"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 with 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.
Chapter 29
Lady's 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 warning 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 the 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 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 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.