Circus, стр. 3

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.”

Chapter 2

The Six O’clock Circus, Mudfog Town, London

Sunday, 8:05 a.m.

An hour later, the Pillar’s chauffeur drops me off at the so-called crime scene.

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 Cornelius Petmaster, of course.” The chauffeur rubs his whiskers. “The one and only.” he winks.

Standing in my place, I watch him drive away recklessly, like a spoiled rich kid with his daddy’s new ambulance.

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 crime scene. What is an animal rights organization doing here?”

“Crime scene?” a tall, overly thin officer says. His flirting eyes are all over me already. He is cute, but lanky, like a flipping broom. Strangely, I fidget. Am I favoring a stranger’s random interest in me in the absence of Jack? “You can’t call it a crime scene without a body. Besides, a rabbit is on the loose. I know most people care for the bomb. Still, some care for the rabbit. Come in, Ms. Amy.” He flashes his teeth at me. That fake grin I notice most boys use to impress girls. I don’t have time for this. I shouldn’t have any interest in boys. I don’t know what the heck is going on.

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, “London Bridge is falling down. Falling down.” The children reply enthusiastically, “Down down down!”

“A very handsome young fellow.” A ninety-year-old grandmother winks at me, hands clapped together, pointing at the Pillar.

“I’m sure he is,” I mumble. Young fellow? I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Everyone seems to like the Pillar wherever I go. If they only knew what a fruitcake he is.

I approach him and the children.

“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.