by Cameron Jace
Yes, I know the Muffin Man,
Who lives on Drury Lane."
"Alice!" The Pillar's voice is barely audible across the chants and claps of the Mushroomers. "Come out and play!"
"Why are you doing this?" I cock my head, knowing most of the Pillar's actions are usually significant, not just a fool man's calling.
"It's the song the corpses were singing in the morgue."
"I know what it is." I raise my voice but control my temper. "Why are the Mushroomers singing it?"
"The same reason why the corpses were singing it." He winks. Now I am sure the song holds crucial information. Did he figure it out?
"Am I supposed to guess the reason now?" I ask impatiently.
Like a music conductor, the Pillar signals the Mushroomers to lower their chanting. He takes a few steps forward, holding the bars with his gloved hands. I wonder if he sleeps with that elegant blue and gold striped suit he wears. "You forgot to tell me the Cheshire paid you a visit," he says in a blaming tone. "Why did you do that, Alice?"
"I..." Stuttering isn't helping. I don't know why I didn't tell him. "I think because I wasn't sure it really happened."
"That explains the random occurrence of events," the Pillar says. "All the clues he sent you were based on him trusting you would tell me he paid you a visit a week ago, the night the patient called the Muffin Man escaped the asylum."
"I don't understand."
"If you'd told me he paid you a visit, I'd have dug deeper behind the reason why." His tone is still blaming, but also calm and assured. "I'd have easily known from Dr. Truckle that the Muffin Man escaped the asylum that night."
"You knew the Muffin Man was a patient in the asylum?"
"No, I didn't." The Pillar laughs and abandons the bar, straightening up. "Anyway, now we know the Cheshire helped the Muffin Man escape the asylum. That's why he visited you."
"So, he wasn't really here for me?"
"Of course, that was part of the plan. Helping the Muffin Man out to commit the crimes was his first priority, though."
"Are you saying it's not the Cheshire who committed these murders?"
"The Muffin Man!" the Mushroomers interrupt us.
"Who is he?" I grip the bars myself now, curious about the mysterious killer. "Why is he so important the Cheshire got him out? What's going on? Who is this Muffin Man?"
"I know who he is now." The Pillar pulls out a file with The Muffin Man written on it. It's his file at the asylum.
"You read it?"
He nods.
"And?"
"He is pretty terrifying; I have to say. He admitted himself to the asylum many years go. The asylum rejected him on the basis of 'no apparent insanity.' It's laughable. So he climbed up to the Queen of England's chamber and threatened her," the Pillar says.
"The Queen of England?"
"Yes, the only one who's allowed to drive without a driver's license or license plate." He rolls his eyes. I never knew that about the Queen of England before. "The Muffin Man managed to sneak up into the Queen of England's chamber a few years ago and threaten to kill her. And voila, his wish is granted. He is finally admitted to the Radcliffe Lunatic Asylum."
"He threatened the Queen herself so they'd know he was mad?"
"It's pretty plausible," the Pillar says. "Who'd do something like that if he wasn't mad?"
"How old is the Muffin Man?"
"Mid-forties," the Pillar says. "He's been in the asylum for some time, and no one ever complained about him."
"He must have wanted so badly to hide in an asylum. Why?"
"My humble guess is that he was running away from something," the Pillar says. "The real question is why he would prefer to stay locked in here over the real world outside."
"You're the one holding his file."
"There is nothing here more than what I just said." He hurls the file away. The Mushroomers collect the scattered pages behind him. "The file doesn't mention his real name." He stares sharply at me. "It doesn't even mention an address, a next of kin, or what kind of conversation took place between him and the Queen, although she'd been his hostage for more than half an hour."
A few moments of silence drape on me. I need to re-evaluate the situation. "Why did the Cheshire help him escape, and why is he killing kids?"
"That sure escapes my caterpillar brain cells," he says. "But here's a good one. You know what the Muffin Man's answer was when he was asked where he was from?" He lowers his head a little and whispers, "Wonderland."
"This is truly puzzling now." I let go of the bars. "We need to know who he is so we can stop him from killing again."
"He isn't waiting for us, Alice. Another fat boy's head with a muffin stuffed inside was found in a dumpster yesterday." The Pillar purses his lips, playing his games with me.
"And what are we supposed to do now? We don't even know where the Muffin Man lives."
"That's not true." The Pillar winks.
"You just said he has no address in the file."
"Alice, Alice, Alice." He steps backward slowly and rolls his cane in the air. "Didn't we agree that Wonderland's puzzles aren't ever solved in earthly grounds?"
The Mushroomers begin hissing the rhyme again:
"Do you know the Muffin Man,
The Muffin Man, the Muffin Man,
Do you know the Muffin Man,
Who lives on Drury Lane?"
I listen to the chanting and want to kick myself in the head. How didn't I figure it out sooner? I near the cell again and say, "The Muffin Man lives on Drury Lane." I spell the name slowly, not knowing if it's a neighborhood, town, or city. I am not sure it even exists in our modern world. Most nursery rhymes are products of the Victorian era, about two centuries ago. "Where is Drury Lane?"
"London." The Pillar purses his lips. "The Cheshire's puzzles are really intricate."
"Don't tell me it's close to the morgue."
"Very close, and we need to get going now. Drury Lane is a culturally important place in the world," the Pillar says. "Shall we take the ambulance from yesterday or my limousine?" he asks the Mushroomers.
They prefer the ambulance because it makes a "woo-wee" noise.
"You're still keeping the ambulance? That's the property of the health institution."
"I'm only borrowing it for the greater good. I'm sure the institution, and Parliament, won't mind." He carefully rubs his suit clean.
"Well, it won't be the first time we've broken the law since I've known you," I mumble, morally compromised.
"Knowing me is breaking the law, Alice." He smiles. "Funny how you never worried if I buried the corpse of the dead man you stole, instead of caring about the health institution."
28
ON THE WAY TO DRURY LANE
The drive to London should take an hour and a half. We're taking way longer than that.
The Pillar orders his chauffeur to stop at every junk food store we come across. Whether it's Dr. Nugget's Wingless Chickens, Banned Burgers, Pizza Pinge, Wacko's Tacos, DoNuts Bogus, or Muffit N Puffit, the recent American franchise that bought the rights to the Meow Muffins. Insanely, and for all the wrong reasons, smoking inside Muffit N Puffit is mandatory!
Each store we stop by, the Pillar enters it with his chauffeur, dressed as doctor and nurse. The chauffeur halts the ambulance sideways with a screech like a mad driver in a Need for Speed game. Then he intentionally parks the ambulance in spots reserved for disabled drivers. Finally, they dash into the store.
At first, they look weird, but then, skipping rows of waiting citizens at the counter, they pretend they have a dying woman in the ambulance.
I watch from the passenger's seat with bulging eyes, unable to gaze back at the corpse in the back of the ambulance. How did the Pillar turn into such an irresponsible whack? Moments like these, I have no doubts he killed those people for reasons of utter and undeniable insanity.
"Please," the Pillar says to the girl over the counter, his hands stretched out. "In the name of t
he Three Stooges." He flashes the sign of trinity in the air so fast no one even registers he said "the Three Stooges." His dramatic acting distracts disbelievers from what's going on and entertains those bored with their lives, looking for entertainment. "I'm Dr. Marshmallow Nuttinghead, and this is my male nurse assistant, Fourgetta Boutit. We are from the Queen's Renowned Hospital for the Deliberately Poor and Forsakenly Unhealthy Disease Center." I don't even know how no one laughs or comments on his nonsense. I guess he has crept in with such a sense of urgency and panic that he entranced the whole smoking crowd of Muffit N Puffit. In particular, the girl over the counter. Come to think of it, they are as mad as the Pillar, eating in here in the first place. "We have a dying woman in the ambulance." I slide deeper into my seat as the crowd turns their heads my way. "She is divorced, pregnant, and dying of loon cancer." The crowd sympathizes deeply. "All she asks"—the Pillar holds the girl's hands and looks pleadingly into her eyes—"is to have one last Meow Muffin and Spit Burger before she dies."
Instead of the crowd laughing, or thinking this must be some Candid Camera joke, they start urging the girl to grant the loon cancer victim her last wish.
"What is loon cancer?" an old woman with glasses and a cane asks.
"It's cancer you get in the loons," a middle-aged man in blue overalls informs her. "How can you be so insensitive? Does it matter which cancer you have?"
"I'm sorry." The woman lowers her head but stubbornly feels the need to ask again. I can't blame her. She might be the only sane person in there. "But I didn't know I have a loon organ. What does it do?"
"It's in a sensitive place, old lady." A middle-aged woman punches her to save her the embarrassment of not fitting in the crowd. "It's right down near the..." She whispers in the old woman's ears. Her eyes widen.
As the counter girl prepares the meal for the Pillar, the store's supervisor offers it for free. The Pillar kisses the girl's hand. She blushes as he prays to the Three Blind Mice to reward her a place full of "Danish cheese with no holes" in heaven.
And so, the Pillar and his chauffeur did the same at every food chain we stopped by for two hours until the back of the ambulance was stuffed with every snack or junk food available in Britain.
Speechlessly, I watch the Pillar gorge on every high-calorie, unhealthy, and greasy sandwich he obtained. He and his chauffeur eat, chew, and spit like the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street.
"Can you pass me the ketchup, Alice?" the Pillar asks with a mouthful.
"Why are you doing this?" I manage to put a sentence together.
"The food is delicious. Addictive. Frabjous. Remember the way you felt addicted to the muffin in the morgue? I feel the same about this." He points at the snacks in his hands. "Besides, I'm a caterpillar. In order to become a cocoon, I have to eat. A lot!"
"Are you deliberately stalling our visit to Drury Lane?" It's the best conclusion I can put together.
"Of course not," he says. "We're on our way. But first, we have to stop at Harrods to buy you a dress."
"Why a dress?" I neglect the fact that we have to stop again. I haven't worn a dress like a normal girl since...well, I don't remember since when.
"We're going to see an important play in a theatre." The Pillar wipes his mouth and stops chewing. It's time to tell me what's going on. "When I researched Drury Lane, I found nothing of interest that could lead us to the Muffin Man. All but the Theatre Royal on Catherine Street in Westminster, London. Also known as the Drury Lane Theatre. It's one of the most prestigious theatres in history. A dress code is required. That's why you need a dress."
"Why do we have to go?"
"Because the Muffin Man will be there."
He has my full attention. "And how do you know that?" I inquire.
"Because the only thing in Drury Lane connected to Lewis Carroll is the Drury Lane Theatre." He swoops what's left over from his sandwich out of the window, then he claps his hands clean. The leftover glues with its sticky mayonnaise on the front shield of a silver Bentley driving by. An elegantly dressed lady rolls down the window and swears at us. It's surprising how vulgar she is. The Pillar ignores her and wipes mayo from his lips.
I wait until he finishes his childish acts, thinking about how he refused to shake hands before when he was worried about germs. Whether he is simply messing with me, or all this food binging is some kind of message I am supposed to read through, I can’t seem to understand the contradiction. I lean forward in my chair, fishing for more answers. "You're serious about that, right?" I lace my hands together. "How is Lewis Carroll connected to the Drury Lane Theatre?"
"That"—he raises a mayonnaise-stained finger—"I will explain to you in detail after we get the dress." He licks his finger and sits back. "Now, be the insane girl you're supposed to be and stick your head out of the passenger's window."
"Why would I?" I grimace.
"To say, 'Wee-woo, wee-woo,' since my chauffeur's mouth is stuffed with carbs, sweets, and saturated fats."
"No, I won't." I muster an expressionless face like he does most of the time, and lean back again. I even cross my legs to feel relaxed.
"And why would that be?" He is curious and excited about my behavior.
"Because it's 'woo-wee,' not 'wee-woo,'" I tease, then I start to wonder if there is actually a real science to nonsense like Jack said before.
29
LADIES' DEPARTMENT, HARRODS, LONDON
The Pillar stands outside my fitting room, fluff-talking to the young girls selling all kinds of expensive outfits. I am inside the booth, resisting the urge to pull the curtain and warn the infatuated girls of him.
The working girls are all ears. They are so into his stories.
He is dressed in his regular blue tuxedo with horizontal golden stripes. His gloves are a shiny white, and he is wearing a magician's hat with a golden ribbon on his head.
Although he looks much paler, and his skin seems to be worsening—slightly peeling off day by day—the girls don't pay attention to such turn-offs. I understand they are young and naive—I am young myself, though days spent in an asylum make me feel older—but I am amazed at their infatuation with the short, sneaky man.
The Pillar enjoys entertaining them, messing with their heads. He starts by predicting what they like the most, and what kind of guy they would love to date. His predictions are always right.
The girls ditch most of the customers at Harrods and circle the Pillar while he brags about his adventures in the Queen of England's palace. The Pillar, unbeknownst to me, claims he'd been one of the many personal advisors to the Queen of England at some point. With a doctorate in philosophy, he says he had been very useful.
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 a 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, ho
ping 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 Alice in Wonderland?" The not-so-bright one's doe eyes widen.
The Pillar nods and leans back. "Just don't tell anyone." He pantomimes zipping his mouth.
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 that important." The Pillar ends his lesson with a bang, pulls his chin up and turns back to me. "Alice!" He raises his cane, leaving a set of middle-class girls almost teary behind them. One of them actually quits her job on the spot. "Have you found an appropriate dress yet?" he asks.