"What? Different than the one he killed in Christ Church two days ago?"
"Yes. In London, next to the British library. They’re going to announce it on the news later. For some reason, he left evidence to show the girl is dead, but took her with him."
"Is that his way of mocking the world, sending messages with dead girls?"
"In his case, he is grinning at the world. He wants us to discover something in that location he circled," the Pillar says. "I believe it's another girl he has trapped somewhere."
"Why is he killing those girls? What does he want?"
"I have no idea what he wants with the girls. But I think he is also testing you, Alice."
"Why would he test me?" I feel anger seeping through my pores.
"He wants to know if you're the real Alice," the Pillar's gaze is stripped of any emotion.
I consider all the possibilities of who I really am for a moment. Then I dare the Pillar's eyes back, "You realize it's my first day among sane people," I say, thinking about what I am getting myself into.
"If you’ve survived parasites and bacteria until the age of nineteen, you can survive sane people." He draws on his pipe.
"But you realize this is bit too much for me. I don't want to end my first day being called insane in the sane world."
"You're caring too much about people, Alice," he says. "Take it from me: sane is mundane, insanity is the new black."
I can't even smile at his absurd comment. Saving someone is a big responsibility. I am not sure I can save myself. All that I can think of is this: "What would the real Alice do?"
"Save the girl, of course."
Chapter 17
Outside the Radcliffe Lunatic Asylum, Oxford
When Tom Truckle opens the asylum's door for me, I shield my eyes from the sun. Although weak against the snow, its rays feel hot on my face. We haven't met for so long, I guess that’s why.
My legs are stiff as the cold breeze outside licks at my face, like an unfriendly dog. The idea of facing the sane world again isn't as exciting as I would have thought. I feel like I am missing the dim-lit corridors and the crazy faces of patients. Watching people walking around me in suits and coats just doesn't feel right. I wonder if evolution wasn't from ape to man, but from insane to sane.
I take a deep breath and step outside. The sound of the door closing behind me echoes in the back of my head. I feel disconnected, left alone in this new world. I find it ironic, wanting to escape the asylum before. If the wardens only knew I'd feel so intimidated. I wonder if that is why the Pillar always returns. Is it possible he couldn't make it among the sane, so he began killing them?
I walk to the first bus station with books in my hands. I haven't even looked at them. It feels good standing among people and waiting for a bus though. No one knows I am insane. No one cares who I am. I hope it's going to be easy fooling them that I am one of them. One of the privileges of not knowing who you are is that you can pretend to be anyone you like.
Getting on the bus, I pay for my ride to Oxford University, which isn't that far from the Radcliffe Asylum—people outside call it the Warneford hospital. I guess they’re embarrassed to say “asylum.” Money feels funny in my hands. If I give you this slice of paper, you let me on the bus? It’s ridiculous.
I pick a seat by the window in the last row, and sit. I'm used to sitting with my back against my cell's walls. Last rows suit me fine. I make sure I don't pull my knees to my chest and bury my head in my hands, like I usually do. It reminds me that I am lonely out here without my Tiger Lily.
I don't know how I'd feel if someone sits next to me. Proximity with others doesn't sound like a good idea now. I haven’t sat close to someone for a long time. I'm not even sure I am capable of having a regular conversation with anyone. What if they ask me about a street address? What if they ask me what I am studying, or who I am? I glance at my books. They’re mostly psychology and philosophy books. One of them is a children’s novel though. It's called: There is a Mad Girl at the End of this Book. It makes me laugh. I take it that it's the Pillar's doing.
My phone buzzes. I look around, as if I am doing something wrong. Everyone's phone buzzes. I am just not used to it. I pick it up. It's a message from the Pillar. Next to a mental health hotline, he is the only one on my contact list. The Pillar doesn't stop playing with me.
“Doing alright?” his message reads.
“A little uncomfortable with being around people,” I write, having a hard time typing on the phone's small touch keypads.
“Do you see a rabbit with a watch, late for an appointment?”
“No.” I giggle, and I think people notice.
“Then you’re alright. You're a psychology student with exceptionally high grades in high school, in case someone asks you.”
“Why psychology?”
“Most serial killers and criminals study psychology at some point. It's easier to spot them that way,” he writes. “I want you among them.”