by Cameron Jace
My lips are trembling, but I have so many questions. “So I killed all those innocent people for nothing? I never found out your weakness?”
“You shouldn’t have tried to fight fire with fire. It’s your fault, not mine.”
“Why did you come back for me in this modern world then?”
“I needed to know something.”
“The Six Keys.”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t play games with me or I’ll shoot.”
“I find that hard to believe.” The Pillar’s eyes finally find mine.
“Because you, in some twisted way, are my biological father, right? What did you do? Leave me as child? Throw me out in the streets? Is that why I hate you so much? Is that why I’ve decided to rid the world of you in Wonderland?”
The Pillar’s breathing seems unstable. I can hardly tell what he is thinking. Every moment of silence slices through my soul like a sharp knife that cuts but never kills.
“I don’t think you can kill me, because deep inside you know we’ve always been together, doing the things we did,” the Pillar says. “We have a bond, Alice. We can do great things.”
“Great things?” I’m so offended by his suggestion that I point my rifle at him again, my forefinger trembling with an unmatched desire to shoot him. “You call killing innocents a great thing? What about the Wonderland Monsters? Were they innocent somehow? A part of your devious and meticulously calculated plan?”
Tom interrupts for the fourth time, actually raising a hand in the air. “Inspector Dormouse found out the Pillar killed the drug lord in Colombia for his own needs, not to rid the world of him. Turns out he was one of the fourteen he needed to kill. So, I assume every other Wonderlander he made you kill had a similar purpose?”
“What purpose?” I ask the Pillar. “I’m dying to know.”
The Pillar does not speak. He stares at Tom as if he is going to kill him.
“What purpose?” I repeat myself. “Did you want revenge because I managed to fool you? But you just said you knew from day one. Did you want to remind me of who I am? Did I find your weakness in the Six Keys and you’re not telling me?”
“I don’t think it’s the right time to continue this conversation,” the Pillar says. “Let’s get out of this ambush and I promise you I will confess all to you.”
“Don’t believe him, Alice,” Tom says.
“You’re goddamn right, I won’t.” I push his chest with the tip of the rifle so hard the Pillar winces with fear, then I stare him in the eyes, promising my finger I will shoot this man right now. “I think I will have to shoot without knowing the rest, Pillar. Talk about fighting fire with fire.”
Again, the March Hare calls for me from afar. “Alice,” he yells. “Wait!”
35
I watch the March enter the cell, a few Mushroomers behind him. “What is it?”
“I found the text that explains your story with Him.”
“On the walls? What does it say?”
“Yes, Alice.” The March’s eyes are moist, full of sympathy. I think he is going to cry. What in God’s name is he going to tell me? “I know all about your family now.”
My finger loosens on the trigger for a second, but then I force it to stay strong. I tilt my head toward the March, ever so slowly, unable to ask him to elaborate, so he does by himself.
“The Pillar, too, knows about your family,” the March says. “He lied when he denied he knew about them.”
“Why did he lie, March? Tell me. I know I can trust you.”
“It’s not going to be easy,” the March says. “I think you should lower your gun.”
“Why? Because I will not control shooting him when you tell me? I will shoot him anyways, trust me.”
“Please, Alice.”
“Just tell me, March!”
“You have to promise me not to shoot the Pillar first,” the March says.
“The Pillar is my father, isn’t he?” I’m sobbing now. I can’t feel my feet, and I think I’m going to be sucked down into a Rabbit Hole.
“No, he isn’t.”
“Then who is my family?”
“It’s what happened to them that matters,” the March says.
“Don’t,” the Pillar says to March. “Don’t tell her.”
I push the rifle against his chest, my teeth grit and my face wrinkles with irritation. “Don’t speak a word, Pillar.” Then I turn to the March. “Just tell me what happened to them. I can take it.”
The March hesitates but then speaks up. “They were killed.”
“All of them?”
“That’s what the writing on the wall says.”
“When?”
“Back in Wonderland. Your father was the dean of Oxford University, a good friend of Carroll’s.”
“And?”
“One day they gathered your family in Christ Church when Carroll was still a priest,” the March says. “He used to help children sing in the choir.”
“Children in my family?”
“Children from all over Oxford.”
“So?”
“In the middle of the ceremony they were massacred. Everyone died except Lewis, who was outside picking flowers for a brief moment.”
“Why did the Chessmaster hate my family?”
“Your father had collaborated with Lewis many times and planned to kill him for the death he caused in Wonderland. They were so close, and the Chessmaster hated them, including you, later, of course. He didn’t kill your family, though.”
“Then who did?”
The March’s face wrinkles with pain. Conflicting emotions painted a dull and confusing portrait on his face. But finally he gathered his strength and nodded toward the Pillar and said, “Him. That’s why you vowed to join him and find his weakness. Now, that doesn’t mean you have to shoot…”
The March was too late. So was my finger on the trigger. Without permission. Without thinking. I shot Carter Pillar dead.
36
The Queen’s Limousine
The champagne spurted out of the bottle like golden fireworks inside the limo. The Queen and Margaret squealed with mirth as Jack and Lorina kissed. For a moment, the Queen felt jealous and would have gone as far as kissing Margaret, but she ended up kissing her own hand instead. Nothing wrong with being in love with one’s self.
“What are we celebrating?” Margaret said.
“The death of Alice!” the Queen chirped and played a song from her pinkish iPhone. A famous old song with explicit lyrics, but one that every bar in Britain knew about. It always ended with a phrase: Alice? Who the %$@* is Alice?
“Ah?” Margaret scratched her head. She still couldn’t swallow Jack’s eagerness to kill Alice. It just didn’t make sense, but it seemed the Queen had managed to influence the boy and lavish him with her generous offers.
“And how is Jack going to kill her while she’s still hiding inside the asylum?” Margaret had to ask.
“Who said she’ll stay inside?” the Queen said. “That’s why we made up the whole thing about the police breaking in so soon.”
“So it was a bluff?”
“Life is one big bluff, Margaret.” The Queen grinned. “Soon, Alice and her friends will have to give in and come out. That’s when Jack’s role comes into play. Isn’t that so, little Jackie?”
“All in the name of the Queen.” Jack raised his glass of champagne, Lorina giggling behind him.
“This is going to be a day to remember.” The Queen sighed. “Alice killed by her boyfriend while the public thinks she is a terrorist. Brilliant.”
Margaret said nothing. She’d begun sympathizing with Alice, which was actually a bit strange. Margaret had never been known for a soft heart. She’d committed atrocities that would book her a business class flight to eternity in hell. But she could not imagine how Alice felt, being told how her family had been brutally murdered. Having kissed the queen’s ugly butt to get her son back, Margaret began to realize the
importance of family bonds. She, herself, had sold her soul to a devil called Black Chess for her son, Humpty. She couldn’t imagine Alice’s rage when she found out about her own family.
Instead of celebrating, she wondered who’d organized this whole gathering in the asylum again. Who was this mysterious messenger and what was the grand plan behind this meeting?
No solid answers came to mind, so she occupied herself with the news on her phone. This channel didn’t cover the situation at the Radcliffe Asylum, but insisted on broadcasting the events at the Vatican. Masses were still gathered, waiting for the new pope’s announcement.
Margaret suddenly felt uneasy about this. What was the fuss about this pope? Could he have anything to do with what was going on in the asylum?
37
The Pope’s Residency, The Vatican
The young man waiting in the room seemed worried. He was handsome, fairly strong, and tall with thick, loose, black hair. His features screamed Italian with a dash of Greek sharpness to his nose. He was a beautiful man. Someone you would trust and confide in. He even looked sexy in a humble way. He could have easily been mistaken for a movie celebrity. Or a GQ male model. What he didn’t look like at all was the next pope.
“Are you ready, Angelo?” asked the man in a black suit, standing behind him. Yes, a black suit, not a cassock or clothes that in any way hinted that he belonged to the place. In fact, due to this one-of-a-kind incident, the Vatican was filled with men in black suits today.
They’d been there since the day the pope had been killed by the Chessmaster. No one knew what to call them, but the thronging masses who waited in St. Peter's piazza had heard rumors about a New Order. The Vatican needed stronger men who would stand up to the likes of the Chessmaster and every other terrorist in the world.
The Vatican needed bad asses to stand up to those who called themselves Wonderland Monsters, spreading havoc all over the world in the past weeks. Of course no one really said ‘bad asses’, but in every prayer, it was on the tip of everyone’s tongue.
“I’m not sure that I’m ready,” Angelo, the young man, tapped his fingers on the bible on his lap.
“You are, young man. It’s time,” the man in the black suit said. “I know it’s sooner than we thought it’d be, but it’s happening.”
“Yes.” Angelo sighed. “It’s happening.”
“For years and years we’ve been prepared for this moment,” the man in the black suit said. “And you’re the chosen one.”
“Am I?” Angelo looked reluctant.
“You are, my son.”
It embarrassed Angelo that everyone around him called him ‘son’. He was the youngest of them all, yet they’d chosen him for the hardest mission of the century.
“It’s time to stand up for what we believe in,” the man said. “The world does not need peaceful men anymore. It needs us. It needs justice. Swift justice. It needs you.”
Angelo looked wary. He didn’t exude the persona of the hero the world was waiting for, but he had no choice.
“Tell me when you’re ready to go out and talk to the world,” the man said, patting Angelo on the shoulder. “God in heaven, you’re shivering.”
Angelo said nothing. He told the man nothing about the goosebumps.
“I think we better delay your speech to the world,” the man said. “Just an hour or so.”
“I think so, too,” Angelo said.
“You need something to drink?” the man offered. “I know you love milk. All popes love milk.”
Now, Angelo tilted his head up at the man, shrugged, and said. “For what I’m going to tell the world now, I prefer whiskey. A bottle of scotch, to be precise.”
38
The Radcliffe Asylum
“Why the leg?” the Pillar screams, bouncing back on the couch.
I open my eyes in horror. How did I miss? Why did I miss? Was the other Alice in me protecting him? I raise my rifle again and aim to finish the Pillar, but the Mushroomers stand in the way.
“Step away!” I warn them.
“No,” they say. “If you want to kill him, you will have to kill us first.”
“I don’t understand why you like him so much. This man killed my family!”
“We’re not sure of that yet,” they foolishly defend him.
Speechless and defeated, I let the March pull the rifle from my hands. “You need to rest, Alice. I think it’s a good thing you didn’t kill him.”
“Why so?” I sit, feeling dizzy.
“Because we need him to perform the spell and open the hole,” Tom says. “Isn’t that so, Pillar?”
“I need a doctor!” The Pillar arches on the couch.
“Man up,” I spit out the words.
“Yes, man up!” Tom insists. “Now tell us about the spell, Pillar.”
“I need a doctor first, or I will lose my leg.”
“I can help you,” the March says. “I know how to get the bullet out, and I have exotic plants that could heal the wounds sooner. I discovered them while designing the landscape of the Garden of Cosmic Speculation.”
“See?” Tom sneers at the Pillar. “We’ll save your life in exchange for telling us about the hole. Besides, I’d really like to know how I’ve never seen this hole.” Tom is actually pointing at the wooden floor underneath the carpet. There is no hole, but we have to believe the Pillar, until proven otherwise. “How did you fool me, huh?”
“The smoke from my hookah plays games with the mind, so when you enter the cell while I’m away, your mind plays tricks on you and you don’t see it,” the Pillar says. “In fact, the hole is right there but we don’t see it, including me, unless I perform my magic.”
“Then do it!” Tom demands. “Can’t you see the police will be here in six hours?” Though the banner on the news had read that the queen had issued an order, the time clock still hadn’t changed so they assumed that the timeline still stood.
The whole time the Pillar performs his magic, I’m not looking. I leave the cell on my own, feeling like I am about to vomit. Flashes of memories attack me, but they’re all in silhouette and blurry. I can’t actually remember my family.
Walking in a haze through the corridor, I wonder if any of this is really happening. What if I’m totally bonkers? What if the only true memory is of when I sat on the couch and that psychiatrist talked to me — whether his real name is Mr. Jay or not?
In fact, I’d love it if I were crazy. It’d mean none of this is happening. It’d mean I’m not suffering such pain. Suddenly, I understand why someone like Tom Truckle is addicted to the pills. He’s not actually addicted to them. He is addicted to the absence of pain. He is looking for an eternal numbness so the wheel of life would rotate without him, without making a fool out of him.
I lean against the bars of a cell, waiting for them to open the hole. If this is my reality, then I should escape this place before thinking of other plans. Shooting the Pillar was done on the spur of the moment, because of my rage at him. The wise thing is to escape first.
Tom arrives, looking for me. He seems even more worried now.
“What is it?” I ask.
“The hole.”
“Did you find it?”
“Yes, but it has shrunk.”
“Shrunk? Is this a joke?”
“The Pillar swears it hasn’t been like that before.”
“This can’t be. What do you mean by shrunk?”
“It’s a tiny crawl space. None of us will fit in.”
“How is this even possible?” I ram my hand on the bars.
“I have no idea, and for the first time, I think the Pillar isn’t playing games. He seems as genuinely shocked as us.”
“Why would he play games, Tom? He’ll end up trapped and eventually dead in here, like the rest of us.”
39
The Pillar’s Cell, Radcliffe Asylum, Oxford
The Pillar is aching, though his wound was taken care of by the March. Instead of smoking hookah or cracking jo
kes, he is chewing on the March’s healing plants; he looks bitter, like a lamb ready for the slaughter.
“This stuff sucks,” he mumbles with a mouthful.
“You have to chew it, so you can take the pain,” Alice says.
“Thank you very much, princess.” The Pillar limps on his cane, addressing me while checking the small hole in the ground.
“Don’t call me that,” I retort. “And remember, you’re lucky I only shot your leg.”
“I’m lucky you’re a terrible shooter,” he says.
“Don’t piss me off, Pillar, or I’ll really kill you.” Veins pop in my neck. I’m not really sure I should be talking to him.
“You’ll kill me eventually. That’s what the future predicted, so let’s not act as if it’s a big deal.” He sounds bitter, and when he kneels down, his leg bursts with pain and he utters a suppressed scream. It comes out like a little girl’s scream.
Normally, I’d laugh at him, but I don’t. I’m starting to toy with the idea of not killing him anymore. What if I can make him suffer in pain for a whole year? What if I take my time with the whole ‘killing him’ thing? Welcome to the dark side of Alice, speaking up now.
“I don’t understand how the hole shrunk like that,” the Pillar says, briefly glancing at the counter displayed on-screen on TV. Five and half hours to go. Apparently the police admitted the bluff of breaking in earlier. We’re now back to the deadline.
“Could it be you read the spell wrong?” Tom suggests.
“I tried it again while you talked to Alice. It didn’t work,” the Pillar thinks out loud. “Someone has really planned this situation meticulously. We should investigate whom our host is, or we’ll never find the answers.”
“No time for that,” the March says. “We need to get out of this place.”
“How about calling Fabiola?” the Pillar suggests. “She could send help.”
