Chapter Seven:
Crisis Point
I am in a hospital bed, staring up at a white ceiling. The walls are white, the furniture is white, the bedsheets and my hospital gown, too. A white-haired Doctor stands at the foot of my bed, and says my name.
"Harley?"
He explains to me that I am safe. It's all over. The hostages are safe, the clown captured. I look around the beds on the ward to see that it is true; an impossible row of survivors, all of them sleeping. Still unconscious from the gas, the doctor explains. Nightwing's plan worked.
In the bed next to mine is Bruce Wayne. His skin is glowing red, as though with a fever, and blood has begun to seep through his bandages. I ask the Doctor if he will be okay, and a different voice answers to tell me yes, he will be. The Doctor has gone, and Jeremiah stands in his place. He somehow seems even thinner now than he was this morning; he sits at the foot of my bed and removes his glasses. My head feels foggy, unbalanced.
"There were… complications," he explains. "It's hard to find the words to break this to you, Harley, so I'll just…"
He produces a mirror from behind his back. As he hands it to me, I note that he too calls me Harley, which he has never done before. I take the mirror, and raise it up to my face.
My skin is white as a ghost's, bluish in the cool clinical light. My lips are blood-red, eyes wide and bulging. I am grinning like a madman, like that madman, and I cannot stop. I scream aloud, and Jeremiah tries to wrestle the mirror from me; I hurl it at him in horror, and when it hits it is he rather than the mirror which shatters. I watch as he fractures into a thousand pieces and falls into the floor, into the world, and I fall after him, clinging to the posts of my hospital bed with cold, white hands.
I awake with a jolt, that horrid free-fall feeling which sinks your stomach and causes your heart to race within your chest. Panicked, disorientated, I try to place where I am; another white room, with white walls and a white ceiling. In front of me is a desk, also white. On that desk is a metal fixture, reflecting the light of the white strobe light overhead. It is then that I realise where I am. I know this room. I have spent constant hours here, but I've never seen it from this side before.
I am in the therapy room.
Joker's therapy room, to be exact, where Jeremiah and I spent countless hours revelling in the clown's words, scrawling notes, laughing at his jokes in spite of ourselves. Opposite me is the door, and either side of it, the same two orderlies stand, their hands bound behind their backs and their mouths taped shut. Frederick, with his missing ear. He has grown a beard, and looks haggard, his eyes alive with misery.
This cannot be real. I have to be dreaming still. I try to move and find that I cannot; I look down to see that I am tied into a straight jacket.
This is a nightmare. It has to be, for all our sakes. I wait for things to become more surreal, for the walls to start melting, but they do not. Things stay the same, try to convince me that they are real. I buckle in my seat, cry out, but no words form. My heart, once again, thuds at the speed of a racehorse. The door opens. The doctor walks in.
But he is no Doctor. Red-lipped, white-skinned, grinning. Styled hair, freshly coloured, the green of basil leaves. Thin wrists carrying strong, sinewy hands. I know how strong those hands are. I feel the ghost of them at my throat. They are killer's hands, killer's wrists, killer's eyes, all of it crowned with a killer smile. Please, let this be a nightmare.
The clown, fitted with a doctor's coat and a pair of spectacles, sits down in the seat which should belong to me. He spreads out a collection of papers across the desk in silence, then presses a button on the desk's tape recorder and clears his throat.
"Doctor J interviewing patient Harleen Quinzel," he says to the device. "Before we begin the session, I would like to note that the patient appears… distressed."
A sound escapes my lips like a sob. I am crying. I feel the tears swelling and streaming hot down my face. My composure is gone; I am tired, I can't be brave any longer, pretend to him that I'm stronger than I am.
"So, Miss Quinn- how are we feeling today?"
I stare blindly at him as he waits, patiently, for an answer. I do not give him one. If only this were not reality, but I can feel it; the straps constricting my sides, the ticking of the clock on the wall, those manic, living eyes. How could I dream up those eyes?
"Not very talkative today, are we? That's alright. How about some word association?"
I compose myself enough to ask him to stop. He tries not to chuckle, but he cannot help himself. He clears his throat in an attempt to cover his lapse and shuffles his paperwork.
"Let's try this one; insanity."
"Stop it."
"Oh, she speaks! Work with me here; insanity."
"I'm not playing your stupid games!"
He reaches into the doctor's coat and pulls out a handgun, which he rests at the bridge of my nose. My entire body seizes; I fight to keep a clear head as I stare down the barrel of the weapon. Behind him, the two petrified orderlies watch in gagged silence.
"I'm doing all of this for your own good, Harley. The first step to recuperation is admitting that you have a problem."
"There's nothing wrong with me."
"That's certainly up for debate."
"You won't shoot me," I say to the barrel of the gun. "You don't want me dead."
A slow, boiling laughter begins rumbling in his chest. He leans in closer so that his face is level with the gun. I try my best not to look away as he seethes,
"And how the hell would you know what I want?"
I look him dead in the eyes. "Because I'm your therapist."
A sly grin curls upon his face. I watch the barrel of the gun shake along with his laughter, steadying as his mirth fizzles out.
"Oh, Harley," he says, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of the doctor's coat. "You got me. I won't shoot you."
He raises the gun, draws back in his chair and points it in Frederick's face.
"Freddy, on the other hand…"
The orderly stares at me with wide, panicked eyes.
"Insanity," Joker repeats, with a taunting smile. I swallow hard.
"Institute," I say, though it certainly isn't the first word that comes to mind.
"Arkham," Joker says. I answer, work. He accuses me of not being honest, and cocks the gun.
"Memories," I correct quickly.
"What kind of memories?"
I struggle to maintain eye contact. "Bad ones."
"About me, I assume. All bad? Remember to be honest. I doubt the janitor will be on good terms with us if we decorate the walls with Fred's cranial matter."
Breathing easy becomes more and more difficult. "Not all bad," I admit. I say it because it is what I know he wants to hear, but saying the words hits me like a stab in the chest. Flickers of memory dance before me; trying and failing not to laugh at his jokes. The thoughts I'd supressed, of how handsome he might be were it not for his colouring, the later concerning realisation that I find him handsome in spite of it. Our fingers, locked across this desk as a sign of a secret promise, an oath between the two of us, an acnowledgement of secrets shared.
It's the answer Joker wanted. He smacks his hand down on the table and shouts,
"There we go-!"
Before he can continue the door opens, and one of his thugs pokes his head around it. It's the bald-headed goon from earlier, who Nightwing had confined to the elevator with his red-headed friend. I imagine him on his way to rescue me, and pray it isn't folly.
"Boss?" he says, "just to let you know, ah, a few of the boys wanted me to tell you, it was the five of us who found her; Bonco, Vic, Brutal Adams, me and Arnie, but Arnie, he didn't get out of there quick enough so he's in with the police-"
Without a moment's hesitation Joker swings the gun at the henchman and puts two bullets in his head. I see it coming and turn my head away, shaking like a leaf in a storm as the room responds to the slaughter; muffled groans from the two orderlies, both of whom are splattered with blood from the man who stood between the two of them, his corpse sprawled across the floor. Joker, of course, cannot help but express a short, buckled laugh in amongst the carnage; the orderly whose name I never learned begins hyperventilating. The clown quickly barks at him to shut up, as he's still got a few bullets left over and he's itching to use them.
Joker turns to me, sees how shaken I am.
"Don't cry over him, my sweet. Aaron Hellsinger, renowned murderer and all-around idiot. Some high-flying doctor from Metropolis saw to remove his amygdala on his last visit here, said it would help with his therapy. Think of it as a mercy killing."
"You don't have to do this," I plead, my voice breathy.
Irritated, he puts down the gun.
"Do what? What am I doing, aside from having a chat with an old friend?"
"All of this," I say, shuddering. He tilts his head, eyeing me curiously. He looks so different now; sharper, more keen.
"It's been such a long time, hasn't it… and haven't you matured well since we last saw each other, like a fine wine or a mouldy cheese. Have you missed me? ...Probably not. But boy oh boy, I've missed you."
"How did you even find me?!"
"I sent a few of the lads up into the vents after you, after I saw you and the costumed freak clamour up in there. One of them came across you sleeping like a drugged sloth and dragged you out before the cops thought to take a peep inside the vent; there's probably a few of my boys still crawling around in there now. Perhaps I'll gass them out."
He clears his throat and begins rifling through the paperwork on the desk, pulling the glasses from his face and dropping them to the table. I realise then that they are Jeremiah's. Joker notices my eyes trailing the spectacles and remarks,
"His are actually real."
Panic rise in my chest. "Tell me you haven't hurt him."
"I haven't hurt him," he says, too quickly. I swallow back fear.
"What have you done with him? Where are the hostages?"
"Well, it depends which ones you mean; after that stunt performed by the Nightingale or whatever he like to call himself, only a few of my boys managed to get out of there conscious and back to me. The hostages and the rest of the crew are now at the mercy of the Gotham City Police Department; well, aside from a few stragglers. The charming attorney who got me locked up here in the first place has had his legs broken and is currently involved in a game on the docks with a few of my boys; they've thrown him in a wheelchair and are taking it in turns rolling him off the pier, then watching him drag himself back onto land, only to be rolled into the water again. I've been watching it through the monitors in the control room, it's great fun. They're taking bets on who can send him flying the furthest, I believe, and how long it takes before he gives up and just allows the sea to swallow him."
"Is that true?"
"Of course it is! When have I ever been one to joke, when it comes to torture most foul? I've got ten dollars and a good pair of shoes riding on him being dead before the sun goes down."
"You're deranged."
Joker taps the papers he has chosen against the table top, straightening them. "You're the one in the strait jacket."
I have no response to that. Joker clears his throat and begins to read from the file he's selected.
"'Name'," he reads, "'unknown. Date of Birth: Unknown.' Unknown, unknown, unknown… 'height, weight, hair colour, marital status…' Ha! I'm not that crazy!"
I realise then that it's his patient file. His eyes flicker up from the paperwork, a habit which I'm familiar with; he's checking to see if I'm laughing at his joke. He frowns when he sees that I'm not.
"Hmm. Don't you find my side-splitters funny anymore, Harls? Maybe I should give you a skull-splitter instead." He continues reading.
"'Mentally unstable.' Doesn't take a psychiatrist to figure that one out. Sociopathic tendencies… narcissistic traits, lack of empathy, sado-masochistic behaviour...' yadda yadda yadda… oh, now we're getting to the good part! Previous convictions! Deep breath; 'Multiple counts of Homicide, Terrorism, Embezzlement, Harassment, Grievous Bodily Harm, Identity Theft, Arson, Impersonation of an Officer, Assault of an Officer-' what, only one-? 'Robbery, Burglary, Kidnap, Abduction, Damage to State Property, Abuse of Public Services, multiple accounts of Hostage-Taking, Possession of Illegal Weaponry with intent to supply, Possession of class A,B and C Substances with Intent to Supply, Attempted Murder, Manslaughter, Possession of Unlicensed Flora and Fauna...' would you like me to go on?"
I am not listening to him. I'm in my own head, surprised at how composed I am regarding the man who was murdered moments before. I see, past Joker's shoulder, the lower half of his body lying sprawled across the floor. Frederick stands in a pool of red. I do not feel scared, or disgusted. Only stunned.
"Harley? Are you listening to me?"
The air smells of blood, which is a peculiar thing.
"Harley!"
I snap back into my painful reality.
"Yes, Mr. J?"
The conversation ends. He puts down the papers and watches me through those dark, twinkling eyes. I try to avoid reading what emotions dance there now. I feel paralysed, unable to look away; those high cheekbones, the smile which would be endearing were it not so menacing. The thick, wavy hair, the pull of the tendons at the base of his throat, dancing down beneath his dark shirt. I don't know how long the two of us stare at each other, locked in some dark spell. I wonder what he sees from his side of the table; skin, hair, teeth. My eyes, blue, ringed red with heartache and frustration. They always look prettier when I cry.
The spell is almost broken when Joker barks at the two orderlies to leave the room. They do this without hesitation, struggling between the two of them to open the door with their bound hands. Their shoes make odd squeaking sounds as they pass through the blood. Take him with you, Joker yells, and between the two of them they are forced to drag the corpse away. Joker's eyes never leave mine for a half-second. The door closes automatically behind them, and the two of us are alone.
The clown stands and shrugs off the doctor's coat, revealing a sharp purple suit beneath, complete with black shirt and a green satin tie. The suit is visibly expensive, sharply tailored, cutting in at the angles of his body, highlighting his slim waist and hugging the tops of his arms, where the muscle lies. He wears a dusting of makeup to dramatize his face; a burgundy red the colour of dried blood on the lips and dark shadows beneath the cheekbones and jawline. The little weight he'd gained has now completley melted away, and there's a firmness to his exposed flesh which I'd never noticed before; he looks exactly as he should have done when we'd first met, exactly how I'd always imagined him, just as he appears in the newspapers… almost like a painting, not quite real, something out of a dream or a nightmare. Cartoonish, clownish, but still intimidating, still undeniably suave.
There's something in that, that he can still be bewitching in spite of his grotesque nature. He seems far more alive in his signature get-up, boundless within his insanity. The way he styles himself makes him difficult to look away from.
He begins to move silently towards me. For the first time we are stood together with him at his full height; he seems impossibly tall, so much so that I feel myself shrinking away from me; he stands in front of me and touches the length of my neck with a cold white hand, his fingers trailing there in a slow motion. The sensation sends a shock through my body, down into the base of my spine, fear prickled with the sweetness of a lover's touch. Coming to terms with the fact that the sensation is by no means unpleasant, I draw away as much as I can; his hand follows, flat against the side of my throat this time.
"I know what you're thinking," he says, and his voice is soft, a murmur. I stare down at his shoes, shaking uncontrollably. He's smiling again, I can almost hear it there in amongst the velvet of his tone. "No, it won't be a repeat of the last time I touched you."
He reaches his other hand around my head and loosens my hair, running his fingers through it and splitting it into two, teasing both tangles of hair either side of my face. His fingers are slow, careful. Almost warm. As though I'm a rag doll, he lifts me by the arms and twirls me around, so that my back is facing him. He coils his arms around my front and holds me against him, pressing his face into my hair. I'm so paralysed with fear that I have to remind myself to breathe.
"You. Are. Beautiful," he says into my hair. Though my heart thuds in my chest, I do not move. Part of me does not want to. It's oddly intoxicating, being this close to danger, wrapped up in a furnace, and yet not getting burnt. If I close my eyes, I can pretend that he is someone else, a lover, someone more human, someone who loves me, who wants me, who needs me. His breath on my neck is like a cold kiss. The words he whispers are sweet, not septic. He is not hurting me. He does not seem to want to.
At least not yet.
With my hands bound to my sides I cannot defend myself from whatever it is he has planned. Though an odd calm has befallen me, sense and reason still pull at threads within my mind, fighting to find a way to free me from my predicament. Reason soon concludes that there is none. I am here, alone, in a straitjacket. There is no one coming to rescue me. Kicking and screaming will do me no good; I can only wait, and pray.
"I've missed this," he breathes, his face still nuzzled into my hair. His voice is quiet. "Having you here. Drinking you in."
I become acutely aware of the sound of my blood pumping through my temples, of a sudden pang of tinnitus; he rests a hand on my shoulder, and presses the other into the nape of my neck, his chilled touch sparking flashes of our previous encounters in my mind; and that is where the true fear comes in, at the image of those same hands gripping my throat, squeezing, constricting oxygen and blood, squeezing arteries and capillaries. My breathing becomes more rapid as I remember fighting for my life on the floor of this room, the feel of his body weighted down upon mine, the pressure of his hands crushing my throat, stealing away my life.
He breathes in heavily and presses his lips against my neck. Unlike his touch, his kiss is warm; he pulls back and kisses the skin just below my ear, and another slow kiss, then another, in a trail down my neck. I pull away from the sensation, a timid play at defiance.
"Please," I whisper, even in knowing that begging his favour will do me no good. I don't know what else I could say. He laughs at the base of my ear, his breath hot, but draws away, his deft fingers leaving my torso. They trail instead to the base of my spine, where he begins to unbuckle the straight jacket, strap by strap. There is a faint clinking as each metal clasp is released, each tie unravelled. He peels the restraints away from my body, taking discomfort and heat with it; my arms feel all but numb and they hang limply at my sides, tingling with paraesthesia as I step away and slowly turn to face the clown.
His eyes seem a soft, a reedy green in the light of the therapy room. I fight the pressing urge to step away, not wanting to provoke him. His cold hands come to a rest upon each of my cheeks; my weightless, clumsy hands find his own with the intent of pulling them away, but he holds my head still and stares at me intently as though I am a half-complete jigsaw puzzle and he is searching for the right place to press his next piece. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.
"I don't know what to do with you," the clown says eventually, rubbing his thumbs firmly over my cheeks. "You're the spanner in my skull, Harls; works, sorry, spanner in my works. But you could end up with a spanner in your skull if you don't behave yourself…" he grins, rubs a thumb down the bridge of my nose playfully. Then he frowns.
"That was a joke," he hints. "Quite a funny one, I thought."
Almost as a reflex, but with no lustre, I give him what he wants; I laugh.
There's a twinge of a smile. "Well, that's better than nothing. Come on, I've got a surprise for you."
He takes a firm hold on my hand and pulls me from the room; outside in the corridor stand several of his henchmen, milling around, looking bored. Joker ignores all but one of them who hands him a huge duffel bag.
"Found it, boss. It was down in the storage unit, just like you said; Crane's stuff too, and you wouldn't believe what was in the Croc's crate-!"
"Bored now," Joker says, handing the bag to Fredrick's partner and instructing the two shaken orderlies to follow after us. We have to step over the body of the henchman killed earlier as Joker leads us through several of the therapy unit's rooms. The windows have been taped up, red-and-blue police lights bleeding through the edges; in my desperation, I find the nerve to tell Joker that they'll treat him much less harshly if he gives this up now, and he laughs, telling me that I ought shut my mouth. I'm not fool enough to speak again.
We come to a stop outside the group therapy centre. It is a dark chamber, a circle of bolted seats, with an observation room with a two-way mirror looking in on the patients. The room has always made me feel uneasy during the sessions I've sat in on. Joker opens the door with Frederick's stolen key card and pulls me inside.
Two of the seats in the circle are occupied. In the first, to my shock, sits Jeremiah. He is shaking a little, pulling nervously at his hands. In the opposing chair sits the second figure, a well-dressed woman with her head shielded by a fabric sack. She is breathing heavily, her bird-like chest rising rapidly, and there is blood splattered against the hem of her skirt. She is tied to the chair with rope about her arms and ankles.
"Jeremiah?" I say, uncertainly.
"Harleen? What's going on?"
"All will be revealed," Joker interrupts, pushing me down into one of the seats, where he stands behind me with his hands pressing down on my shoulders. He laughs aloud to himself.
"Now, the real fun begins."
