“You think it’s the Hatter’s real name?” I cut in, facing the Pillar.
“No,” the Pillar says. “The word ‘Piccadilly’ is written inside a circle. Not the ring, but the one carved with the stick around the word.”
I tiptoe and look down to grasp the whole picture. “I see it. A code? Part word and part drawing?”
The Pillar nods.
“Piccadilly Circle?” I interpret. “Is that somewhere we need to go?” Then I get it. “This is where we should look for the rabbit if we want to stop it.”
“Yes,” the Pillar says. Inspector Dormouse looks at us like two loons from outer space—which we might be. “But it’s not Piccadilly Circle. There is no place called Piccadilly Circle. It’s Piccadilly Circus, the famous road junction in London.”
“How do you know it’s ‘Circus,’ not ‘Circle’?” I say.
“Circus is Latin for circle,” the Pillar explains. “The so-called Hatter wants to play a game.”
“Are you saying the bomb, I mean the rabbit, is in Piccadilly Circus in London?” Inspector Dormouse has awakened again.
“Looks like it,” the Pillar says.
“Then we have to go there,” I insist. “How much time do we have before the bomb goes off?”
“666 minutes.” Inspector Dormouse finally knows something. “That’s what the children said the digital timer showed on the bomb.”
“That’s eleven hours and six minutes.” The Pillar looks at his pocket watch. “The rabbit was set loose 12:00 p.m. yesterday, so the bomb should explode 11:06 a.m. today. It’s 8:46 a.m. now. We’ve only got very little time before the bomb goes off!”
Chapter 5
A bomb about to explode in about an hour and half.
The police make sure the press doesn’t know about it. They call 999 and confirm no one is allowed to pass the news of a loose rabbit with a bomb. No need to turn Piccadilly Circus, and London, into a real circus. At least not now.
“But how can he know the rabbit is in Piccadilly Circus?” I ask in the backseat. “I mean, it’s a rabbit, not something you control with a remote control.”
Although I am expecting insight from Inspector Dormouse, I don’t get any. He is already comatose, snoring in the passenger seat. The officer driving smiles feebly at me in the mirror.
“I have no idea,” the Pillar replies. “This Hatter wants to play a game. Right now, it’s his rules, until we figure out what's on his mind.” He pokes Inspector Dormouse with his cane from the back. He still doesn’t wake up. “Dedicated sleeper,” the Pillar comments, almost admiringly. “Is he always like that?” he asks the driving officer.
“Most of the time.” The officer is embarrassed too. “But he is a bloody good inspector.”
The Pillar rolls his eyes. “Tell me”—he turns to me—“what happened with Jack?”
“That’s none of your business.” I don’t know why I’m defensive about it. Maybe because I don’t want to remember.
However, the Pillar shoots me another admiring look, as if he likes the way I fired back at him.
“So are we there yet?” Inspector Dormouse snaps awake.
“Soon enough, sir,” the officer replies.
“Do you dream when you sleep or do you just pass out?” The Pillar is curious.
“Was I asleep?” The inspector scratches his head and yawns.
I smile. The inspector seems to posses the rare capability to shock the Pillar.
“Did I tell you the Hatter told the children about that one girl that could stop the bomb?” Inspector Dormouse says.
“One girl?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Is her name Alice?” The Pillar doesn’t waste time.
“No.” Inspector Dormouse’s beady eyes promise he’ll fall asleep again. But before he passes out, he answers us. “Mary Ann, the children said.”
“Mary Ann?” I look at the Pillar.
“Who is Mary Ann?” we both utter in one breath.
“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:
“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?
“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?”
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
“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
“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.
“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
“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 creme de la creme 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.”
9:21 a.m.