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
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
I stare at him. Really stare at him. All kinds of thoughts flicker in my head. I want to punch him. I want to bring back time to a point where I have never met him. I want deliver him to the authorities. But I also want to laugh with him. As he approaches me, a flash of Wonderland sparks before my eyes. It's a short one about me talking to a caterpillar atop of an immense mushroom.
The flash disappears in a
He laughs. "I used to ask
Hoo aaare yoooh?"
When I open my eyes, the Pillar is gone. No wonder Dr. Truckle connects him to Harry Houdini.
I sigh at the Pillar's disappearance and get back in the booth. Surely he will come back again.
I pull the curtain back and try on the new dress. I try not to overdress. Nothing too fancy, although I'd love to. A merely noticeable, but moderately proper dress should work just fine. I am not going to the prom. It's just a play at the theatre. A great bonus for a girl locked in an asylum, I must admit. Besides, whatever I wear usually ends up spattered with blood.
I have already chosen a fitting room with no mirrors—the Pillar pretended he had broken it accidentally, and the staff had to remove it when we first entered Harrods. I told them I didn't mind using a mirror-less dressing room. The Pillar covered the rest of the mirror on the wall with a veil he borrowed from an older woman and told me, "What's the use of a dressing room without a mirror? It's just like a book without pictures." He winked and closed the curtain to talk to the girls.
When I look at the dress I chose, I like it on me. Not bad for a mad girl. I think I can look like normal girls, ones who have a few friends, loving parents and siblings, a girl who lives in a nice suburban house, awaits a bright future, and, above all, has a solid memory of her past.
I also think I look like a girl who could have a boyfriend. At least, a mutual interest with a boy. I wonder if this is could be my life when all of this is over—if this is ever going to be over.
The accumulation of thoughts reminds me of Jack Diamonds. How is it possible he always appears when I need him? He never complains, and is always positive about his energy. I should be flattered he always wants to have a date with me.
Now that I know Jack is Adam J. Dixon, my dead boyfriend, I understand why I am so into him. My feelings are justified. I am not a love-hungry girl fresh out of the asylum,
When I pull he curtain, I am surprised someone is standing right behind it. Not the Pillar. Someone I miss dearly, but haven't expected to see here.
Jack Diamonds flashes one of his smiles with cute dimples at me. It's a sexy smile.
"Are you wearing this dress for me?" He has his arm resting on the doorframe, a seductive gleam flowering in his eyes.