I wonder why Lewis Carroll’s name comes up in this conversation. Why would a physician coin a scientific method after a man who wrote a children’s book? “Trust me, doctor,” I say, “I would love it if your method works.” I don’t know if I am lying. In all honesty, I am beginning to like my own world. The Pillar, the Cheshire, Tom Truckle, the Queen, Fabiola, and Jack. All the madness and nonsense and uncertainty seem to have had a magical impact on me.
“I certainly hope so,” he says. “How about I call Waltraud to roll you back to your cell? We’ve had enough for today.”
“One more thing, doctor,” I say. “There is something I’d like to ask you before I go.”
“Please do.”
“How come physicians are referencing Lewis Carroll in terms like the Rabbit Hole? I mean, isn’t Lewis Carroll just a Victorian writer who wrote a children's book?”
“Interesting question. Well, Lewis Carroll had an uncanny interest in mental illness.”
“He did?”
“Of course. It’s documented,” he says. “Also, Lewis himself suffered from terrible migraines, which presumably caused his stuttering. Sometime the migraines left him unconscious for hours, probably dreaming his stories.”
“What?” I knew Lewis stuttered. I saw it myself. But I didn’t realize he had such horrible migraines.
“He took so many drugs for the migraines, but they wouldn’t go away,” the doctor elaborates. “He tried to cure himself with the most horrible torture instruments.”
“What are you saying, exactly?” I am angered.
“Maybe Lewis Carroll was just as insane,” he says, “as you are.”
It’s seven thirty in the morning on a foggy Sunday. After my psychiatry session, I fainted to the sight of my crippled self in the mirror. When I awoke, I wasn’t crippled anymore. Waltraud informed me I would be transported to “outside counseling” again. This time, my ruthless warden had looked highly suspicious of the matter, but she couldn’t intervene.
The chauffeur picked me up from the asylum’s entrance. All through the drive, in the ambulance he still drove from my last adventure, from Oxford to the outskirts of London, he said nothing useful, just that the Pillar had called for me.
A new Wonderland Monster seemed to have arrived.
The rest of the ride I watched the chauffeur drive recklessly and comb his thin whiskers while listening to both his ambulance’s siren and the “White Rabbit” song by Jefferson Airplane from the radio. Eventually, I looked away and continued bandaging the wounds on my arms. When will I ever learn this None Fu thing?
Now, I am standing in front of an old circus with a single red, white, and black tent. The circus, if you could call it that, is surrounded with gravel and sand from all sides. No houses or buildings are in sight. The police are everywhere, looking into some crime. I really don’t know what I am doing here.
“Take this.” The chauffeur pulls out a fake card and hands it over.
“Amy Watson?” I read, furrowing my brow. “Director’s assistant at the White Rabbit Animal Rights Movement in London?”
“Pin it to your jacket,” the chauffeur demands without explaining. “You’ll need it to get past the police.”
“What should I actually look for once I get past them?”
“Your boss, Professor
Now I have the police’s full attention.
“Alice—I mean Amy Watson.” I point at my card and approach them confidently, waving my magic umbrella in the other hand. “White Rabbit Animal Rights Movement.” I have no idea what I am saying.
“You’re looking for Professor Petmaster, I presume.” A young, chubby officer sighs, hands on her belt.
I nod.
“Why are those guys even on the crime scene?” She points at me and scowls at another officer. “This is a
Averting my eyes, I spot the Pillar a few strides away from the circus’s tent. He is pretending he is a music maestro to a few kids who seem to have been in the circus when whatever crime took place. He is singing, “
Down down down!
“I’m sure he is,” I mumble.
“Watson!” The Pillar welcomes me with his usual theatrical gestures, as if it’s the happiest day of his life.
“Professor Petmaster.” I nod, hands behind my back, playing my part. Calling me “Watson” reminds me of Sherlock Holmes. I don’t know if it’s intentional on the Pillar’s behalf, although we do have some similarities in the way we solve cases, and the Pillar does smoke a lot, like Sherlock. “What do we have here?” I ask, hoping I’ll finally understand the situation.
“A white rabbit on the loose.” He excuses himself from the kids and their parents. “You know how much my heart aches for a stray animal,” he says, his voice loud enough so everyone hears. “Poor white rabbit, thrown out in the cruel world of humanity.” He pulls me toward the circus, as I spread my fake smiles at the police, parents, and the kids.
“Sorry you caught me singing that awful song,” he whispers as we walk in.
“Sorry? Why?”
“Who in the world sings ‘London Bridge is falling down’ for young kids?” he says. “Such a depressing song.”
I try to overlook the interesting fact as we finally enter the circus.
The circus inside is a dirt hole. Cheap as it gets. I glimpse a sign announcing that entrance is for free. I am not surprised. The circus is a bit too dim inside. The ring in the middle is filled with white sand, but empty otherwise. Actually, the whole place is abandoned. A huge flyer dangling from above says “The Maddest Show on Earth.” This does seem like a Wonderland Monster’s crime scene so far.
“So what happened in here?” I ask the Pillar, now that we’re alone, and we can drop the act.
“A man calling himself the Hatter has been performing here for the last month, for free,” the Pillar says, walking slowly with his cane and inspecting the place. Dressed the way he is, I realize the Pillar would easily fit in here, mistaken for one of the circus’s performers. An insane ringmaster, maybe. “Last night, the so-called Hatter performed a magic trick where he managed to magically make a white rabbit swallow a time bomb.”
“Oh.” I remember last week’s killer stuffing heads in watermelons. I wonder what’s with all that stuffing. “And?”
“He showed it to the children. The children panicked and ran away, so did the white rabbit, now loose on the streets of London, hopping happily, waiting to explode.” The Pillar seems interested in the sand on the floor inside the ring.
“What’s with all the cruelty Wonderland Monsters have toward animals?”
“Almost everyone in Carroll’s book
“Could be.”
“Some kind of wicked Wonderland Monster terrorism attack?”
“I assume so.” The Pillar is still fascinated by the ring.
“Why do you seem to have doubts about all of this?” I say. “A bomb inside a rabbit is meant to brutally explode somewhere in London. I can’t see it any other way.”
“If I’m a terrorist with a bomb, I’d let it just explode wherever I want it to explode.” The Pillar squints, still staring at the ring in the middle. “Why let a rabbit loose? Whoever this Wonderland Monster is, he has a mysterious plan I can’t put my finger on.”
Chapter 3
“It’s hard to tell. The Wonderland Monsters work in nonsensical ways.” The Pillar stops before the ring, not willing to step inside for some reason. What’s so important about the sand inside?
“At least we know he is the Mad Hatter this time.”
“That’s who he claims to be.” The Pillar kneels down, thoroughly inspecting the empty ring. “Still, something isn’t quite right here.”
“The sand?”
The Pillar nods and stands up again. “But I’m not sure yet.” He looks at me, as if he is seeing me for the first time. “What's up with all your bruises? Had a fight with Waltraud?"
“Nah, it's None Fu.” I swallow the word. “I was training.”
“Does it say to try to kill yourself and stick a carrot in your behind in the book?”
“Of course not! There are certain moves, similar to karate, that are supposed to work, but I end up falling on my hips or hitting the wall.” I try to sound casual but I am utterly embarrassed. Even to the Pillar, this None Fu thing seems off the rocker. “I'll have to keep doing this until it works."
“You know only insane people do the same thing over and over again, expecting the same results,
“Nothing.” The Pillar smiles. “They can do whatever they want... and that is the fun of it.”
Suddenly, a noise interrupts us.
Someone is snoring in the tiers behind me. I turn around and see a man in his fifties, sitting with his neck resting on his shoulder. He is wearing a long brown duster, and is sleeping on the bank in the highest row in the back. I turn back and shoot the Pillar an inquisitive look.
“Nothing to worry about. That’s Chief Inspector Dormouse,” the Pillar says. “Sherlock Dormouse.” He raises one eyebrow and shields his mouth with one gloved hand.
“You’re kidding, right?” I follow the Pillar as he climbs up toward the sleeping inspector.
“I’m not
“Dormouse?” I say. “Is he a Wonderlander?
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I mumble. “I mean, a police officer asleep at the crime scene?”
“There are politicians asleep at their desks, doctors at the operating table, and irresponsible parents drunk at the wheel,” the Pillar says, amusing himself. “I’d say this man isn’t
Inspector Dormouse flips awake, rubbing his beady eyes.
Chapter 4
Pretending we’re from the animal rights movement now makes sense to me. Otherwise, we could not have been allowed into the crime scene. As animal enthusiasts, it makes sense to look after the rabbit. Someone should care for the animal, not just humans. Ironically enough, it’s the insane who care.
“Amy Watson, my assistant, loves rabbits a lot,” the Pillar says—partially making fun of me.
I wonder if we'll be solving crimes with the police from now on. Not a bad idea. We could use some help, as long as they don’t know who we really are.
“Amy Watson has been in a rabbit hole once,” the Pillar whispers to Inspector Dormouse, then smiles broadly at me.
Unexpectedly, Inspector Dormouse doesn’t respond to that. He falls asleep while standing up. His lips ripple like a reluctant wave when he snores.
“Inspector?” I tilt my head, trying to be nice.
“Huh.” His eyes flip open again. He rubs them and yawns. “Apologies. How rude of me. Haven’t slept much lately,” he says. “Have been working twenty-four-seven since they invented the DOI.”
“DOI?” the Pillar says.
“Department of Insanity,” Inspector Dormouse says.
“Department of Insanity?” I exchange looks with the Pillar.
“Aye.” Inspector Dormouse pulls out a bottle of eye drops and uses it on his eyes. “A few years ago the police noticed a lot of crimes with an unusual insanity factor. Crimes which no one had ever heard of before; like this one, a bunny sent out with a bomb.” He chuckles again. His hands shake and he drops the liquid on his cheek. “The world has gone insane.”
“I’m glad you noticed.” The Pillar squints, but I know what he is thinking. If the police noticed the absurdity of crimes recently, then it probably has to do with the Wonderland Monsters being set loose.
“So you found any leads to the rabbit's whereabouts?" the inspector asks.
“I think we did,” the Pillar says, pointing his cane at the sand in the circle, now that he has a much better view from up here. “The Hatter’s first clue.”
I focus immediately on the ring, trying to figure out the message. Inspector Dormouse yawns, utterly perplexed.
Then I see the clue.
Someone used a stick or something and wrote a message in the sand. The letters are enormous—the Pillar couldn’t read them standing too close at the foot of the tiers. Now, we both see it clearly. It's a one-word message:
“Piccadilly?” I say.
“Is this intentional?” Inspector Dormouse scratches his head.
“It is.” The Pillar’s face looks serious. “This isn’t just about a lost rabbit with a bomb. I assume we’ll be introduced to a series of clues once we get past this one.”
“But there is no clue,” Inspector Dormouse counters. “It’s just a word. Someone’s name, probably.”