCLIFFE LUNATIC ASYLUM, OXFORD
Amidst my confusion and frustration, I sit on the walled garden's ground. I need a moment to catch my breath and decide what I am about to do. Lewis sent me a message through a daydreaming vision. I am not sure what to do with it. Nor do I have any idea whom he failed to help—or save.
Whether Lewis is my mind's doing or for real, I can't discard his apparent caring about the world. He loves people unconditionally. He wants to make things right. He wants to make the world better. Lewis, the stuttering artist, doesn't shy away from what he is, from his fears. I think this is why he impacted so many children in the world. Older folks usually wear their own masks when they deal with children, but Lewis opened up and let go. He accepted who he was and what the world around him was like, and decided he would only see the good in all the mess.
Unlike what I did the past six weeks. I know now it was a mistake pretending what was not.
If I am mad, make my day. I should have not avoided the Mush Room in order to pretend last week's events didn't happen. The Pillar's words ring in my ear again: Insane people are only sane people who give in to the madness in the world. I am not sure he said those exact words. I am remembering the meaning behind what he said—again, if he ever existed and wasn't a figment of my imagination.
As I sit, I hear the girl's muffled screams from the Mush Room inside the main building again. Her screams send shivers of anger down my spine this time.
Waltraud and Ogier must enjoy torturing her, laughing at her, and buzzing her over and over again.
Don't even think about it, Alice, my inner voice warns me. You're not meant to save other people's lives. You're just a mad girl trying to avoid shock therapy, at best.
I fist my hands and clench my teeth when the girl screams again. This could have easily been me. Each time she screams, I remember the unexplained visions of poor children asking for a loaf of bread. Did Lewis mean he couldn't save them? The regret in his eyes was unmistakable. Do I want to regret not saving the girl in the Mush Room now? Do I want to regret not saving myself?
I can't. I am no hero, but I just can't stand witnessing someone's unjustified punishment.
"Stop it!" I scream at Waltraud and Ogier from behind the wall. "Stop torturing her!" My voice seems louder than I can handle. A surge of electricity runs through my veins, and I can feel the pain of the Mush Room's instruments already. "Stop torturing her!" I repeat, pounding on the ground.
I still can’t stop. Maybe Waltraud hasn't heard me. But I am stubborn, and I can't tolerate the screams. I throw boulders at the walls.
The screaming stops.
A few minutes later, the main door to the garden springs open. Waltraud stands in front of me, slapping her prod on her thick palms. A smirk, ten miles wide, illuminates her face.
"You were saying something, Alice?" she asks as Ogier approaches me. "I knew you couldn't play your game long enough."
The grin on Ogier's face deserves an Oscar for the Most Stupid Portrayal of Evil. He keeps grinning at me with such joy while Waltraud handcuffs me to send me down to the Mush Room—and it's not the Cheshire's evil grin.
I don't care anymore. I will stand my ground and say what I feel is right, even if I am mad.
"So, you're mad after all," Waltraud grunts. "You still believe in Wonderland. You believe in it so much you're willing to exchange places with a girl you don't know in the torture room."
"Why don't you shut up and just finish this," I grunt back.
"Do you know I tricked you into this?" Waltraud lights up a cigarette. "I had to make the girl scream her best so you'd hear it. We weren't really treating her that bad. I knew you think you're born to save lives. Foolish you." She laughs and high-fives Ogier.
They pull me down and usher me along the corridor leading to the torture room. My lips begin to slightly shiver at the taste of the coming pain I know so well. The Mushroomers on both sides bang the bars of their cells again. "Alice. Alice. Alice!"
At the room's entrance, Waltraud's phone buzzes.
She checks the number and grimaces. "It's Dr. Truckle," she mumbles and picks up.
Waltraud listens for a while, her lips twitching, and her face dimming. She hangs up finally and stares disappointedly at me.
"You're very lucky, Alice," she says. "Dr. Truckle is sending you for further examination outside the asylum."
A faint smile lines my lips. This must be the Pillar. Something has come up. A new mission, maybe? I am baffled at how happy I am. Who was I fooling for the past six days? I am addicted to this. I am addicted to leaving the asylum, addicted to the madness in the outside world. I am addicted to saving lives.
Waltraud unties me, her lips pursed. "Go get dressed now. But remember, when you come back, your brain is mine. I'll mush it into mushed potatoes with ketchup made of your blood!"
7
ENTRANCE, RADCLIFFE LUNATIC ASYLUM, OXFORD
The Pillar's mousy chauffeur picks me up from the asylum's main gate. Instead of arriving in the black limousine, he's driving an ambulance. Two guards from the asylum escort me to the back door as if I am the most dangerous girl in the world.
I still don't get why an ambulance. Maybe to camouflage me being transported for inspection in another hospital.
The guards snicker as they push me into the empty back of the vehicle. I glimpse the words written on the back doors before they close on me: The Carroll Cause for the Criminally Cuckoo.
Now I am sure I am going to see the Pillar soon.
Once the chauffeur takes off, he requests I sit next to him in the passenger's seat. This is the first time he talks to me. His voice is thin and annoyingly low. It's like he has a tight throat or something. No wonder he doesn't talk much. I watch him comb his thin whiskers while he drives—sorry, but I refuse to call those hairies on his face a mustache.
"Where is the Pillar?" I demand.
"I am driving you to him." He hands me a mobile phone for communication. It's a new one with a fairly big screen. He pushes a button on it to show me a YouTube video.
I feel like a spy on a new mission, watching the latest report.
The YouTube video's purpose is for me to catch on. I learn all about the Stamford Bridge crime. The head stuffed into a football. No doubt this is the Cheshire's doing. The phrase "Off with their heads" seems like one of his messages. Then I watch recorded local news about a man named Roman Yeskelitch who found another head in a watermelon he just bought.
I realize why I am out now. There is a new Wonderland crime happening out there, and I am needed. I can't deny my excitement. I am not going to lie.
Rolling down the window, I stretch out my hands like a child and sniff the day's cold air.
A few minutes later, the chauffeur stops in front of a "Richmond Elementary School." At least, the school bears a coherent name. I have no idea how no one comments on the name of the vehicle we're in, let alone why we're arriving in an ambulance.
"Why are we stopping here?" I ask.
The chauffeur points over my shoulder. When I look back, an old woman in thick glasses appears out of the school's main gate.
"You must be Alice." She approaches with welcoming sparks in her eyes. Her attitude screams "teacher," one of those kind-hearted and very talkative few in every middle-grade school.
I step down reluctantly. The woman pulls me into her arms, kisses me on the cheek, hugs me, and tells me how Professor Pillar never stops mentioning me.
She ushers me into the school, telling me Professor Pillar is so kind to agree to lecture her kids. A lecture about the virtues of going after one's dreams. It turns out he told them I am the optimum example of achieving my dreams.
All I do is nod. The woman will eventually send me to the Pillar, wherever he is.
I want to tell her she has a dangerous serial killer in her school. I want to ask if she'd never heard about Pillar the Killer. But she doesn't stop talking, so I have no room to even comment.
Finally, she departs, leaving me at a corridor leading to a few classes. She tells me the school management preferred to give the Pillar all the privacy he needed in the classroom.
The word "classroom" bothers me. I ask how many children he has with him in there. The teacher nods with the happiest smile ever and claps my hand between hers before she says her prayers and blessings, still enamored by the presence of one of the country's most renowned professors. All of this without telling me how many children. She tells me how kind it is that a man of the Pillar's caliber visits the children and how happy they are about meeting with such an idol.
"Do you happen to know he's been convicted..." I can't help it.
"Of murder?" She laughs and waves a hand in the air. "Professor Pillar was so kind to explain the misunderstanding. Of course, there is the other 'Pillar the Killer' who is locked away in a sanitarium. This kind man in the classroom has nothing to do with it."
"How so?" I am curious enough to blow my cover.
"Ah, dear. I know you're testing me now. You know it was a case of identity theft. The madman used the honored professor's name. He told me all about it. Besides, how can a madman ever escape a sanitarium?" She laughs again.
I can't argue with her, actually. I myself am not supposed to be out of the asylum. I think the brilliance of my cover is that I am not expected to be walking the sane world. "And why would a madman visit a school and lecture kids if he'd escaped the asylum?" I am thinking out loud, trapped inside the logic he fed to the poor woman. It's scary how the change of a word or two can twist any truth into a lie.
I pat the woman and thank her, turning to walk the corridor. A few empty classes away, I find an occupied one. When I peek in through the glass in the door, I don't see children flying paper planes or practicing all kinds of chaos in the absence of real teachers. Instead, I see them all building things. Some kind of Lego structure, except they are putting together pieces of a few hookahs.
8
CLASSROOM # 14, RICHMOND ELEMENTARY SCHOOL
The Pillar has his own hookah fixed on the teacher's desk. He sits on the chair behind it, taking drags as if he were still in his VIP cell in the asylum.
I glare at him from behind the glass door once he sees me. Allowing middle-grade kids to play with a hookah doesn't seem to nag his morality by any means.
"Boys and girls." He points his hookah and lets a spiral of smoke swirl around him. "Welcome your new friend." He points at me.
The attention of the young folks tenses me momentarily, but once they start calling my name, I have no choice but to open the door and take them in my arms.
"Alice!" A girl runs into me a
nd hugs me. "The Pillar said you would come visit us."
"I wouldn't miss it," I say, and then gaze at the Pillar for an explanation. He is not looking at me, occupied with chalking something on the blackboard. He draws a blind woman holding two scales, a hookah in each, and writes underneath: ...and madness for all!
"Are you going to save lives today?" a boy asks me. I can't help but notice most of the kids are a bit overweight for their age, but hey, they need to eat to grow up.
"Are you going to catch the Watermelon Killer?" a girl asks. I feel dreadful that they know about the crimes, and shoot the Pillar a blaming look.
"That's TV's doing, not me," he says and drags from his hookah.
"He is not called the Watermelon Killer," a boy objects. "He is the Football Killer."
"Why don't you all give me some privacy with the Pillar for a few minutes"—I pat a few children—"so I can catch that killer?"
"Kick his arse!" A tall and chubby boy fists a hand as if he were Superman.
I guess that is TV's doing as well.
"Go back to your hookahs, kids," the Pillar says. "They're not smoking hookahs, just putting a few together," he tells me before I object. "It's basically like Lego."
I leave the kids and walk to him. The Pillar shows me out to a balcony. Once we get out, his funny face disappears. "The Cheshire is killing again," he says, not wasting any more time.
9
"How do you know it's the Cheshire?" I ask.
"At least he is behind the killings. But this time, it's different: grander, gorier, and bloodier. Whatever he has on his mind, we're way behind to stop him." He reaches for his phone to show me something.
