"So what did Harleen do?" They're talking about me again like I can't hear them. I'm mute, not deaf. He wraps my name around his tongue like it's a bad taste in his mouth.
"She killed nine people with a meat cleaver," Doctor Crane replies.
Bullshit. I didn't do that.
At least I don't think I did. I just remember the blood, and feeling so, so numb.
He bursts into laughter, "Ho, hee hee haa," he points a finger at me. "You? Little Harleeen?"
I throw my softball twice at the concrete wall. Fuck. You.
"Oh you didn't?" Doctor Crane says, and I can practically hear the former psychiatrist in him, seething beneath the surface, and I imagine him pressed against the glass, trying futilely to catch a glimpse around the corner. But of course, our last one-sided conversation had rules. One throw means yes, twice means no. I decide to play a little game.
Thump.
"Yes you did kill them or no you didn't?"
Thump. Thump. Thump. I'm. Fucking. With you.
"What does three mean?"
Thump. Yes
"Yes? Three means yes?"
Thump. Thump. No.
"FUCK!" I hear Crane shouting, and although I didn't push him to the edge, I likely tipped him over. "You're never leaving here, Harleen! You know that don't you?" He spits venomously, and he's not Doctor Crane anymore. "You tried so hard to please Mommy, but it wasn't enough was it? You're pathetic, and you're going to rot here like the REST OF US!" At the end of his little tantrum, his voice takes on a deep, ethereal growl. I don't like Scarecrow. When I hear his unnaturally deep voice, my skin erupts into gooseflesh and I shiver as all my little hairs stand on end.
The spell breaks when Darnell starts crying and a guard from on high tells Scarecrow to knock it off, or else. I try to ignore the inane breathless muttering from next door and turn my attention back to my novel, To Kill a Mockingbird. Arkham literature lacks variety, it's one of the things I won't miss when this place burns to the ground. Assuming it does, what do I know?
"I don't like Harleen," Joker muses aloud. "I'm going to call you Harley."
Harley. My dad used to call me that, when I was a kid. Him and his cop friends. Little Harley. Like the motorcycle. Vroom vroom!
"Would you like that, Harley?" he drawls, and licks his lips, dipping his head towards me waiting for an answer.
I regard him briefly. The thought of anyone using the nickname my Dad gave me is enough to make my skin crawl. I hate it. It's in the past, why dredge up ancient history? I need a tether to those memories like a I need a baseball bat to the temple.
But somehow, hearing it come from his moist lips, with his strange, lilted tone of voice, I don't seem to mind it as much. There's alarm bells going off in my addled brain, that getting on a nick-name basis is a level of familiarity one shouldn't achieve with a murderous madman like the Joker. That's the kind of nonsense that'll getcha killed.
I return to my book and choose to ignore him.
"Harley…"
Nope.
He hisses and begins to pace like a caged animal. "Look at me!" he growls.
I can't explain what happens next, not in clinical terms anyhow. It's as though those three words in that moment, I become split in two. The self-preservationist, practical, safe Harleen rolls over and hides under the blanket, to ignore the crazy guy across the hall, to be invisible. But Harley, Little Harley, she likes the attention.
So Harleen went away.
But Harley looks up at him with one arched eyebrow.
"Can I call you Harley?" he asks gently, all signs of agitation melted away like they were never there in the first place. How strangely alluring his voice can be, the slow drawl of his usual contemplative conversation when he converses with Doctor Crane, the high-pitched amusement when he giggles and taunts, the angry growl that reverberates through the entire basement, and the gentle voice just now, asking me a question as though Harley could be the most important thing in the universe at this very second.
I can't stop her, I don't even want to, when Harley gives the bare-faced clown in cell ten a wide, toothy smile.
"Good girl," he purrs.
Stupid girl, I reply, to myself, and smile again, before returning to my book with far less interest than before.
Doctor Leland has promised me time in the exercise yard if I continue to exhibit good behaviour, because I've shown such progress since the last incident. I don't know what incident she's referring to and she doesn't elaborate.
Leland is somewhat kind, as though she cares for the welfare of her patients, rather than simply trying to solve them like a puzzle for the gratification of her own intelligence and the praise of her peers.
Usually our sessions involve her asking me questions, some inane, others serious – all of which I ignore. Then we move onto the other things like flash cards and drawing pictures.
But today I bring something new to the table, much to her delight. It's the communication novelty I adopted from my ball-throwing conversations with Crane. One tap on the table for yes. Two for no. Three for I don't know, or I don't understand.
I've never seen the Doc so pleased before, she's trying so hard to try that shit-eating, cat that got the cream smile from her face. Like she's part way through solving a riddle that will lead to a peer-reviewed prize-winning paper. Me? I'm just looking to secure that potential time in the exercise yard. I know a carrot dangling from a stick when I see one, but it's been so long since this little pony got to canter around in the sun.
Some of the questions she asks are stupid, like always.
"Is blue still your favourite colour?"
"Do you still dream about gymnastics?"
Others are a bit weird.
"Do you regret killing your family?"
"Do you understand why you're in maximum security?"
And some are completely fucking out of line.
"I heard you've been talking to Doctor Crane." That's not even a question. I tape twice for no.
"And the Joker?"
No.
"What about Darnell or Lorenzo?"
No.
She sighs. "Do you want to get better, Harleen?"
I don't understand.
"You don't know?"
No.
"You don't understand?"
Yes.
"You don't understand that there's something wrong with you?"
No.
"I can't help you unless you understand that. Are you willing to let me help you?"
… Yes. Jesus, what is the right answer that will get me outside privileges?
"Good. The last thing you need is to make friends with the wrong people. You're making progress, Harleen. I would hate to see all your hard work set back."
Friends? Wrong people? Fuck you, lady. I glare at her.
"You don't like them?"
I'm done with her questions today. I stare at the floor. It's my signal that I'm finished.
She ends the session and I'm escorted back to my cell.
I get manhandled by one sweaty-palmed overweight orderly with bad breath, and the sublevel guards meet us at the elevator. Then, something happens I'm not expecting. The Joker is also there. His bored, indifferent visage lights up the moment he sees me. We end up sharing an elevator back to the basement. I've got two armed guards, and he's got six. Does that make him exactly three times more dangerous than me?
"Well, hello there," he says, leaning forward past the guard standing between us. I remain face-front but I give him a sideways glance to let him know I acknowledge him. He doesn't like to be ignored. "What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?"
"No talking," one of the guard's grunts, gripping his nightstick.
"She wasn't talking," Joker replies, affronted. "She didn't say a word, she's mute."
I smile to the floor.
"There's no need to be so cruel," Joker admonishes the guard with a soft, playful growl.
It's that growl that makes me afraid of what's going to happen next, or what he'll do. There's no expanse between us now, no stretch of linoleum floor, no panes of safety glass. Just one fleshy human between him and me.
I wonder what he's going to do.
I wonder what I'm going to do. Will I drop to the floor and let the guards subdue him? Will I help him fight them off? Will I stand my ground or shrink away?
It's terrifying and thrilling at the same time.
"You look ravishing today, Harley," he compliments.
I can see my clouded reflection in the smooth metal doors of the elevator. I know I look like hell.
But at least my hair looks nice. I washed it this morning, had it cut to a manageable length and my new nurse, a freckled-faced ginger fresh out of nursing school had been kind enough to braid my hair today. I forget her name. Maggie? Harriet? Brenda?
I like her. Not as much as I liked the lemony-fresh cleaner who I haven't seen in a while, but still, she seems nice. I'll take advantage of her while I can, while she's still too stupid to understand that I'm no less of a monster than the other maximum-security inmates, the ones she doesn't have the clearance or training to deal with.
This elevator is too fucking slow.
If the Joker tries something in this confined space, it's not going to be pretty, and knowing my luck I'll be implicated in the incident regardless of my active participation, and I really, really don't want to lose my promised time in the exercise yard.
He tilts his head to one side, then the other. Cracks his neck like he's ready for shit to go down.
Shit, shit, shit!
I think about asking him to play nice, but the thought of using my voice after so long makes me shiver. I feel my pulse quicken and my breath comes in short huffs. The guard between us gives me a sideways glance, stiffens, and grips his weapon a little tighter. It's happening. The hairs on my neck stand on end, my arms are covered in gooseflesh and my hands are shaking so much that the chains linking my handcuffs begin to tinkle.
He must have heard it, because he leans forward again with an air of curiosity, and before he can do something that'll get me killed, maimed, or worse, have my privileges taken away… his dark eyes meet mine, and I take a shaky breath. He's about to ask me what's got my knickers in a twist, but I cut him off.
"He-llo."
It comes out barely a whisper, cracked and broken like everything I am, but he's stunned, his black eyes go wide, rimmed with bloodshot white, before he plasters a shit-eating grin on his face.
"Holy shit," one of the guards breathes. I'm feeling you, sunshine.
"Did she just-"
"Fuck me."
"Trust the clown to-"
"Twisted freak-"
I can hear my heart thumping in my ears, and I bring my cuffed hands up to my ears to block out the voices that are echoing around me, unable stifle a whimper.
"Oi, shut up," the guard between us commands, and the rest of them go silent. I'm grateful.
The Joker giggles gleefully behind pursed lips.
"You, too," the guard says sternly.
The elevator comes to a halt at sublevel one, and the moment the doors open, I shuffle ahead, my guards quick to follow, but they don't give me any shit for it. Maybe they want to escape the Joker's vicinity as much as me.
The moment the cuffs come off, I head into my cell, drink a few cups of water, and splash my face.
Oh god, my voice. I remembered my voice, my words.
I'd been trying to avoid an incident with the Joker, and now I've opened a door that can't be closed. The proverbial can of worms is open and they've gone everywhere, wriggling, and writhing and making a mess.
He won't let up now.
What have I done?