My guess is those girls never read newspapers, or it would have crossed their minds that he is Pillar the Killer, one of Britain's notorious murderers. Maybe, like he theorized before, people are really in love with villains like him.
"So, the Queen of England really counts her Brazilian nuts each night?" a giggling girl says.
"She is obsessed with her nuts." The Pillar points a finger to the girl's skull. "If you know what I mean." The girl laughs. "Bowl after bowl, the Queen marks them with yellow marker to see if the nuts have dipped." He is conspiracy-talking now, making the girls feel special. "It started years ago when she'd imported a set of exotic nuts for her son's royal wedding. The guards, having never tasted such amazing peanuts, had to dip in sooner or later. A big mistake." He waves his forefinger.
"Why?" a bright-eyed, but not bright-minded, girl asks.
"Yes, why?" her friend follows.
"The Queen's peanuts are addictive," the Pillar says. "The guards couldn't stop nibbling on them."
"But then the Queen must have been mad," the giggling girl says.
"I heard she took the matter to the Supreme Court of the United Kingdom," another girl suggests.
"True," the Pillar says. "It was on Parliament's most important discussions a few years ago."
I pull the curtain and peek from behind it, hoping there is a point behind this conversation.
"Parliament granted the Queen immunity from her dishonest guards." He purses his lips with sarcasm. "They granted her a first-class security system she can install in her chamber to keep away the guards while she is asleep. The Queen's nuts are a matter of national security now."
The girls laugh hysterically. I do, too. I admit it. The story is insanely amusing. I heard it on the radio on our way to Harrods. A few ladies nearby were talking about it too. It seemed like an impossible story spread by a cheap newspaper, but it is a true story.
"You know what I really think the Queen did?" the Pillar whispers to them. The girls step in closer. I almost fall semi-naked out of the booth, eavesdropping. "I think the Queen brutally punished her guards, regardless of the word from Parliament."
"Punished them?" The girls exchange Barbie-like worried looks. "How do you think she did that?"
"I think she went, 'Off with their heads!'" He pantomimes a knife cutting through his neck with his hand.
"Like the Queen of Hearts in
The girls are horrified. They can't tell if the Pillar is joking or not. Nor can I. Is he suggesting the Queen of England is the Queen of Hearts? I don't even want to consider the possibility.
"One more thing," he says, breaking the tension. "Do you have any idea who paid for the Queen's expensive security system?"
The girls shake their heads.
"You." He points at each of them, mustering a serious face.
"Us?" The girls are genuinely puzzled.
"From the taxes you pay." He rubs a thumb against his fore and middle fingers, indicating money.
"Really?" The girls' hands snap back to their mouths. This time they manage to show anger. I would.
Did I pay for the Queen's security system, too? Do insane people pay taxes?
"The Queen's nuts are
I stare at him. Really stare at him. All kinds of thoughts flicker in my head. I want to punch him. I want to bring back time to a point where I have never met him. I want deliver him to the authorities. But I also want to laugh with him. As he approaches me, a flash of Wonderland sparks before my eyes. It's a short one about me talking to a caterpillar atop of an immense mushroom.
The flash disappears in a
He laughs. "I used to ask
Hoo aaare yoooh?"
When I open my eyes, the Pillar is gone. No wonder Dr. Truckle connects him to Harry Houdini.
I sigh at the Pillar's disappearance and get back in the booth. Surely he will come back again.
I pull the curtain back and try on the new dress. I try not to overdress. Nothing too fancy, although I'd love to. A merely noticeable, but moderately proper dress should work just fine. I am not going to the prom. It's just a play at the theatre. A great bonus for a girl locked in an asylum, I must admit. Besides, whatever I wear usually ends up spattered with blood.
I have already chosen a fitting room with no mirrors—the Pillar pretended he had broken it accidentally, and the staff had to remove it when we first entered Harrods. I told them I didn't mind using a mirror-less dressing room. The Pillar covered the rest of the mirror on the wall with a veil he borrowed from an older woman and told me, "What's the use of a dressing room without a mirror? It's just like a book without pictures." He winked and closed the curtain to talk to the girls.
When I look at the dress I chose, I like it on me. Not bad for a mad girl. I think I can look like normal girls, ones who have a few friends, loving parents and siblings, a girl who lives in a nice suburban house, awaits a bright future, and, above all, has a solid memory of her past.
I also think I look like a girl who could have a boyfriend. At least, a mutual interest with a boy. I wonder if this is could be my life when all of this is over—if this is ever going to be over.
The accumulation of thoughts reminds me of Jack Diamonds. How is it possible he always appears when I need him? He never complains, and is always positive about his energy. I should be flattered he always wants to have a date with me.
Now that I know Jack is Adam J. Dixon, my dead boyfriend, I understand why I am so into him. My feelings are justified. I am not a love-hungry girl fresh out of the asylum,
When I pull he curtain, I am surprised someone is standing right behind it. Not the Pillar. Someone I miss dearly, but haven't expected to see here.
Jack Diamonds flashes one of his smiles with cute dimples at me. It's a sexy smile.
"Are you wearing this dress for me?" He has his arm resting on the doorframe, a seductive gleam flowering in his eyes.
"Jack!" I tiptoe like a young girl meeting her loved one after he has been away for long.
"With a dress like that, I could get on my knees and propose."
I am sure I am blushing, so I lower my head and lace my hands. Slowly, Jack's finger nudges me back to look at him. "You know I am poor and can't afford a ring, right?"
"You're just silly." I am blushing red roses out of my cheeks.
"I'm not silly. I am mad."
"You're not mad. Trust me." I wrap my fingers around his wrist. I feel as if the world is slowly disappearing all around me. No one's left in it but him and me. "I'm the mad one. I have a Certificate of Ins—"
"I'm mad about
A sticky tear threatens to seep out of my eye when he says that. Now, why did he say that? Should I tell him that I killed him? Should I tell him I have no idea how he is standing in front of me?
"Who are you talking to?" The Pillar waves at me from an aisle of dresses a few feet away.
"It's Jack," I reply. "I have never had him appear in your presence before."
The Pillar says nothing as he walks silently toward me. He briefly checks out the crowd around us before he stops and says, "Jack who?"
"Jack Diamonds," I insist, poking Jack at his chest.
The Pillar looks behind him and then back to me, a suspicious gaze in his eyes. Almost pitiful.
"Look." I sigh. "I know you don't like him, but it wouldn't hurt you to say 'hi.'"
"I would if I could," the Pillar says. His gaze starts to worry me.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means I don't see a 'Jack' in here."
"It's Jack, Pillar," I stress. "Adam, my boyfriend. Don't play games with me."
Slowly, the Pillar closes in, standing right behind Jack. "Alice," he almost whispers. "You need to calm down. There is no one here but you and me. Behind us, everyone is taking care of their own business. But right here, there is no Jack."
"You're lying," I say. "I'm not imagining him."
"I didn't quite say that. I just don't see him."
"Nonsense!" I look back at Jack. "Say something, Jack."
"Like what?" Jack looks uncomfortable with the Pillar's proximity.
"Tell him you're not a figment of my imagination," I plead. "Tell the Pillar you're real."
Jack sighs and walks away, brushing against the Pillar. I see the Pillar slightly make room for him. Why is he saying he can't see him? Where is Jack going?
"I am real, Alice," Jack says from afar. "I just don't like this man." He points at the Pillar. "I think he doesn't like me. And honestly, I think you shouldn't be around him."
"Pillar?" I dare him. "You heard Jack. Is that true?"
"What did Jack say?" The Pillar purses his lips, but looks in the direction I am looking at.
"He says you're playing games with my mind."
"Please, Alice," the Pillar says. "Let's forget about Jack. I will tell you who he is when we catch the Muffin Man. You gave me your word."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Jack protests.
"There is no Jack here, Alice." The Pillar holds me gently by the shoulders.
"He is standing right there!" My high-pitched voice catches the customers' attention. The Pillar looks like he doesn't want anyone to notice me.
"All right." The Pillar sighs. "Ask Jack to talk to one of the staff girls. Let's see if they can see him."
"Don't listen to him, Alice," Jack says.
"Do as he says, Jack," I beg him. "Please."
Jack slowly walks toward a girl in the staff and stretches out a hand. She smiles and shakes it back. No one can resist those dimples. They start chatting.
"See? He is real." I pout at the Pillar. "He is talking to the girl."
"No, he isn't," the Pillar says. "What girl?"
"I can't believe you." I push the Pillar away. I am about to pull my hair and scream. I feel like I want to hide back in my cell. Something isn't right. It's like a hidden truth that I feel but can't put my hands on. I return to the dressing room, away from the Pillar, and grab my clothes so I can leave. "I don't understand why you are doing this," I shout at the Pillar in public. The hell with people. I am a mad girl. I can do as I please. "I've had it with you!" I walk away with Jack.
It's time to end this.
Furious, I pull my clothes and accidentally catch on the dark veil covering the mirror. My heart almost explodes at the horror, realizing what I have done. I reach for the veil before it curls down to the ground.
But I am too late.
Once the mirror flashes like summer rays at my eyes, I see that scary rabbit inside it again. My fear of mirrors prickles every hair on my skin. This time, I am too furious and fragile to deal with it.
I faint and drop to the floor like an empty satin dress, devoid of its owner, swirling lonely to the ground.
A man with a pipe tells his wife about the theatre's history. How it had been mysteriously burned down in 1809. How Richard Sheridan, Irish playwright and owner of the theatre, watched the fire from a coffee house with a bottle of wine. The man laughs and takes another drag from his pipe, which smells of the exact flavor the Pillar smokes.
With all the poverty, mud, and stinky smell of open sewers, these few aristocrats manage to wait outside the theatre, demanding entry to a famous play. Whenever a poor girl or boy in tattered clothes approaches them, they shoo them away like a annoying fly buzzing near their ears. They drink their wine, tell their stories, and talk about the dinner party they should attend after the play.
Not sure if I am invisible in this dream, I keep approaching the rich, wanting to listen to them. They argue whether last night's turkey wasn't cooked properly, whether they should fire their cook. The man's wife, wearing a lot of jewelry, wishes they could afford hiring Alexis Benoist Soyer, a French celebrity chef. Her husband can't agree more. He jokes that their cook, although they pay him decently in such filthy times, probably steals all his meals from a book called Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management.
My mind flickers when I hear the name. I think I have seen a copy of the book in Lewis' private studio when I entered it through the Tom Tower a week ago.