Family (Insanity Book 7) (3 page)

“See? It’s all cheap comic book revenge crap – or a lousy excuse for you to go on a killing spree, if that’s even a true story.” Edith says.

“Did I ever find his weakness?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why so sure?”

She laughs. “Because look at you. The Pillar must have driven you insane.”

“But you’re sure she said it was the Pillar, right?”

“Of course. Mother always told us the story of when you first came, you feared him so much you could not taste his name on your tongue.”

“How so?”

“You always referred to the Pillar as ‘He’ or ‘Him’. But one day you finally confessed. Mother says that’s when you forgot everything, even telling her that little story.”

“And that’s why you warned me about him?”

“Can you imagine spending our childhood warned of ‘He’ or ‘Him’ as if he were the Boogeyman, then seeing him walk into the house?” She steps forward as if to tell me a secret. “What’s wrong with you, Alice? I mean, really? Didn’t you see he was about to kill us in here?”

I don’t argue with her. She and Lorina tried to kill me as well. Every killer in this world argues they are right, that they’d killed for a reason.

“Anything else?” Edith taps the doorframe, impatiently.

“No, thanks.” I nod and turn to walk away.

“I would call Lorina and ask her,” Edith says behind me. I can imagine the wide, ugly smirk on her face right now. “But she’s cuddling with Jack upstairs. You want me to call her?”

I continue walking, pretending I didn’t hear her. Then, when I hear the door slam behind me, I detour into the nearest alley, hold my breath so I don’t vomit, lean against a wall and wait to make sure no one is watching.

Then cry my heart out.

***

It’s hard to say how long I keep sobbing. As long as no one, especially Edith or Lorina, sees my tears, I will be alright.

I can’t believe I gave Jack to Lorina. I am so regretting saving his life right now. I’d have preferred him dead but mine, however selfish it now sounds.

Standing against the wall proves futile, as the weight of my sadness pulls me down to the ground. And there, in my darkest hours, a flicker of light shines through. It’s not a divine beam of twilight or lightning in the sky, not even an alien space ship promising to take me to a better place. It’s my phone. A message from the Pillar:

It’s happening. Everything I feared. We have no time. Meet me at the Radcliffe Asylum. Now!

Chapter 6

Buckingham Palace, London

The Queen of Hearts accidentally farted. It was a comical one, a few meaningless air bubbles floating like fish breaths in the aquarium of life. Politicians do it all the time. They call them presidential debates.

"That was a relief,” She wheezed, eyes wide while leaning back on her favorite couch in her chamber.

She'd meant to let out a moan from the pain of the wounds she had endured in Kalmykia, but it came out all wrong – and smelly. Glad she was all alone, she wondered if the citizens of Britain ever imagined their Queen being a slob just like everyone else.

“Humpty!” She summoned Margaret’s son.

“Coming, Majesty.” Humpty came limping in, a satirical version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

The Queen looked irritated, watching the poor child trudging across the hall. “They did a horrible job stitching you up, darling,” She mused. “I mean, is that your head?”

“It is, Majesty.” The poor child sat by her feet. “Something wrong?”

“Nah,” The Queen lied. His egg-shaped head had taken a few bumps here and there. It was by no means egg-shaped anymore, let alone coherent enough to be called a head. “You look beautiful, darling. Now why don’t you be a good boy and lick mum’s tired feet?”

Humpty didn’t object and began doing what her dogs once did in the past. The boy was helpless, but the Queen still loved him. She could not conceive children, so he was her one and only. Of course, he was Margaret’s really. But it felt much better to have another’s child as her own. The Queen loved taking from other people what wasn't hers. A little attitude she had grown up with. She used to love to take anything that belonged to her sister when they were children.

The sister she wouldn’t want to remember now.

“My baby.” She scooped Humpty’s head off the floor and kissed the nose. “Don’t worry, baby. Mum will fix you soon. No one will ever laugh at you like they did to me when I was a child.”

“Does that mean I won’t be as ugly anymore?” Humpty questioned.

“You will always be ugly, darling.” She patted the decapitated head. “But you will rule the world. That’s what ugly people do.”

Suddenly, the Queen heard Margaret’s voice nearby.

Confused, she pushed Humpty’s body under the bed next to the couch. “How did you get in, Margaret?”

“It’s important. The guards let me in.” Margaret wasn’t yet visible, probably standing behind a column at the other end of the huge chamber. “Can I come in?”

“Just a second,” The Queen said, attempting to roll Humpty’s head under the bed after shushing him.

But the child’s head refused to budge. She’d accidentally poked his eyes with her thumb and forefinger, like bowling ball – and the head stuck.

“Just a sec!” The Queen said again, pulling Humpty’s head off her fingers and kicking it under the bed.

Clapping her hands free and then turning around, she realized Margaret stood behind her. “I told you to wait.”

“I didn’t hear you,” Margaret said, eager to peek behind her. “What’s under the bed?”

“A head,” The Queen’s tongue slipped.

“A head?” Margaret curved an eyebrow. “Under the bed?”

“Who said head?”

“You said head.”

“I didn’t say head.”

“I heard head.”

“I said dead. I mean ted. No, I said bed. Yes, bed.”

“You shoved a bed under the bed?”

“Aye.” The Queen nodded, chin up, hands behind her back, blocking Margaret’s stare.

“Who puts a bed under a bed?”

“What’s wrong with a bed under a bed?”

“No one ever puts a bed under a bed.”

“They put boxes, shoes, and other things. Why not a bed?”

“So you mean you have a smaller bed you just shoved under the bed?”

“Aye.”

“What’s in the small bed?”

“Another bed.”

“Seriously?” Margaret challenged her.

“Why do you ask so many questions?” The Queen’s voice pitched up. “I’m the Queen of England. I can do whatever I want. Why did you want to see me?”

“Ah, almost forgot.” Margaret’s face returned to its spider web of seriousness again, though not so much as to defuse her plastic surgeries. “I received a message from an anonymous informant.”

“So?”

“It’s someone who knows about us, about each one of us. The details mentioned worried me.”

“Did he blackmail you?”

“It’s not about that. That person, whomever he or she is, claims to have important news coming.”

“News about what?”

“About the Six Keys.”

“So it’s a Wonderlander who sent the message.”

“Can’t be sure,” Margaret said. “All I know is that he asked me to wait here with you.”

“Wait? For what?”

“Something that, according to the messenger, will please us.”

“What kind of nonsense is that?” T he Queen protested. “And why in Wonderland’s name would you even pay attention to it?”

Margaret stared right into the Queen’s eyes, then showed her the written message. “Because whoever the messenger is, he mentioned this phrase.”

The Queen picked up the paper and unfolded it. The words at the bottom were clear. A phrase most Wonderlanders knew about. A phrase she didn’t expect to hear so soon. “
It’s happening.
”

Chapter 7

Radcliffe Asylum, Oxford

Tom Truckle swallows two of his pills upon seeing me. He doesn’t even greet me. He slumps deeper into his chair, pushing with his feet against the edge of his desk.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not here as a patient.”

“Then why would an insane girl who left the asylum come back?” He says, staring at me suspiciously from the corner of his eye. “You love it here, don’t you? You love being insane?”

“Calm down.” I roll my eyes. “I know the Pillar and I gave you a hard time, but you weren’t the most honest of men either. You should have told us Lewis made you build the asylum.”

“Trust me, even that, I’m not sure of anymore,” he says. “The many pills I took compromised my thinking.”

“I noticed.” I sit down opposite to him, slightly enjoying his involuntarily flinches. He reminds me of the old days when I first met the Pillar and snatched a Certificate of Insanity out of him. “Now calm down, seriously. I thought we’d become friends after we met in the future.”

“We met in the future?” His eyes widen.

“Now I’m sure the pills you take messed up your mind.” I wave my hands in the air. “But never mind,” The whole trip to the future is confusing me as well. I’m not sure how I ended up outside the asylum in the new timeline, but I have to play along. “Just tell me where the Pillar is.”

“The Pillar? Why would he be here?”

“He sent me a message a while ago, requesting I meet him here.”

“In the Asylum?” Tom pulled himself closer to the desk again. “I don’t see why he’d want to meet you here.”

“Me neither. I’ve been trying to call him since I came back from Russia, but he doesn’t answer. Finally, he sent me this message saying ‘
it’s happening’
. Do you have any idea what he means?”

“It’s probably nothing. The Pillar is playing some game of
his
, like always.”

Did Tom just put stress on the word
his
, or is it my imagination playing games on me. “Tell me something,” I try to sound friendlier. “Do you still remember things from Wonderland?”

“Some.”

“Anything about the Pillar and me?”

“Anything like what?”

“Like us on a killing spree. All of this backstory most of you seem to know, but I don’t.”

“I didn’t mingle with many Wonderlanders back then. I was a teacher in some obscure school; I lived in the outskirts. I was a loner. A medicine nerd. No one wanted to talk to me. I think it’s why Lewis trusted me with building the asylum.”

“I suppose so.” I tongue my cheek from the inside. “So even Lewis didn't tell you about me and the Pillar? Something about me seeking revenge by joining him and figuring out his weakness?”

“Ah, that story. I’ve always assumed it was a myth. I don’t know much about it,” Tom says.

“Do you know anyone who does?”

“I do.” He shrugs. “Not a reliable source, though.”

“Who?”

“I don’t think you want to know.”

“Who, Truckle?” I rap a hand on the desk.

Tom stiffens with fear, mostly influenced by the pill, not my voice. Then he stands up and walks to the door. “Follow me.”

Chapter 8

Dr. Tom Truckle takes me to the Mushroomers’ ward. My footsteps echo in the overwhelming silence. On both sides, the Mushroomers are gripping the bars, speechlessly staring at me. I still remember when they’ve been my dearest friends and fans. I remember the times they encouraged me to escape and when they helped the Pillar dress me up and forge a university card. They don’t seem so fond of me anymore.

I think it’s because of Black Chess. Fabiola made sure they knew about it.

“You said you knew someone who can help me.” I urge Tom to stop.

“I did.” He nods, signaling at the Mushroomers.

“Them? What could they possibly know?”

“More than any sane person does.” Tom plasters on a fake smile while squeezing a key into a Mushroomer’s cell. When it turns, it squeaks like in a horror house.

The cell is one of the bigger ones, with more than twenty Mushroomers inside. These are usually the most peaceful, the ones who are mad but keep to themselves. They never harm anyone. Tom adores this type of insanity.

I follow him inside, face to face with the anticipating Mushroomers.

It’s hard to tell who’s afraid of who now. But I can relate. These days, we’re all afraid of each other in this world. We wonder which side we’re on: the mad or the truly mad.

“Tell Alice about the walls, boys,” Tom addresses the introverted Mushroomers. “Don’t be afraid. She will not join Black Chess. She changed her mind. In fact, she came to see you.”

None of them seems to buy into it — not even me. I don’t know who I really am at this point in my life. I’m trying my best, but it seems subpar, a mere wishy washy endeavor without cutthroat results.

One of the Mushroomers takes the flashlight Tom offers him and waves it toward the cell’s walls. Rotten and dark substances cover the surface. But following the beam of the light, I realize I’m staring at writings on the wall. Just like in my cell.

The Mushroomer stops at a certain spot and kneels down. So do I. He wipes the wall with the back of his hand and kills a small spider in the process.

“Read.” Tom points at the wall. “This will answer your question.”

Chapter 9

It’s not easy to do so, but I get used to the scribbling after a couple of attempts. I’m staring at a sentence, one that was carved with a sharp instrument on the wall. It strikes me that it is the same writing style as that on the wall in my cell. Whoever wrote this, also wrote that. Only this one doesn’t mention the number 14 or any of the like. It’s a clear sentence, zigzagged in a sloping curve, diagonal to the wall:

…and there she walked with HIM, one hand in His, the other holding a knife behind her back…

I shrug, not sure what’s going on.

“Show her the other one,” Tom says.

The Mushroomer does. I follow the beam of light. The new sentence says:

…and she persuades him she is his apprentice, and he believes her… she kills and spills blood with him… wherever they go, smoke follows them, like a fog, like a sinful mist… he finally trusts her as one of his own, but still she can’t figure out his weakness…