Текст книги "Figment"

Автор книги: Cameron Jace

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Chapter 32

Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London, 1862

I am standing in front of Theatre Royal in Drury Lane on Brydges Street—renamed Catherine Street two centuries later. It's 1862 again. I am back in Lewis' vision, only we're in London this time.

There is a coach and a small crowd waiting outside the theatre's façade. All in all, a few people. Hiding at the edges of my vision I still see a lot of homeless people and beggars, scattered all around like invisible diseases. Those waiting by the theatre pretend they don't see the poor.

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.

But all this interest in food, whether in this vision or the real world, confuses me. Am I supposed to read between the lines and learn something about food?

The world around me here is all filth and dirt, aggressively ignored by a few rich men and woman waiting to enter the Drury Lane Theatre.

Still vaguely listening to the man and woman speaking about food, I see the man interrupt his wife and raise his glass of wine at someone in the crowd.

Someone almost dressed like a priest.

Lewis.

The men and women greet him as he steps down from the theatre's entrance. They hail his name and seem to love him, but he looks absent and disinterested. He walks among them, nodding politely, and tries to step away from them. A big suitcase with clothes showing from its edges is tucked under his arm. The other arm is hiding a package wrapped in a newspaper.

"Excuse me," Lewis says, and vanishes into the filthy dark. London is so dirty that the moon refrained from shining through tonight.

I follow Lewis into the dark. I even call for him, but he doesn't return my call.

This must be it. This must be why I am here.

I trudge through the muddy dark. Smog is the only guiding light for me.

"Lewis!" I finally see him kneeling down to talk to homeless kids. They gather around him as if he were Santa Claus. He unwraps the newspaper and offers them loaves of bread.

The kids nibble on the bread with their dirty hands. If a loaf drops down in the mud they pick it up again and eat it right away. Some of them fight for it, but Lewis teaches them how to be as one, promising he will bring them more.

I stand in my place, watching. The kids are too skinny, even when wearing layers of tattered and holed clothes.

I step closer. No one seems to see me.

It baffles me to realize the kids are much older than I thought. Their faces suggest they are about fifteen years old, although their contracted bodies look no more than nine years old.

One of the kids asks Lewis what he keeps in the suitcase. Lewis' smile shines like a crescent moon absent in the sky, but I can't hear what he says.

"Lewis!" I call again.

He doesn't reply.

"Lewis." I feel dizzy.

Otherworldly voices are calling my name from the sky.

"Lewis!" I repeat before they wake me up in the real world.

But I am too late.

As I leave my vision, my eyes are fixed on Lewis' suitcase. Why are clothes tucked inside? They look like costumes.

Then the vision is gone.

A peculiar smoke invades my nostrils. I surrender to sneezing, opening my eyes. The Pillar stands over me in the ambulance, saying, "Wonderland hookah smoke never fails to wake up anyone. It's even better than onion."

Chapter 33

Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, Catherine Street, London

Present day

The play we're attending in the Theatre Royal is Alice Adventure's Underground. It's a new play that has only been running from a week ago, when the killings started. I think the Pillar might be right. There is too much coincidence here. We should meet the mysterious Muffin Man tonight.

"The 'Pig and Pepper' chapter where Duchess appears is hilariously funny," the Pillar reads from a local newspaper. Behind us, the chauffeur buys our tickets.

"Really?" I am stretching my tight dress a bit. I am not used to this kind of intimacy on my skin. Neither am I comfortable with my heels. What's wrong with sneakers, or better, being barefoot?

"That's what the papers say." The Pillar looks at the billboards showing "previous attractions." "Damn," he mumbles. "We missed Shrek the Musical."

"And 'Coraline' by Neil Gaiman," I point out.

"Who's your favorite, Lewis Carroll or Neil Gaiman?" He points his finger playfully at me.

"Carroll." I don't hesitate. "Lewis Carroll or J. R. R. Tolkien?" I shoot back.

"Carroll." He doesn't hesitate either. "Lewis Carroll or C. S. Lewis?"

"Hmm." I love the Narnia books. "Nah, Carroll." I can't resist. "Lewis Carroll or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?" I am starting to love this game.

"Can't compare an author to a single book, Alice," he says. "Here is a good one: who has a better sense of absurd humor, Lewis Carroll or God?"

I raise an eyebrow. I can't answer that. "Who do you think?" I feel eerily playful.

"God, of course." He waves hi at his approaching mousy chauffer, panting with the tickets in his hands. "Just look at what he has created." He secretly points at his chauffeur. "It can't get absurder than this."

"There is no such word as 'absurder.'" I bite my lips at his blunt sense of sarcasm.

"Who said it's a word? Absurd is an emotion." He winks and welcomes the tickets the chauffeur gives him.

"Eight tickets, like you ordered," the chauffeur remarks.

"Eight?" I grimace at the Pillar.

"My seat and yours." The Pillar counts on his fingers. "Two seats to our left and right, two behind us, and the two front of us."

"Why?"

"Precautions, Alice," the Pillar says. "Who knows what might happen inside? I have a bad feeling about this."

"All seats are also right in the middle of the theatre," the chauffeur elaborates.

"Evil people, such as terrorists, are dumb." The Pillar spares me the burden of asking. "They usually start bombing the back seats if they've intrusively entered from outside. Or bomb the front seats if they're sleeper cells. Middle is just fine."

"Not if the theatre's chandelier falls on your heads in the middle." My knack for opposing him grows in me.

"If something hits you in perpendicular line straight down from the sky, that's not a terrorist," the Pillar says while he hands a piece of his portable hookah to hide in my dress. "That would be God's sense of humor."

"What is that for?" I look at his Lego hookah.

"They don't allow hookahs inside, and I have a bad feeling I will need it."

I tuck it under my dress, counting on the Pillar to deal with security on our way in.

 "So, let me be your guide for tonight, Miss Edith Wonder." He requests I engage him, and I do. "Pretend I am your father," he hisses between almost-sealed lips as we stare at the security gate. "A smile will do wonders, too."

We both smile, but I have to ask, hissing, "Why did you call me Edith?"

"In case something horrible happens, I don't want them looking for you," he says, not looking at me. "Also, your sister has been mean to you. Let's get her in trouble." We keep on smiling at the guards. "Tell the security man on your side that his taste of clothes is exceptionally très chic. That'd be a good distraction."

"But he is wearing a boring uniform," I hiss through my plastic smile.

"And he happens to be in his mid-forties, not wearing a ring, and probably desperate to hear a compliment from a beautiful young lady too," the Pillar says as we close in. "Make him think this a special conversation between you and him, behind daddy's back."

I do as he says when we enter. The man blushes and doesn't bother checking the tickets. I emit a seductive laugh and turn to the Pillar when we're inside, "It worked. How did you pass your guard? You haven't promised anything you can't keep?"

"Nah." He raises his chin and greets a few ladies he hasn't seen before. "I puffed hookah smoke in his face. It hypnotized him long enough for me to pass."

"Just like that? You didn't show him anything?"

"Of course I did." He smiles broadly at he crowd. "My middle finger."

Chapter 3 4

"The theatre is on the eastern boundary of the Covent Garden area of London," the Pillar says, pretending to guide me through as we eye everyone around us, looking for a clue to the Muffin Man. "It runs between Aldwych and High Holborn," he continues. "Not to be confused to the many other so-called Theatre Royals in the world."

"I'd prefer you tell me what Lewis Carroll has to do with all of this," I say as we enter the auditorium.

The Pillar gently holds my hand as if I am a princess and ushers me to my seats. "No farting, I promise," he says to the seating crowd we pass in the row.

We finally are seated.

"Lewis Carroll used to work briefly with the theatre," the Pillar says, holding my hands between his. "They used a few plays he'd written long before he got mad; I mean, long before he wrote Alice in Wonderland."

I sit and listen, not telling him about my vision of Lewis.

"You have to understand that these Victorian times were harsh," the Pillar says. "We're talking about London's filthiest, cruelest, poorest, and hungriest times. You couldn't tell people's real ages. From their unnaturally skinnier and smaller sizes, you'd think they were dwarves." He asks me to hand him the hookah piece, and begins preparing his weapon. "Food was so scarce that poorer people went down in size and length. It's true. Look at me. I am not that tall. And I lived these times."

"Proceed, please." I try to pose like someone who's accustomed to being in theatres.

"Carroll wasn't in any way fond of London. He loved Oxford, with all its books, grand halls, and studios," the Pillar continues. "He had also been a priest for a brief time; the Oxford Choir in the church will never forget him. But then Lewis developed a great interest in photography, particularly kids, like Constance's photograph."

The light in the hall dims, preparing for the start of the play.

"As you might have heard, photographers will tell you a camera never lies," the Pillar says. "In Carroll's case it was exceptionally true. The poverty his camera caught was heartbreaking. If you'd ever paid attention to his photographs, mostly of young homeless girls, you would understand his obsession. Poverty, hunger, and unfair childhood screamed out of every photo."

"I could imagine Lewis like that."

"Before writing books and puzzles, Lewis directed small plays in Oxford to entertain the poor, skinny kids with tattered clothes. He did it because there was not enough money to buy them food. In all history, art has been food of the poor, Alice. Remember that." The Pillar seems lost for a moment. I wonder what memory he is staring into. "Carroll called his intentions 'saving the children.' He wanted to save a child's childhood. He wanted to save their memories from being stained by the filth of his era."

"I couldn't save them!" Lewis' words ring in my ears.

"Those plays he directed for them introduced Carroll to the art of nonsense," the Pillar explains. "Kids are nonsensical by nature. A lame joke would make them laugh, because they are at ease with who they are. Unlike grown-ups, who are weighed down by the years."

"I still don't understand his connection to the Drury Lane Theatre, where we're supposed to find the Muffin Man."

"That's the easy part," the Pillar says. "The plays needed funding for production. Carroll was smart and resourceful. He gave his plays for free to the Theatre Royal, which was struggling after being burned down a few years back and couldn't afford to pay for new plays. In return, the theatre provided Carroll with costumes for his plays."

"That was why he held the suitcase and smiled when the kids asked him," I murmur.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing," I say. "So that's his connection to Drury Lane Theatre?"

"My assumption, with the Cheshire's clues, is that Lewis Carroll met the Muffin Man in Drury Lane," he says. "Only, Carroll never felt the need to mention the Muffin Man in any of his writings."

"Maybe Carroll wrote the nursery rhyme?"

"That's farfetched, and we have no evidence to back it up," he says. "All I know is that after all those connections and the fact that an Alice in Wonderland play took place here the day the murders started, I believe the Muffin Man wants us to be here. He will probably want us to witness something."

"Something like what?"

In this moment, the Pillar cranes his neck upward at the higher balconies in the theatre. An unusual look startles his face. "Something like this." He points up.

I look and squint against the faint light in the theatre. I see an important woman arriving in the balcony, accompanied by a number of guards.

"What brings Margaret Kent here?" I ask.

"The Duchess is in the house." The Pillar sighs. "This is getting curiouser and curiouser." He lowers his head, ready to watch the play. "I don't feel guilty using her credit card to pay for your dress now."

"What?" I crane my neck at him in surprise. "You did what?"

"We used it to book the theatre's tickets too." He shakes his shoulder. "She is a charitable woman." Then a huge smirk invades his face. "Which reminds me..."

Chapter 3 5

The Duchess' presence provokes the Pillar. Consequences are both absurd and hilarious.

"Take this." He passes me his hookah again, spits in his gloves, and says, "This is going to be fun."

The Pillar stands and faces the crowd. Sitting right in the middle of the audience, the crowd is watching us from every direction.

"Sit down!" someone says.

"Ladies and morons of the Theatre Royal." The Pillar's welcoming hands masquerade his insults. The smile on his face is overly sincere, like those self-help lecturers. "Tonight isn't a normal night. It's the kind of evening remembered in history books. You know history, which only winners write, and forge it the way they like?"

Someone chuckles among the crowd. A few still demand he sits. A couple swear at him, pretty vulgar words you're not supposed to say in a theatre. And to my surprise, the stage's curtains hang half open.

"Are you part of the show?" a kid asks.

The Pillar nods. "So, like I said, ladies and monkeys, all you silly Wonderland lovers." Another couple of spectators chuckle. "Tonight is the night. We're here in the presence of an extraordinary woman." He points upward at the balconies. The Duchess' guards keep calm, but reach for their guns. The light technician, thinking the show has turned elsewhere, directs the spotlight at the balcony. That's where everyone is looking now. "The one and only Margaret Ugly Kent!" The Pillar's theatrical act deserves an Oscar.

"Is that really her middle name?" I hiss.

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand and talks to the theatre's orchestra. "This wasn't really the bang I was looking for." He looks annoyed. "This is the most important woman in Parliament."

The orchestra musicians seem to suddenly think he is the man in charge. One of them suggests he welcome the Duchess again, so they could play a great musical introduction.

The Pillar sniffs and repeats his welcome: "The one and only, woman of the year, whom all you morons are secretly afraid of, Margaret Kent!"

This time, music and light overwhelm the place. The crowd, either pressured or on their own will, stand up and clap for the Duchess.

Margaret Kent feels the pressure to stand up and greet her fans, her pursing lips growling at the Pillar. I don't think she wanted to be seen. She sneaked in, last minute. Is she looking for the Muffin Man too?

"Flowers!" the Pillar demands of the theatre's staff. "Where are the flowers?"

No one offers flowers. Why would they have flowers in a play? The Pillar changes strategies.

"Be seated, citizens," the Pillar says. They do so. "Now, do you think that our beloved Duchess—ah, I mean Parliament lady—is here for the sake of art? Of course she doesn't care about art," the Pillar continues. "She doesn't even care about theatre." The crowd's faces go red. Some of them sink deeper in their seats. "But she cares about you." Some of them rise back in their seats. "She loves you. She really does. And you know what she has in store for you?" He laughs. "Oh, no, don't be absurd. She's not going to chop off anyone's heads today. That would be the Queen of Hearts we're about to see in the play." The Pillar signals to the orchestra's drummer to hit the cymbals for effect. Most of the crowd laughs, uneasily. "Our beloved Margaret Kent has a surprise for you. And you know why? Because you are all sheep—I mean, obedient citizens who pay taxes and vote for her." His smile never weakens. "And because of that, she, on behalf of all prestigiously obnoxious members of Parliament, and on behalf of the Queen of England, and of course let's not forget Roman Yeskelitch, the man who lost his children's heads to an evil watermelon last week. On behalf of all of those, you're rewarded a lifetime's free meals at Duck N Donald's Trashburgers." He raises his hands, and a few kids clap. "And lifetime free drinks." His voice pitches even higher. "From Drink Dishit soda drinks." People stand up again and clap. "Lifetime free meals! Can you even imagine?"

Praises, claps, and moans as if they all won the lottery. The crowd goes crazy. What's with people's unconditional appreciation for food?

Again, the Duchess feels the need to comply and smile to her fans.

"And who do you thank for this?" The Pillar points up at the Duchess, who forcefully waves back to the appreciative audience. "You've gotta love Britain!" The Pillar's voice is barely audible among the crowd's praise. The Drury Lane Theatre turned into one great chaotic food market.

"Enjoy all the food you can eat." The Pillar raises his voice as much as possible in this madfest. "Enjoy all cholesterol, all the bad crabs, all the sugar and saturated fat! Get fat, people of Britain. Sugar your bellies. Beer away your minds. Forget about your Bill of Rights. Here is your Bill of Disease. Buy a ticket for your loon cancer. It's awesome to be insane!"

The Pillar, out of breath, taps his hat at the Duchess, who smiles in the face of the enemy. That fake politician smile.

The Pillar sits down, adjusts his clothes, and says, "Well, that was something." He smiles at me. I have to admit, I smile back. He might be a killer. He might be devious, and plagued by a lot of conspiracy theories, but I can't help but laugh. "So why were we here, again?"

Chapter 3 6

The play is actually entertaining, full of laughs and quirky moments. The acting is superb, very believable, and the production is top notch. They start with the "Down the Rabbit Hole" chapter where Alice meets the rabbit who is chubby and small and very funny. I have to admit the costumes are excellent enough that if you just buy into the fantasy, you wouldn't think of them as human actors portraying animals anymore.

I do squirm a bit in my seat when a mirror comes into the scene. Thank God we're sitting in the middle of the auditorium, far enough that the mirror has no effect on me.

"That Alice is horrible," the Pillar mumbles. "In the real book, she wore yellow, not blue. Blue is Disney's doing."

"You hate Disney."

"What makes you think that?" he whispers. "Jafar from Aladdin is my hero."

The next chapter, "The Pool of Tears," is superbly portrayed. There is an actual flood of water taking place on stage. I have no idea how they do it. The Pillar raises a suspicious eyebrow, as if telling me something is fishy here.

Still, the acting is amazing. The songs are enchanting. I like how the play is presented in a comedic way, not the morbid Alice world I live in.

The "Caucus Race" chapter follows. It's hilarious. When they start to dance in place, the Pillar can't resist moving his feet and cane to the music.

When the caterpillar chapter plays, the Pillar squirms in his seat. "That's not me," he mumbles. "Absolutely not."

Then he sits back and watches chapters four and five without much interest. He says he never liked those chapters.

Midway, the curtains pull to a close, announcing a break. Lights turn on again. A few sellers offer drinks during the break. There is a loud ice cream boy walking around, offering it for free. He isn't much welcomed by the elders, but the kids adore him.

A few people hurry to the Pillar's seat, asking for autographs. I think they believe him to be the Duchess' spokesman. I tilt my head up; the Duchess is gritting her teeth, although cameras aren't giving her a break to breathe.

The curtains pull open again, and now we're in for the much-loved "Pig and Pepper" chapter.

I don't know what is supposed to be so great about it. It's lame and boring. The Duchess, portrayed by an actress with brilliant makeup, is mad at her cook in this scene. Her cook, a peculiarly tall actor, even taller with the toque on his head, loves pepper in the strangest ways. He keeps adding pepper in the food and enjoys watching the Duchess' guests choking. Then he throws pepper in the air, chanting, "Peppa! More peppa!"

The crowd finds it amusing, actually.

Maybe I am not just in the mood, now that we have waited too long with no appearance of the Muffin Man. I look to my left, and the Pillar is as bored and puzzled as me. Are we here just to watch a play? It looks like we followed a wrong lead all along.

I take a deep breath and continue watching the performance on stage. Suddenly, someone is sitting on my right side. He grabs my hand and squeezes it, but I don't panic. It's a warm hand that I know and trust.

It's the ice cream boy. It's Jack Diamonds.