Circus Page 3

  Piccadilly Circus isn’t a real circus. It’s some sort of a traffic junction, more of a public space at London's West End. It’s a busy meeting place. Sometimes, a tourist attraction for those who love noisy and overcrowded places.

  “It’s been said that a person who stays long enough at Piccadilly Circus would eventually bump into everyone they know.” The Pillar sighs as the vehicle stops. The police officer wakes up the inspector, telling him we’ve arrived. He also tells the inspector to wipe away the words written with a marker on his forehead:

  Inspector Sherlock Dormouse

  Was miraculously awake from 9:02-9:04.

  May he sleep in peace.

  “Who did that!” the inspector barks, staring in the rearview mirror.

  “It’s him.” The Pillar points at the officer, when it was him who did it a second ago. “But we’re in a hurry. Let’s get out, Alice.” He takes my hand, and I follow him outside while the inspector punishes the innocent officer in the car.

  “Now we’re free to begin our investigation alone,” the Pillar says, “tell me if you see anything out of the ordinary in the circus.”

  Piccadilly Circus is full of video displays and neon signs mounted on every building on the northern side. Even this early, it throngs with all kinds of people.

  In a hurry, I glimpse a few notable buildings, including the London Pavilion, Criterion Restaurant, and Criterion Theatre. How are we supposed to find a rabbit in this humongous place?

  “I don’t know what I am looking for,” I say.

  “You’re right. Come with me,” the Pillar demands. “There is no way we’re going to find clues in all this mess.”

  “Don’t you think Mary Ann is the clue, not Piccadilly Circus?” I ask.

  “I don’t know who Mary Ann is,” he says. “Until we do, this crowded place is all we’ve got.”

  I follow the Pillar, glimpsing the time on my watch. It’s already 9:07 a.m.

  As we snake our way through the crowd and cars, I see a tube station, part of the London Underground system. I wonder if the rabbit ventured down there. I hope not.

  “We have to get a better look from the top.” The Pillar enters a building and runs up the stairs.

  Climbing up, we’re trying not to infect others with our panic. So far, no one knows about the bomb that is about to explode in London.

  The view from the top is even more confusing. It’s like a Caucus Race down there. People walking in every direction. I can’t seem to locate most of the police officers.

  “This doesn’t look good.” The Pillar sighs. “It doesn’t look like there are clues for us here. And I wouldn’t expect to see the rabbit if it’s hopping down there.”

  I concentrate, trying to find the next clue, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I wonder if the Pillar is right about this. Are we really supposed to find the rabbit here? And why hasn’t this Hatter contacted us if he wants to play games?

  9:09 a.m.

  “What’s that?” I point at a notable statue in the middle of the circus. It’s of a winged, nude man, pointing a bow and string down at the tourists. “Is that Eros?”

  “Eros to the Greek, Cupid to the Roman,” the Pillar says, still looking lost. “It’s one of London’s most famous landmarks. But you must know that.”

  “I know a little about it,” I say, although I hardly remember being here before. “Tell me more about it.”

  “We don’t have time, Alice,” the Pillar scoffs.

  “But what if it’s the clue?” I argue. “As far as I see, it’s the most eye-catching landmark in this crowded place. It certainly stands out.”

  “You’ve got a point.” The Pillar stares with interest. “The statue is one of London’s icons.” He starts reciting facts in case they may lead us somewhere. “It was the first in the world to be cast in aluminum. It’s set on a bronze fountain, designed by Alfred Gilbert. It’s the symbol of love, but everyone knows that.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something the Hatter wants us to inspect.” I rub my chin, disappointed.

  An imaginary bomb is ticking in the back of my head. The sight of a blown-out rabbit drives me crazy. Who would do such a thing?

  “Wait,” the Pillar says. “The statue is erected upon a fountain, which is called Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain. It commemorates the philanthropic works of Lord Shaftesbury, a famous Victorian politician.”

  “Victorian?” I say. “You mean he lived in Lewis Carroll’s time?”

  “True.” The Pillar’s eyes glitter. “Lord Shaftesbury was also very interested in children, like Lewis. He was one of the first people who argued with Parliament that children shouldn’t be working so many hours like they did back then.”

  “And?” I am excited we might be closing in on the next clue.

  “And nothing.” The Pillar pouts again. “All similarities stop here. I told you, this statue can’t be the clue.” He glances at his pocket watch. “It’s 9:10. That’s so Jub Jub.”

  “Why send us to such a crowded place?” I look down at the circus, wishing I could see a man with a huge hat and teacups. I remember seeing such a man in the Fat Duck restaurant, where Sir Elton John was playing. “Could the Cheshire be involved in this again?”

  “Nah,” the Pillar says. “This is... I don't know... different.”

  “How are we supposed to find more clues here?” I mumble. “This all seems too out there.” Then it strikes me. I hope I’m not too late. “Unless...!”

  “Unless what?” He looks defeated, angry he can’t solve the puzzle.

  “Unless the Hatter has no intentions of letting us stop the bomb,” I say. “What if he is like the Muffin Man? Maybe we’re here to witness something.”

  The Pillar cuts me off. “Are you saying we’ve been led here to die in the bombing?”

  Chapter 7

  Queen's Garden, Buckingham Palace, London,

  9:08 a.m.

  “Off with its head!” The Queen of England moaned at her flamingo, the one that was choking in the chubby grip of her hands.

  This was the third time she’d ordered a flamingo’s head chopped off today, and she was starting to lose her patience.

  The Queen was fond of using her flamingos instead of mallets in her favorite game, croquet. She’d flip the flamingo upside down and swing it against the ball with a flat grin on her face.

  But in this new world, nothing worked the Queen’s way—the Wonderland way.

  “What seems to be upsetting you, My Queen?” Margaret Kent, the Duchess, asked, hands politely behind her back while admiring her queen kicking balls.

  “Those flamingos are of no use to me.” The Queen huffed. “Whenever I swing and am about to hit the ball, the stupid bird flips its head up to avoid the hit. This is nonsense!” She stamped her feet, which made her whole body boing, since she was noticeably short.

  Margaret Kent took a moment before saying anything. In truth, this wasn’t nonsense. Being able to hit a ball with a flamingo’s head, like in Wonderland, that was nonsense. But how could she persuade someone used to nonsense that what actually made sense was only nonsense to them? Margaret Kent winced at the last thought. It was mind-boggling.

  “The flamingos in this world are just animals,” Margaret explained. “They will instinctually pull their head back when it’s about to hit the ball. It’s the normal thing to do.”

  “Is it normal to disobey the Queen in the this world?” The Queen pouted like a spoiled six-year-old.

  “Of course not, My Queen,” Margaret said. “It’s just that we’re not in Wonderland anymore.”

  “You make it sound like we’re aliens who landed on earth.”

  Margaret didn’t comment, but it was a plausible metaphor. Wonderlanders suffered in this world. The real world’s nonsense was certainly different from Wonderland’s nonsense. Not all nonsense was actually nonsense. “Would you like me to order you real mallets instead, My Queen?”

  “What’s the fun in that?” th
e Queen said, holding her poor and scared flamingo upside down. “I want you to find a way to convince the flamingo to not flip its head so I can hit the ball with its head.”

  “Hmm...” Margaret sighed. “I don’t know how to do that, My Queen.”

  “Find a way!” The Queen stamped her feet again. “Bribe it!”

  “How?” Margaret was sincere about it. How do you bribe a flamingo? Give it money? What would it do with it? No sane flamingo would agree to its own death, even in an insane world.

  “Then bring all the toilet paper you can find; wrap it around its neck so it can’t flip its head,” the Queen shouted.

  “Okay?” Margaret squinted hesitantly.

  “Or even better, I have another idea.”

  “Which is?”

  “Off with its head!” She waved the flamingo at her guard to take care of the bird.

  But the Queen’s guards, wearing their bearskin caps and scarlet tunics with the dark blue collars, failed to execute the bird. Whenever they were about to chop its head, the sneaky flamingo pulled it back again, and the guard only sliced thin air.

  “What’s wrong with this flamingo?” the Queen said. “It doesn’t want to hit the ball with its head, and it doesn’t want to die.”

  “It’s—” Margaret bowed, wanting to comfort her.

  “Shhh.” The Queen raised a forefinger in the air. “I’m thinking, Margaret. Don’t interrupt my genius thinking.”

  “But of course, My Queen.” In truth, Margaret worried whenever the Queen started thinking.

  “I finally know what’s wrong with this flamingo.” The Queen snapped her fingers.

  “Enlighten me, please, My Queen.”

  “It needs a psychiatrist,” the Queen whispered, eyes bulging with the revelation.

  “A psychiatrist?”

  “Yes. Yes.” The Queen shook her head, snickering along. “The flamingo is insane. It needs therapy—like every disobeying citizen. Then it will just follow my orders the way I want. Guards!” She turned and clapped the fatty hands. “Send this flamingo to the Radcliffe Lunatic Asylum!”

  The Queen’s guards did. Immediately.

  They took the poor bird, wrapped it in a straitjacket—the Queen had a lot of those scattered all over the palace, but no one really knew why—and then caged the flamingo in the back of an ambulance.

  “I hope you’re satisfied now.” Margaret watched the guards leave the croquet field.

  “I’m a queen, Margaret. I’m never satisfied. But I feel better.” She inhaled the foggy air with closed eyes.

  “Can I talk to you about the Event, now?” Margaret said, as she had wanted to bring it up all day.

  “Ah.” The Queen waved a hand in the air. “That event! I bet it’s going to be marvelous. Have you invited everyone on my list?”

  “Yes.” Margaret nodded obediently.

  “Each and every one of them?”

  “From all lands in the world, all ethnicities and tribes,” Margaret said. “The crème de la crème of the world’s most important people are hours away from arriving.”

  The Queen smirked, looking at her reflection in the mirror. At first, she was shocked by her image, then she pretended it was the most beautiful in the world. “It’s time for the greatest event in the twentieth century to take place.”

  “It’s the twenty-first century, My Queen,” Margaret corrected her.

  “Who said that?” the Queen said in anger.

  Margaret didn’t know how to answer that. How could she reason that a fact was, in fact, a fact?

  “Doesn’t matter.” The Queen relaxed again. “Once the Event takes place, and I convince the world with my plan, I can pretty much do what I want with the world, even if I want to change history and time itself—and, of course, every damn flamingo will obey me without a question.”

  Chapter 8

  Top of a building, Piccadilly Circus, London,

  9:21 a.m.

  “But it can’t be that easy,” I say, contradicting my previous assumption about us being led here to die. Blame it on my insanity, I guess. “I’m confused about this bomb. I really don't know how to stop it.”

  “I think you were right.” The Pillar snaps his fingers. “Not about being led here to die, but about the statue being the clue.”

  “How so? Tell me. We have so little time.”

  “There is something peculiar about the Eros statue,” he says. “I remember someone telling me that if it were to release its arrow, its shaft would bury itself in Shaftesbury Avenue down there.”

  “The statue is pointing at a specific destination?” I squeak. “That must be it. The arrow, within this crowd, is a peculiar landmark. It could be like an X marks the spot. Maybe it leads to the rabbit’s whereabouts.”

  I am already running for the stairs. The Pillar follows me down.

  We reach the street below. It’s already 9:23 a.m., and I dash through the crowd, toward the statue, tolerating all kinds of vulgar insults for my behavior.

  The Pillar stands next to me, our backs to the statue. We follow the arrow’s target, and can see it’s exactly pointing at something.

  A homeless man...

  The man is standing fixed in place, as if someone led him to this precise spot. He looks overly dirty, with tattered clothes. The wandering crowds keep away from him. This must be it. The man stands alone, right in the arrow’s target. He is even staring at the statue.

  The Pillar and I approach the man, not knowing what to say. He doesn’t care to lower his eyes at us. He’s fixated on the statue, fidgeting his feet, as if to make sure he’s standing in the accurate spot.

  “Do you know where the rabbit is?” I blurt out, as insane as it sounds.

  The man lowers his eyes. His gaze is weird. I suddenly realize he looks frightened.

  “Answer me, please.” I take a step forward. He says nothing.

  “Did the Hatter send you?” the Pillar demands.

  The word “Hatter” seems to resonate with the man. Something glitters in his eyes, but he still doesn’t talk. He is scared of something.

  The Pillar pulls the man by his collar, about to force him to talk. The man resists. His feet cemented in place. Then I see it. Underneath the man’s tattered clothes, he is wired with dynamite, and it’s probably controlled from afar.

  “Look.” I point at the dynamite. The Pillar looks around for whoever is doing this. “Stay put,” I tell the homeless man. “We’ll get help.”

  I am about to look for Inspector Dormouse when the Pillar squeezes my hand. “I don't think this is the way to solve it. Let’s see what this awful-smelling man has to say.”

  I raise my head and realize that the homeless man has been trying to talk, only he was too scared to raise his voice. The Pillar nears him, trying to listen to the man’s shivering lips. The man begins whispering, still stuttering with fear.

  “Louder.” The Pillar can’t make the words out. “You!” he shouts at a few teenagers, listening to their iPods and singing along. The teenagers ignore him, still swinging to the music. The Pillar takes a step forward, pulls their iPods from them, and throws them away. “Walk!” he says, and turns back to the homeless man. The teenagers run away. I haven’t seen this serious side of the Pillar before.

  The homeless man raises his voice now, intimidated by the Pillar. “Why did the Mock Turtle call its teacher Tortoise?” the homeless man manages to say.

  “What?” I grimace.

  “Why did the Mock Turtle call its teacher Tortoise?” the man repeats, his eyes sincerely pleading for an answer.

  “Is this is joke?” I say.

  “He’s talking about the Alice in Wonderland book,” the Pillar says. “It’s a play on words that we’re supposed to solve. It was mentioned in the book.”

  “What kind of sick game is this?” I lament, then scratch my memory to solve the puzzle. I am supposed to have the Alice in Wonderland book memorized in the back of my head, but panic disrupts my thinking.

 
I look at the Pillar for the solution, and I hate myself for not solving it myself. I want to save this homeless man from exploding any minute now.

  “Just give me a minute.” The Pillar raises a finger. “I know the solution to this.”

  “There’s no time,” the homeless man stutters. “The Hatter told me a girl named Mary Ann might know the answer.”

  The Pillar and I exchange worried looks. Who the heck is Mary Ann?

  “Forget about this Mary Ann,” the Pillar tells the man. “We’re going to get it solved and save your sorry life.”

  “Please...” the man says, but then he can’t say more.

  We’re too late. Something splashes against the man’s chest. At first, I don’t understand what it is. But when the Pillar holds the man tight and helps him fall to the ground, I realize what it is.

  The homeless man was shot, probably with a silencer.

  Chapter 9

  9:36 a.m.

  Panicked, I kneel down next to the Pillar, who grits his teeth, pulling his hands away from the corpse. He stands up and stares at the wandering crowd. He flashes fake smiles and persuades them the man has a fainting condition, and that everything is going to be all right once they give him his medicine. The Pillar is worried about the people panicking.

  Surprisingly, no one even cares about the homeless guy sprawled in red on the ground.

  I refuse to believe the man is dead that soon. There must be a way to save him. I pull my phone out to call an ambulance.

  “Stop this,” the Pillar says. “I told you, these Wonderland Wars are beyond police and ambulances’ help. We don’t want them to interfere.”

  “We were riding along with Inspector Dormouse a few minutes ago. I thought we might work hand in hand to save people’s lives by now.”

  “That was just a trick so we could enter the scene of the crime,” the Pillar says. “Why do you even care about a homeless man you don’t know?”

  “What did you just say?” I snap back. “What’s wrong with you? One minute you want us to save lives and then you don’t care if a man dies.”

  “There are bigger stakes at hand.” The Pillar looks frustrated, his eyes looking around for whoever executed that shot. “This sentimental heart of yours will blow everything.”