He even helped install them himself in the VIP Ward when the Pillar was away. Although Dr. Truckle's life was sliding down on an oily spiral of circumstances, his obsession with the Pillar pushed him to do maddening things. He needed more cameras—from every angle possible—to learn about the Pillar's secret.
How does Pillar the Killer escape his cell and return as if he's world's best magician?
Two days ago, Professor Carter Pillar escaped his cell again, leaving a trail of swirling hookah smoke behind. It hung in the air, shaping the word Frabjous.
Dr. Truckle had previously doubled the security guards on the VIP Ward. He also sent for England's finest magicians to ask them how such an escape was possible. They had no clue. Architects, too, had been consulted. Radcliffe Asylum was a two-centuries-old building, first built in Victorian times. Maybe the asylum hid secret tunnels underneath it. Secret tunnels only someone as devious and intellectually crazy as Professor Pillar knew about.
But no. Truckle's mind had been reaching too far—possibly an aftereffect of the many medication pills he swallowed like the kids gorge on M&M's.
The architects called the idea of tunnels implausible. In fact, they declared that escaping the asylum was physically impassible.
"Impossible, you mean," Dr. Truckle replied to the architects.
"No, we mean impassible," the twin architects had insisted. "Nothing is impossible." They had laughed, and Dr Truckle hadn't understood why. "You've never read Alice in Wonderland?" one of the twin architects asked. Dr. Truckle shook his head. He hated Alice in Wonderland. "It's an inside joke," they told him. "You can only get it if you've read the book."
Dr. Truckle didn't want to get it. He wanted to know how the Pillar escaped.
Of course, the Pillar was expected to show up soon, claiming he was out buying a new hookah or something. Dr. Truckle knew otherwise: Pillar the Killer was almost uncatchable. He could escape and live in an uncharted island full of mushrooms for the rest of his life. But he didn't. He preferred to spend his days imprisoned in this stupid asylum. And his sole reason for that was Alice Wonder.
That, at least, Dr. Truckle was sure of.
But why Alice? What in the world did such a young and mad girl possess that was so valuable to the Pillar?
Dr. Truckle swallowed another pill—the fifth today—and closed his eyes to calm down. He stood next to his desk, his eyes monitoring the Pillar's cell through the surveillance screens fixed on the wall. The Pillar hadn't arrived yet.
One of the screens was broadcasting news on national TV. Dr. Truckle liked to watch the local news while he was waiting. Watching the madness plaguing the world helped him tolerate his relatively mad job in the asylum, particularly after the horrifying incident in Stamford Bridge stadium yesterday.
Since the incident, Dr. Truckle knew things wouldn't end just there. The incident of a stuffed head in a ball was a beginning of something madder. Soon enough more bodies would pile up all over Britain, if not the whole world.
And here it was, right in front of his eyes.
The news host on national TV was announcing the discovery of another chopped-off head, found with the phrase "Off with their heads" written in blood on its forehead.
"Ramon Yeskelitch, a Ukrainian immigrant," the news reporter—a nerdy middle-aged woman with red glasses and an uptight but fancy suit—reported, "who lives near Borough Market in London, a divorced and unemployed father of two, went to buy his weekly mouthwatering watermelon today. Mr. Yeskelitch and his family have a certain liking for watermelons."
Dr. Truckle leaned forward, excited by the morbidity lurking in the air.
"Arriving back home, Mr. Yeskelitch tucked the slightly oversized watermelon in the fridge for a couple of hours," the host continued. "Then, when it was dinnertime, he decided to serve the watermelon to his children, who were eager for their weekly dose, only to be shocked with what they saw stuffed inside when they cut it open." The woman shrugged for a moment, unable to comprehend the words she was supposed to read to the nation. "Bloody, blimey, bollocks!" Her tongue slipped as she adjusted her spectacles. She raised her head back to the camera with kaleidoscope eyes of surprise. "Mr. Yeskelitch and his children found a human head inside the watermelon." Then she stopped, her eyes a bit watery, like a girl in a Japanese Manga about to burst into tears. "Another human head like the one which was found stuffed inside the ball in Stamford Bridge," she continued, almost stuttering.
Dr. Truckle wondered if she hadn't been informed of the heaviness of the subject before going live on air. Or was she occupied manicuring her fingernails, cleaning her glasses, and showing off her expensive dress?
But Dr. Truckle wasn't really interested in the pretentious world of TV—although he secretly wished they'd interview him on Good Morning Britain. The doctor was wondering whether the news had anything to do with the Cheshire killer, thus the Pillar as well.
Was it possible that the Pillar was somehow linked to the killings?
The doctor's eyes darted back to screens monitoring the Pillar's cell. The damn professor hadn't returned. Where was he?
Dr. Truckle snapped like a rubber band to the sudden ringing of his office's landline. Who used landlines these days? He had begun considering the landline operator as an antique long ago.
"Dr. Truckle speaking," he answered, adjusting his tie in the mirror.
"I'm Professor Pillar's chauffeur," a mousy voice replied. "I have a message from him."
Dr. Truckle looked around, making sure no one was with him in the room. "What kind of message?" He grabbed the receiver with both hands, trying to stick his ear closer and closer.
"Professor Pillar wants you to do something right now. He says time is not on our side. We need to move fast."
"I'm not doing anything before you tell me where he is right this moment." Dr. Truckle almost cracked the handset open with his intensity.
"You really want to know?"
"I do." He was almost panting like a dog longing for a bone.
"He's playing football with an oversized watermelon in Hyde Park," the chauffeur said. "Oh, wait."
"Wait for what?" Dr. Truckle panicked. "What's happening?"
"Oh, nothing," said the chauffeur. "The watermelon split open. There is someone's head inside."
Chapter 6
Walled garden, Radcliffe Lunatic Asylum, Oxford
Amidst my confusion and frustration, I sit on the walled garden's ground. I need a moment to catch my breath and decide what I am about to do. Lewis sent me a message through a daydreaming vision. I am not sure what to do with it. Nor do I have any idea whom he failed to help—or save.
Whether Lewis is my mind's doing or for real, I can't discard his apparent caring about the world. He loves people unconditionally. He wants to make things right. He wants to make the world better. Lewis, the stuttering artist, doesn't shy away from what he is, from his fears. I think this is why he impacted so many children in the world. Older folks usually wear their own masks when they deal with children, but Lewis opened up and let go. He accepted who he was and what the world around him was like, and decided he would only see the good in all the mess.