The Radcliffe Asylum
T he twelve-hour deadline makes things a bit easier. I feel like I have time to breathe and think. The Mushroomers are thinking too, but I doubt there will be anything good coming out of this. Tom doesn’t do anything but fill us with more pessimism. But it’s the March who has an interesting idea.
“I’m going to search for more writing on the walls with the Mushroomers,” He tells me.
“Now?”
“Yes, Alice. Now. If we’ll end up dead anyways, I’d like to know more about your story with Him, whoever that is. I’d like to know what really happened. Who wrote those things. I want to know about your family and who they are. Don’t you want to know?”
“Of course I want to.” I lower my head, thinking about a family I can’t remember. “You’re right, at least I’d like to know part of the truth in case we can’t figure a way out. But I promise you, March, I’m going to get us out of here.”
“And I promise I will figure out all I can about the writing on the wall. So let’s start working.”
I watch him leave with the Mushroomers toward the other cells, then turn to face Tom. “Are you sure you’re not keeping anything from me?”
“I think I’ve told you everything I remember,” He says. “I’m like the March Hare and you, living a semi-amnesiac life.”
“The March and I don’t remember because of the shock therapy we received. I wonder why you don’t.”
Tom pulls out a new bottle of pills. “Each of us has his own poison, Alice.”
I am not going to comment on that. My head tilts toward the TV again. “Do you think the police will keep their twelve-hour promise?”
“They have to. It’s been broadcast on TV. Besides, they have nothing to lose. We have no way out.”
“So I guess the plan is to do our best for, let’s say, the next eleven hours and then you should be pushing the button.”
“That’s the plan.” Tom nods.
One of the asylum’s guards enters the room and informs us of the following. “There is something you need to see, Dr. Truckle.”
“What now?”
“We received a package earlier, before the matter with the police, but we hadn’t the chance to tell you about it since you were still talking to Ms. Wonder.”
“I don’t want to see any packages.” Tom says. “Can’t you see we’re in trouble here?”
“We think it might interest you,” the guard insisted.
“Why would it?” I interfere, curious about what kind of package gets delivered to asylum right before an ambush. I wonder if it’s some kind of message.
“It’s not really a package,” The guard says.
“Do you think this is the right time to tell jokes?” Tom tenses.
“I’m not joking, doctor,” the guards says. “I called it a package so as not to worry you.”
“What is it?” I say. “Just tell us.”
The guard shrugs, tries to talk, then shrugs again. Then again. Then he says. “It’s a coffin.”