Vurt 3 - Automated Alice (8 page)

Imagine this scene, if you will, dear reader. . .

A drive of police-autos (horseless carriages belonging to the police) were parked inside the centre of these all-too-identical houses. A crowd of animal-people was clogging up the street: Goatboys and Sheepgirls, Elephantmen and Batwomen. Alice nudged her way through the strange zoo of spectators. “Can you please tell me what is happening here?” she asked of the nearest policeman.

“A second Jigsaw Murder has taken place,” the policeman gravely replied, his furry body full of trembles. “A Catgirl this time.”

It was only when Alice noticed the policeman's fur trembling that she realized that this policeman was really a policedog; or rather a policedogman. Yet another victim of the Newmonia, of course. Alice tried to push her way past the policedogman to where a lumpy something on the ground was lying quite still and morbid, under a white bedsheet. Only a single gingery furred cat's paw and claw protruded free, to rest, lifelessly, on the pavement.

“How sad,” whispered Alice, in horror. (For Alice had a pet kitten of her own, far away in the distant past. Sweet, sweet Dinah of forgotten years!)

Just then another policedogman came loping towards Alice. This dogman was growling at the other dogmen, telling them all to get a move on, and at the double-quick! He was obviously in charge. Alice could tell this, not only from his barked-out orders, but also from the fact that he wore a suit, a tailored suit at that, whilst all the other policedogmen wore blue police uniforms over their canine bodies. “And who are you?” this boss-of-all-dogs asked of Alice. He had a face of finely furred colours; a broad and brown stripe running all the way along a creamy, whiskered snout.

“I'm Alice,” replied Alice.

“And I am Inspector Jack Russell of the Greater Manchester Police. What are you doing here, Alice?”

“Well, Inspector Russell. . . I do believe that's my parrot on your shoulder.”

Inspector Jack Russell did indeed have Whippoorwill perched on his shoulder. “This parrot is guilty of hindering the police in their inquiries,” Jack Russell barked, "and I want him off my shoulder right this minute!

“Whippoorwill, come fly to me,” Alice sang, only to see the parrot unlodge himself from Jack Russell's shoulder and then fly away, not towards her but to the ever-brightening morning sky that flittered above the houses; the parrot was heading for the centre of Manchester.

“Pardon me, my stripy horseman!” Jack Russell growled at the Zebraman who had suddenly appeared on the scene, nudging his wet nose at the dead Catgirl's bedsheet. “Don't you realize that you're hindering my investigation of a caticide?”

“Whatever's a catty side?” asked Alice.

“The murder of a Catgirl, of course,” answered the Inspector. (Which gave Alice the answer to Whippoorwill's last riddle: Why did the Catgirl cross the road? To get to the catty side, of course!)

To get to her death.

“The victim's name,” Jack Russell continued, “was Whiskers MacDuff. This is the second of the Jigsaw Murders. The first victim was a young Spiderboy, name of Quentin Tarantula. He was a Chimera artiste, famous for his violent, celebratory portrayal of the criminal life. I must admit that I won't be shedding any tears at his demise. That kind of Chimera show shouldn't be allowed.”

“What is a Chimera show, exactly?” Alice asked.

“What's Chimera?!” howled Jack Russell. “Where have you been for the last five years?”

“I haven't been anywhere for the last five years,” Alice replied. “In fact, I haven't been anywhere for the last one-hundred-and-thirty-eight years!”

Inspector Jack Russell ignored this remark. “Chimera is where they play the flutters, of course.”

“The flutters!” Alice smiled. “That sounds like fun!”

“Fun!” yowled the Inspector. “Oh no! Chimera is a blatant pandering to the sickly needs of the common herd, a fluttering of evil pictures on a wall!”

“Is Chimera a little like a lantern show?” asked Alice.

“And the newspapers dare to ask why the crime numbers are soaring!” barked Jack Russell.

“What has this to do with the Jigsaw Murders?” requested Alice.

“Quentin Tarantula was a maker of Chimera. Surely I explained that already? He was murdered, and then all of his eight legs were sliced off and stitched to his head! Stitched, I say! And this pathetic Catgirl has suffered the same fate: her body parts have been rearranged.”

Alice felt quite sick.

“This is why we call these killings the Jigsaw Murders. Take a look at this. . .” Inspector Jack Russell opened his paws to dangle a small piece of wood in front of Alice's face. “We found this clutched in the Spiderboy's legs.” It was another jigsaw piece! Alice recognized the fragment: the missing picture of a deadly spider from her long-ago puzzle of London Zoo.

“That's my jigsaw piece!” Alice cried.

“Is it indeed?” Jack Russell replied. “Well then, take a look at this. . .” And with this ellipsis the policedogman prised open the only exposed claw of the currently dead Catgirl, revealing yet a further jigsaw piece hidden there. “Does this jigsaw piece also belong to you, I wonder?” he asked, brandishing a crooked portion of the golden eye of a cat.

“That is also mine!” Alice said.

“Alice the human-girl,” Inspector Jack Russell coldly growled, “I am hereby arresting you for probable involvement in the Jigsaw Murders. I believe you to be in league with the Ramshackle Badgerman, our main suspect, and that together you have brought about these rearranging killings. The Civil Serpents will be most keen to interrogate you.”

Just then it started to rain!

To rain and rain and rain.

An astonished (and drenched) Alice felt a pair of police manacles folding around her wrists, and at the very same time she saw Captain Ramshackle himself being led on leads by a cluster of policedogmen. The Badgerman looked at Alice as he passed by. “Alice, you know that I'm innocent,” he muttered in the downpour. “Won't you please help me?”

“Good Captain, I will do my utmost to help you,” Alice replied, whilst being dogmanhandled herself onto the back of a police-auto. “I shall prove us both innocent yet. . .”

The last thing that Alice saw as the auto-horse galloped off with her, was the porcelain look on Celia Doll's face from the crowd of dripping spectators. “Oh Celia!” Alice cried out, “I'm losing you all over again. Whatever shall become of us now?”

Alice's ride on the auto-horse's back was a terrifying rain-beaten gallop into the centre of Manchester. Wilmslow Road changed into Oxford Road, towards the centre, and many a wonder Alice passed on her journey into Manchester, surrounded as she was by a skidding and flashing drive of other auto-horses, all carrying their very own intrepid riders (or should that be drivers?). Alice passed the Infirmary and the University, she also passed the Central Library and the great Town Hall of Manchester.

The police auto-horse eventually drew to a standstill at the police station, opposite the Town Hall.

Five minutes later Alice found herself being locked up inside a minuscule gaol cell in the cellar below the police station. “This is not fair!” she shouted to Inspector Jack Russell as he forced her into the cell. “I'm innocent! Let me free!”

“The Over Assistant Civil Serpent will be along shortly,” Jack Russell briefly replied. “You may plead your case to her.”

Inspector Jack Russell left the cell and clanged the door shut behind him.

Alice could hear the key turning in the lock, just so that she now knew she was completely alone.

A long, long time passed and nobody at all came to visit her, not even a Civil Serpent. Hours and hours must have passed. Alice was feeling very lonely and unwanted -- very much unloved. The gaol cell contained no furniture other than a rude bed and no windows other than a tiny, barred hole set high up on the wall, through which Alice could catch only a glint of distant raintight. Alice was so very hungry, not having eaten since lunchtime. That's lunchtime, 1860, by the way. Alice was left to her own devices. Of course, Alice's devices amounted to nothing more than Whippoorwill's plucked-out tail feather, and five small pieces from a jigsaw of London Zoo, which offered hardly any comfort at all (especially to the stomach).

Alice quickly became bored of doing nothing at all, so she decided to play with her feather and her jigsaw pieces.

First of all she placed the feather on the bed's rough blanket. Then she dug deep into her pinafore pocket to find the five jigsaw pieces she had collected in her travels so far: the termite, the badger, the snake, the chicken and the zebra. She laid these pieces face-up in a circle surrounding the green-and-yellow feather.

“Now then,” Alice said to herself, “what game shall I play with you? Shall I play Feather-Escape-the-Zoo? Or shall I play Zoo-Catch-a-Feather?”

Alice moved the jigsaw pieces around the feather, and then the feather amongst the jigsaw pieces, and then she threw the whole lot of them to the floor!

“Oh! What difference does it make?” she cried. “I don't know the rules to either game and even if I did, what fun is it to play with myself? If only Automated Alice were here! She would certainly know the rules to both the games. In fact, Automated Alice would know the rules so well, she would beat me in every single game! And I couldn't be doing with that at all! But still, it would be nice to have somebody to talk to. And also something to eat!”

Just then the key turned again in the lock and the door to the cell banged open. Inspector Jack Russell stepped into the room, carrying a plate of food. “I thought you might be hungry, Alice,” he growled, setting the plate down on her bed.

“I am hungry,” stated Alice, “but I shan't be eating that!” (It was a plateful of boiled radishes!)

“Very well,” Jack Russell replied, “I shall take it away then.”

“Where is Captain Ramshackle?” Alice asked.

“The Badgerman is being questioned by the Over Assistant at this very moment, and the Lady of Snakes will be interrogating you presently.”

“But I'm innocent, I tell you!”

“That's for the Serpents to decide, meanwhile, I'm giving you a cell-companion. . .”

A slug was then dogmanhandled into Alice's cell. A rather large slug, at that! And the door clanged shut on them both. Imagine, Alice the sweet girl and a greasily enormous slug shut up tightly in a mere pigeonhole of a space? (Although, truth be known, even a pigeon would find that space rather too encroaching for comfort, let alone a young girl and a giant slug!) The slug wasn't just a slug, of course; he was also a man -- a Slugman. He was dressed in a suit of silky, shiny cloth, with a jacket and tie and trousers of glitter. On his black and glutinous head rested a large twirled hat of spirals, below which his pair of twitching horns moved slowly through the dank air. In his human hands he held a golden trumpet of finely polished brass.

“Who are you?” asked Alice, nervously.

“I. . . am. . . Long. . . Distance. . . Davis. . .” the Slugman sluggishly replied, putting an age between each word. “And. . . who. . . are. . . you?”

“I'm Alice,” replied Alice, “and you're a slug!”

“I. . . am. . . not. . . a. . . slug. . .” Long Distance Davis replied, just as slowly as before. “I. . . am. . . a. . . snail. . .”

“So where is your shell?” (Alice knew just enough about gastropodology to understand that a snail had a shell, whereas a slug did not.)

“Wherever. . . I. . . lay. . . my. . . hat. . . is. . . my. . . shell. . .” With this utterance the Snailman lay down on the dirt floor and then started to smooth his body into his hat. Around and around the spirals he went, until he had almost vanished, in fact, only his golden trumpet remained in sight. “Please don't go home to your shell, Mister Snailman!” Alice pleaded. “Please talk to me.”

“What's. . . to. . . talk. . . about?” was Long Distance Davis's slovenly reply, from within the depths of his shell hat: “I. . . am. . . under. . . my. . . hat. . . and. . . also. . . under. . . arrest. . .”

“For what crime?” asked Alice.

“For. . . the. . . crime. . . of. . . playing. . . music. . .”

“Is it a crime to play music in the future?”

“I. . . was. . . playing. . . too. . . slowly. . .”

“I'm getting awfully confused, Mister Snailman; why should slowness be against the law?”

“The. . . Civil. . . Serpents. . . hate. . . waiting. . .”

“And what is it exactly that you're waiting for?” demanded Alice.

“I'm. . . waiting. . . for. . . the. . . next. . . note. . . to. . . escape. . . from. . . my. . . trumpet.”

“Will you play me a tune right now, Mister Long Distance?” asked Alice politely. “It would surely pass the time.”

“I. . . shall. . . play. . . you. . . my. . . latest. . . composition. . .” Upon these torpid words the Snailman slid completely free of his shell, so that it once again resembled a hat. “This. . . tune. . . is. . . entitled. . . 'Miles. . . Behind'. . .” He then raised his shining trumpet to his greasy lips and blew out a single note:

“Parp!” went the trumpet. Long Distance Davis then lowered the instrument.

“Is that it?” asked Alice (having noticed that a jigsaw piece rested in the bell of the trumpet).

“That. . . is. . . the. . . beginning. . . of. . . the. . . piece. . .” Long Distance drawled.

“But why are you talking so slowly, Mister Snailman?” asked Alice (stealing the jigsaw piece from the Snailman's trumpet whilst he was looking off into the far distance). “Aren't you very good at English?”

“I. . . don't. . . speak. . . Anguish. . .”

“I didn't say Anguish, I said English.”

“Well. . . it. . . certainly. . . seems. . . like. . . you're. . . very. . . anguished. . .”

“What language do you speak then?” Alice was becoming quite exasperated at the Snailman's sluggishness. (Or should that be snailiness? I can't make my mind up, can you?)

“I. . . speak. . . in. . . Languish. . .” the Snailman eventually replied.

“And what is Languish?” asked Alice.

“Languish. . . is. . . the. . . lazy. . . language. . .”

The Snailman then raised his trumpet to his lips and once again blew into it, fully two notes this time. (During this musical passage Alice managed a quick glance at her latest jigsaw piece; it showed only a black and greasy patch of wet skin. Alice knew that the piece was for the snail missing from her gastropod house at London Zoo. She silently slipped it into her pinafore pocket.)