Figment Page 8

  I play shocked for a while and recite the story Jack told me. I point at the Cheshire's room. Funny how they buy it. There aren't any signs of breaking in. But they believe me. They are good to me. Maybe it's my looks, wearing a nurse's outfit.

  Is that what the world asks of me? To blend in? A nurse's outfit or a doctor's would do the job? Is that mandatory to fit into any society, to become a recognizable stereotype?

  I feel like I've had too much Pillar in my head lately.

  Still rolling the bed toward the main door, I am expecting to meet the Pillar's chauffeur on the way.

  "Wait!" Someone summons me right before I leave through the main door.

  I turn around, and it's another nurse. A buff policeman stands proudly next to her. I hope my cover isn't blown.

  "Yes?" I adjust my glasses and wiggle my nose.

  "Who's that you are taking out?" the nurse asks.

  "A patient who'd been wrongly admitted about an hour ago." I twist the truth. "An ambulance is waiting for him outside to transfer him to another morgue."

  "Him?" Her face knots as she reads the charts.

  "Oh, silly me." I play nerd of all nerds. "I mean her. It's a deceased girl."

  "What's her name again?"

  I shrug. "Wonder," I say. "Alice Wonder."

  "Hmm..." She nods as the curious officer peeks into her charts.

  "She died in a bus accident."

  "Oh. That's right." The nurse points at the name on the chart. "Poor girl. She killed her friends, driving a bus herself."

  "Really?" I try not to grimace.

  "Aren't you from around here?" The police officer chuckles, hands proudly tucked in his belt. "The incident was all over the news a few months ago," Mr. Know-it-all says.

  "Ah, I've only worked here for a month." I smile like a weird girl. What am I doing about the fact that it's impossible the corpse is still unharmed when it's a few months old? Why would I be moving it at this point? "I am from a small town near Oxford."

  "That's why," the nurse says. "Haven't seen you here before. You're good to go." She waves a hand without looking at me.

  "Thank you," I say. "But wasn't this girl admitted to an asylum?"

  "Nonsense." The policeman laughs with the nurse. "It's such a rumor. She is dead like the rest. How could she survive the accident when the rest died?"

  "Then how did you know she killed them?"

  "A note, honey," the nurse says. "She left a note with her sisters before she did it. You talk too much. Now get going. They say we have an injured mortician inside."

  I nod and roll Jack outside.

  A few strides into the red-and-blue-glaring street, the chauffeur, dressed as a medical driver, approaches me. It takes him a moment to realize I am the one rolling the bed, not the one inside it.

  "I believe things didn't go as planned," he says in his mousy voice. Seriously, he has to shave the whiskers off. I shake my head as he ushers me toward the ambulance.

  "We thought so when it took you too long to leave the morgue." He opens the back doors for me. "The toe tag prank was the Cheshire's, by the way," he says, and stops me from rolling the bed inside. "Don't ask me how he knew you'd be at the morgue. I guess he expected it."

  "A friend is hiding inside," I whisper.

  "A friend?" The chauffeur's mousy ears pop out like two pointed parachutes. "Who?"

  "His name is Jack."

  Suspiciously, the chauffeur zips the bag open, and then stares with confusion at me.

  I don't understand the conflict at first. But then I look into the bag. There is no Jack inside. Just the corpse of some guy I don't know.

  Chapter 23

  The Pillar's ambulance, driving through London

  The Pillar is sitting on the opposite side in the back of the ambulance, curiously inspecting the corpse I mistook for Jack earlier—however that happened, I don't know. I can't even think about it. I just thought I had a grip on the thin line between what's real and what's not. I was wrong again.

  The nameless corpse is stretched on the ledge between us. The cold metal of the ambulance is set against my back. The chauffeur is driving us to the outskirts of London, so we take the Pillar's limousine back to Oxford and then to the asylum. He is struggling with activating the ambulance's siren, slowing us down. Foolishly, he sticks his head out of the window and yells, "Wee-woo. Wee-woo!" at the dense traffic so they will make way. "Wee-woo. Wee-woo," he repeats. "Ambulance! Dead man in here. Make way!"

  I pretend I never saw this happen, and gaze at the Pillar, who is genuinely amused by the corpse in the middle.

  The Pillar cocks his head, sucking on a mini hookah with a sticker saying, I know why a raven is like a writing desk. He reaches for the corpse and inspects the deceased's head. It's also chopped off—probably a fresh dead kid sent to the morgue.

  How in Charles Lutwidge Dodgson's name did that happen?

  The Pillar is interested in the corpse's mouth, touching it and inspecting it. He hands me his hookah for a moment and uses both hands, trying to make the dead man smile.

  "It's a shame you can't smile when on your way to meet your maker," he says to the dead. "You don't want to leave a bad impression when meeting Him. It will be the most important interview in your afterlife." He winks at me and pulls his hookah back.

  "Hey," he calls his Chauffeur. "If I told you that this miserable corpse"—he stops and points at the deceased—"is too tired to fly up there and meet his maker, what solution would you suggest?"

  The chauffeur takes off his hat while driving, scratches his three hairies on his bald, egg-shaped head, and then answers, "Help him with a drag from your hookah?" His eyes widen. "So he could get high enough." He laughs and points upward and then sticks out his head out, blaring another "wee-woo" at the passing cars.

  The idea of throwing myself out of the ambulance occurs to me. If this is how they talk in Wonderland, I might not want to be part of it. I am also dazed and confused with Jack's disappearance, but I know the Pillar doesn't like Jack, so talking to him about it will be of no help. I am afraid that my increasing attachment to Jack will only complicate things. Everything that happened to me tonight only worsens the way I feel about myself and the world.

  "So, it was the Cheshire who pulled the toe tag prank on you?" The Pillar drags from his hookah, eyes sparkling.

  "It's not funny." I scowl. "I feel like I am really going mad, having left the asylum again."

  "You feel like you want to give up?" he asks. "You used to be so much more, Alice." He drags from his hookah again as if to distract me from what he is going to say. "Much more muchier in Wonderland. Have you lost your muchness?" He smirks.

  I nod, although ashamed. But in all honesty, the incident with Jack wore me down a little. "Every time I feel I can do this business of saving others from Wonderland Monsters, I end up weakened, wishing I just stayed in my cell."

  "Congratulations, then." The Pillar's face dims. "You just turned into what the Cheshire wants you to become."

  "What is that supposed to mean?" I ask. "You have no idea what I have been through tonight. You have no idea!"

  "The Cheshire wants you to succumb to madness under his pressure," he says, dismissing my whining.

  "Succumb to madness?" I blink in confusion. "I thought he wanted to see if I'm the Real Alice."

  "Exactly," the Pillar says. "Do you think the Real Alice will 'succumb to his madness'?"

  "You mean, other than giving me clues, he tries to see how much unbearable insanity I can handle?"

  "Touché. You just described the human condition of everyday life." He seems pleased. "Can't you see that this is what's going on? People falter and succumb under the pressure of madness every day of their lives. Be it work stress, spouse and family, self-actualization, boredom, teen issues, old-age issues, you name it. Madness is all around us. It needs to feed on us." He spreads his hands wide. "But only..." He leans a bit forward and points a finger in the air.

  "...Wonderlanders c
an stand it," I finish.

  A generous, curvy smile adorns his face. It's one of the very few smiles I like on him. It's like seeing through a devil hiding in the dark, glimpsing a faint possibility of goodness in him. "You don't realize what kind of madfest Wonderland was, do you? It was beautiful."

  I wonder what your real story is, Pillar? Who are you, and why are you helping me?

  "Why is it so important the Cheshire makes sure I'm the Real Alice?" If giving in to madness will prove I am not Alice, I wish to know why it is so important he finds her.

  "It's the only way to ensure he wins the Wonderland Wars, which I am—"

  "You're not going to tell me what it is now. I get it. Just tell me why he can't win without me."

  The Pillar hesitates. He looks down to his shoes and purses his lips. "You have something he wants. I don't know what it is. I might know what it does, but I'm not in the mood to tell you."

  Although I have no idea what I have that the Cheshire wants, I nod. It makes sense. The Cheshire needs to make sure I am the Real Alice so he can get that mysterious thing he wants from me—whatever that is. It occurs to me that maybe that is what the Pillar is after, too. He is only helping me to get that thing.

  "You see, this is why he will go to hell and back with you to make sure you are her," the Pillar elaborates. "There is no one else he thinks is the Real Alice at the moment, so there is no competition. He actually wants you to be her, so he will push you into the pits of madness like no one has ever experienced before."

  "I don't mind." I take deep breath. "I need his madness."

  "And why would that be?" A mix of admiration and worry flashes in his eyes, almost the same I saw on the Cheshire's.

  "Because I need to know if I am the Real Alice."

  "Understandable." He nods.

  "I assume I don't know what it is he wants from me because I don't remember it, right?"

  "I have no idea why you don't know, Alice," he says. "My intuition from the very first day is that it's you. Now, shall we not waste more time, as you have become a whining-fest yourself lately?" His tone peaks with enthusiasm. "We have a clue. A string of clues, actually. The Cheshire kills fat kids, chops off their heads, and stuffs them with Meow Muffins, then stuffs the head in a watermelon or a football. I really don't know how someone can stuff a head in watermelon, but it's a piece of art."

  "These were exactly his words." I look straight at him.

  "To know one's enemy is to read their mind."

  "I agree. So what was the Muffin Man song all about?" I say. "He said it was a blatant clue, since we couldn't read any of the others."

  "The Muffin Man rhyme definitely has to do something with Meow Muffins." The Pillar rubs his chin. "I'd presume the Muffin Man manufactures the Meow Muffins or something. But I'm not sure."

  "Isn't that a well-known nursery rhyme?"

  "The rhyme was first recorded in an old British manuscript," he explains. "Presumably around 1820. Some say 1862, but it's all assumptions."

  "Isn't that Victorian times?" I remember the vision I had of Lewis again. It happened 1862. I can't tell the Pillar about it. Lewis told me not to tell anyone.

  "It is. I know it's tempting to link the rhyme with Lewis," he says. "Sadly, I never came across the 'Muffin Man' phrase in any of Carroll's works."

  "Neither have I ever heard about a Muffin Man in Wonderland," I agree.

  "Let's get back to the asylum," he says. "I always have a clearer head among the Mushroomers. We need to get going before half of the country wakes up with the heads of their kids stuffed in watermelons. We have a lot of work to do."

  "One last thing." I raise a finger at him.

  "We don't have time, Alice." He peeks at his pocket watch.

  "This is important," I insist. "I won't have anything to do with this case if you don't listen to me."

  "I get it." He shakes his head. "Jack."

  "How do you know?"

  "He's the only one who makes your eyes go so sparkly." He rolls his eyes, not fond of the idea of love. "What about him?"

  "Who is he?" I demand. "I need an answer."

  The Pillar purses his lips as if he is afraid the truth could spurt out against his will.

  "Look. I met him inside—"

  "Inside the morgue?" The Pillar squints. "Again?"

  "Yes. And like always, he saved me."

  "I am not surprised."

  "I tucked him in a death bag to fool the nurse and the officer so we'd leave the morgue," I say. "Outside, I discovered he wasn't there in the bag anymore."

  "Don't tell me it's this miserable fellow you found." He points at the corpse, and I nod. "And I thought you began to pick up on Wonderland's nonsensical humor and brought me a sample."

  "Do you know how this is possible?" I pray he has an answer. This is so important to me.

  "I do." He closes his eyes for a second. What is it he knows about Jack?

  "But you're not going to tell me?"

  The Pillar says nothing. He glances briefly at the chauffeur then breathes back into his hookah.

  "Look at me," I demand. "Is Jack a fig—"

  "I will tell you who Jack is exactly when you finish this mission." He is strict, although not looking at me. I want to believe him.

  "Deal." I stretch a hand across the corpse. Somehow, delaying the knowledge of Jack's identity is a relief to me, because I am so afraid there is no Jack in the first place. I wave my stretched hand again, but the Pillar isn't shaking it back.

  "I prefer we don't shake hands." He looks irritated. "Germs and bacteria, Alice." He points at his gloves. "You just came out of a morgue, for Edgar Allan Poe's sake."

  The rude son of a...

  I take my hand back. I don't care. I need to solve the Muffin Man puzzle, stop the crimes, and maybe know if I am the Real Alice, and then my reward will be knowing who Jack is. Please, God, give me a reasonable explanation to his existence.

  "You know it's not 'wee-woo,' don't you?" the Pillar says to his chauffeur with a tinge of disgust in his voice.

  "Then what is it, Professor Pillar? Please help me," the chauffeur says. People driving by swear at him. Other London drivers fire back at him, saying things like "You're a nut!" and "Get your sorry ass back inside!"

  "It's 'woo-wee,' not 'wee-woo,' you mousy fool!" The Pillar takes a drag and smiles at me. "Everybody knows that."

  I try not to laugh and lean back, thinking of the Muffin Man puzzle. It occurred to me how crazy the journey has been. I mean, last week I met so many humans who turned out to be Wonderlanders. Who'd believe me if I told them? The thought opens a question in my mind. "Tell me, Pillar," I say in the same investigative tone he practices on me. "If Margaret Kent is the Duchess, Fabiola is the White Queen, you are the Caterpillar, and of course the Cheshire is the Cheshire, then I have to wonder how many other Wonderlanders live among us here."

  "Oh, Alice," the Pillar says. "They are many, not mentioning those the Cheshire hadn't set free yet."

  "I mean, Margaret Kent is a Parliament woman. Fabiola is the Vatican's most beloved nun. Does it get crazier than this?"

  The Pillar leans back and smiles with beady eyes. "You have no idea."

  Chapter 24

  Queen's Chamber, Buckingham Palace, London

  The Queen of England—yes, that Queen, whatever her name is in this mad book—awoke in the middle of night, furious and maddened, and slightly scared. She suspected an intruder had been into her chamber in the Buckingham Palace.

  Of course, the Queen's chambers were immaculately secure, particularly after a thirty-one-year-old psychiatric patient had scaled a drainpipe and sauntered into her chambers a few years ago.

  Tonight, laced in her expensive nightgown, she regretted sleeping alone without guards in her chamber. A few guards would have caught the intruder right away.

  The Queen had previously caught her guards and footmen stealing from her at her son's wedding. And what in Britain's name did they steal?

  The
guard dared to steal the Queen's exotic nuts, exclusively imported from Brazil. She ordered all her precious nuts removed to her private chambers and prevented any of the guards inside.

  The Queen's nuts drove everyone nuts.

  The Queen was known to love two things dearly: Her five o'clock tea parties, which had been once exclusively hosted by the one and only Mad Hatter—but that was a long story she didn't want to remember now. And, of course, her nuts and munchies.

  Right now, the Queen tiptoed as cunningly and slowly as a cat, her back slightly hunched, and proceeded to the corridor outside her enchanting bed—her bed was too high; she needed a small stepladder to embark it. Sometimes, she secretly jumped right off it when no one was around. Being a queen, with all of this etiquette she had to fake, certainly bored her sometimes.

  The Queen tiptoed on her way to check her endless bowls of exotic nuts in the corridor. She had them set at five-meter intervals, adjacent to the corridor's wall. They were set on waist-high tables so she could reach them effortlessly. She considered it ridiculous walking back a few meters when the appetite for a nut hit her. A five-meter span between each bowl of nuts was just convenient. Also, laziness sounded like a brilliant hobby.

  If queens didn't indulge in laziness, who would? she'd always asked herself.

  She stopped in front of a bowl of nuts and dipped a hand inside. Even with her eyes closed, she could almost tell if a few nuts were missing from each bowl.

  The Queen gasped. This bowl seemed to miss a few.

  Who's been nibbling on my nuts?

  The Queen's face tightened, and her cheeks began to redden.

  "All right," she hissed. "I have to make sure before I punish anyone."

  She continued walking ahead, targeting a few other bowls at the end of the corridor.

  As she walked, one of her dogs came padding and panting toward her. It was a Welsh corgi. She had five of them. Meals were served for each dog in their own bowl, with Britain's flag drawn on the outer shell. The meals were usually readied here in the corridor, with a few precious nuts on the side. The dogs' diet had been meticulously approved by veterinary experts from all over the world. It cost twice the income of a middle-class citizen who had two children to feed on average. But those weren't just any dogs. They were the Queen's dogs—and, in many ways, Wonderland Dogs.