THE PAST: PSYCHIATRY ROOM, RADCLIFFE ASYLUM, OXFORD
“W hy do people call you Mr. Jay?” I say. “How do I know you?”
“We’ve known each other for a long time, Alice,” he says. “A little after the circus in Wonderland.”
“You were at the Circus?”
“Not exactly. But we’ll get into that later.”
“Later when?”
“After the Lullaby’s effect totally withers away.”
“Why did you give it to me, then, when it messed with my head so much?”
“I didn’t give it to you,” he says.
“Who did, then?”
“It was Waltraud who popped it down your throat.” He pauses for a smoke. “But the real question is: whose idea was it to give you the pill?”
“Whose idea was it?” I realize I already know the answer. It’s slowly coming back to me, like a gathering of a million crows veiling my soul with darkness.
“You asked for the Lullaby pill, Alice.”
“Me?”
“Yes. It was you.”
“I think I remember that now,” I say. The words are too heavy on my tongue. “I don’t quite remember why.”
“It’s a bit complicated,” Mr. Jay says. “I can’t imagine why, too. But it was your call. And I wouldn’t deny you anything you wish for, not after all you have done for me.”
“For you? What have I done?”
“You killed everyone on the bus, Alice,” Mr. Jay says. “You have no idea how much I’m pleased.”
Slivers of memories flash before my eyes. I can see clearer now. No rabbit was driving the bus. Not even Carolus Ludovicus, who I saw embarking the bus in an earlier vision while I was in Mushroomland.
It was me who killed everyone on the bus. Always me. And I loved it.
“If you hadn’t killed them, we’d never have a chance to win the Wonderland Wars,” he says. “Of course, it’s still a long shot to actually win the war and embrace the world with madness. But we’d never have the slightest of hopes if you haven’t helped.”
This is when I wish my bed were my coffin. I wish I’d sink deep into the dirt, deep enough to hide from the truth. “I helped you in winning the Wonderland Wars?” I remember the Reds in the future telling me they weren’t going to kill me. That Mr. Jay had advised against it. It just can’t be. I think I know now why I live in a Wonderland Compound in the future, and why Tom Truckle wouldn’t tell me why he led the revolution, not me.
“The best help we ever had,” Mr. Jay says.
“What do you mean when you say ‘we’? Whom did I help? Who are you?”
The man lets out a brief chuckle, one that cuts through my veins. “Black Chess, Alice. Black Chess.”