Chapter Nine:
Trust
It's a terrible thing, to hear someone die. Jeremiah listens to Leeland's apologies before he makes the kill. He hears all of her pleas and excuses over again, and then makes her pay all the same. He makes her say their names.
Corrine and Hattie, she weeps, Corrine and Hattie, oh God, oh don't, I never knew he'd kill them, please, Jeremiah, we were friends, please…
Jeremiah groans with the effort of the manoeuvre when he makes the first blow; there is a great bellowing sound as the crowbar makes contact with bone, the latter cracking in submission. At first Joan screams, a sound like none I've ever heard before. With the second hit the screams become wet wails, a third turns them into shrieks, and by the fourth strikes there's nothing but moans. Jeremiah is roaring over her, his words barely intelligible but full of a wild, manic hatred. The moans turn quickly into gurgles, which swiftly die away into nothing, yet the smacks of the crowbar continue. I cling to Joker without a second thought, my face pressed into his shirt, a fist balled into the fabric of his piped blazer. He holds a hand across my back, as though comforting a child. That is what I feel like; a little girl. Weak and helpless.
When I hear the crowbar clatter to the ground and the only sound left is Jeremiah panting, I peel myself away from the clown's hold. The fabric of his shirt is damp, hot with silent tears. My eyes are sore, swollen, so that it hurts when I try to blink. I have to fight not to vomit when I'm brave enough to look; Jeremiah is kneeling before the body. There is blood and other matter at his feet, parts of Joan that are not a part of her any longer. He too, like a child, begins to cry, great wet sobs that shake the room.
"I wondered how long it would take until this place turned into a kindergarten," Joker mutters, heaving Jeremiah up to his feet. "There you go, old chap. You're alright. Good job, for a first attempt."
Jeremiah's clothes are splattered with red, his entire body quaking. He doesn't seem to see either of us, even as Joker takes his arm and leads him to one of the chairs. The clown keeps his eyes on me the whole time. I pretend not to notice.
A horrible, wheezing noise comes from the lump of pulp which used to be Doctor Joan Leeland. I cannot bring myself to look, but I know that sound from television; it is the sound of someone struggling to breathe through a punctured lung. Every breath she takes will be drawing air in through the open would, adding to her suffering.
"She's alive," I breathe. The sound quietly persists.
"Not for long," Joker says, watching the body. He is not squeamish, understandably. He taps a finger against the side of his head. "She's already gone, where it matters. Half her brain is mashed into the carpet, she won't feel a thing. Less of a she now, really. More of an it."
"Just kill her," I plead, closing my eyes again. "End it."
He looks at me with curious concern. Then he moves into the centre of the room and picks up the gun from the pile of weaponry. He offers it to me.
"No," I say. He shakes his head a little, and advances on me; I stand, shaking my head wildly as he tries to put the weapon in my hands.
"Shhh, shhh," he says, struggling with me until I hold the gun in my hands properly, his fingers wrapped over my own so that I can not relieve myself of the weapon.
"No, please, just do it, you just do it. I can't, Mr. J, I can't-"
"You can," he says, and pulls me forward gently. When I resist, pleading with him, he becomes agitated and pulls me harder. "You need to."
"Don't make me do this," I say, my words broken, my hands shaking. He releases me as I step before the body.
"Fine," he says sharply. "But I'm not doing it. How about you, Jerry?"
Jeremiah sits in silence, shivering.
"I'll take that as a no. You're on your own, Doctor Quinzel."
He takes a seat, leaving me stranded with the dying woman. I can barely bring myself to look; Joan is turned towards me, her eyes unseeing. Joker is right, half of her skull is caved in. Her eyes do not sit right in their sockets. There is no way she can be sentient at this point, aware even of the pain. Only her chest rises and that horrible sound like a gate creaking persists.
She's already dead; what made her Joan Leeland, the good and bad, so much bad, is all gone. Even so, I can't let her carry on like this. It's inhuman. The sound of her labored, unnatural breathing alone is enough to drive a person insane.
I take a deep breath to compose myself as I kneel down and place the weapon against her temple, assuring that I won't miss the shot. I look away and pull the trigger.
I do not look at what I've done. I simply stand with the warm blood soaking into my tights, running down my legs, and hand the gun back to the clown. He takes it from me in silence, stands to meet me, and offers out a hand.
I do not take it. I cross my arms over my shoulders and he pulls me into his chest. He brings his arms around me, holding me, and presses his face into my hair. I cry into him. I never want to be let go.
I don't know how long the two of us stand there. Eventually, Jeremiah's murmured sobs become louder than my own, too loud to ignore, and the clown peels me away from his person.
"Jerry," he says, clearing his throat, "you're free to go."
Jeremiah looks up at him; his glasses are gone, his face swollen and drenched in tears. "W… what?"
"Your work here is done, and a fine job you did of it too, old boy. Well done. Now you can go."
Stunned, Jeremiah gets to his feet. He can barely support his own weight.
"W-where should I go?"
"Out the front door and to freedom, of course. My boys will let you through. On your way out, could you let the lovely folks from the Gotham City Police Department in? I've had far too much excitement for one day."
Dazed, Jeremiah stumbles out of the therapy room door. Once he is gone, I stand in bewilderment.
"So that's it? You're… done? You're just going to let them come in here and take you down?"
He watches me coolly. "That depends on how you answer this question."
His hand is on my shoulder again.
"Do you trust me, Harleen?"
It feels so strange to say, but the words come without me even having to think about them. "…Yes, I do."
He reaches a hand into his pocket and draws out a thin, familiar-looking box.
"Prove it."
I take the slender box from his hand and remove its lid. Inside is a needle, identical to the one which was left for me in the sensory room at the beginning of this whole misadventure. The pale green liquid inside waits patiently to be put to use. I think back to our earlier conversation; how Joker said it wouldn't kill me, and little else. Should I believe him?
My hands shake as I hold the box, staring down at the gift inside. "I… I don't know what it is."
"That's the beauty of trust," he tells me. I hear the sounds of the police officers storming the building, battling with Joker's goons outside. There are nervous mumbles from his men in the back room. "I won't tell you what's in that needle... but this is crunch time, Harley. Believe me, everything rides on what you decide to do in this moment. It's your decision to make, but make it quick; I'd say you've got thirty seconds before the boys in blue storm in here."
I stare at the needle.
"Twenty seconds," he says.
Gingerly I remove it from the box, let the lid fall to the floor.
"I can't do this."
"Then you'll face the consequences. Fifteen."
A million thoughts race through my head, myriad possibilities of what could happen.
"I'm frightened, Mr. J."
"Aren't you always? Ten."
I look to him pleadingly. His eyes betray nothing. Terror-stricken, I make my choice in an instant, my hands shaking as tense my tendons, struggling to find a vein. Joker's hand helps guide the needle as the thunder of the SWAT boots hammer down the hallway.
In the needle goes, with a sharp stab. I give a pained exhale as it punches through every layer of skin. I stare at Joker, desperate for some sort of confirmation that this choice is the right one. He nods, smiling the smile, his eyes alive with hunger, as I push the fluid into my bloodstream.
"Good girl," Joker says animatedly, yanking the needle swiftly out the moment I've injected the syrum and throwing it to the floor. I close my eyes for a second, feeling how the sudden rush of liquid pushes its way through my veins, heading towards my heart. When I open them it is to Joker's smiling face, and in an instant he grabs me hard by the waist and lifts me into the air, spinning me for a moment and suddenly he's kissing me, and my veins are electric as my feet touch the ground again, my head swimming even as the clown pulls away, the green liquid coursing through my body; and suddenly there's a hammering at the door as the police burst in, surrounding us in seconds, barking commands.
"On your knees, clown! Both of you, down on the ground!"
"What ever you say, captain!" Joker grins, grabbing my hand and pulling me down to the ground with him, mock-bowing. "We are ever at your mercy."
The captain of the SWAT team seems stunned by Joker's instant cooperation, unsure of how to act.
"...Good. Now you stay there until I tell you to move, understand? And you let go of the lady's hand."
He does so, uncoiling his fingers from my own. I look to him, terrified and confused, and he winks.
"Let 'em have it, boys!"
And suddenly the room explodes with green gas, pumped in from the room behind the two-way mirror, so thick you can barely see in front of you, and Joker is pushing me flat to the floor as the panicking SWATs begin to fire blindly; he's on top of me, crushing me and laughing as the guards begin joining in, their own laughter mingled with coughs and yells as they begin falling to their knees, clawing at their throats, eyes bulging; I feel the gas enter my lungs and my whole body begins to burn bright with fear as I stop myself from breathing, fighting against the clown, as I come to the realisation that he's killing me, he's letting me die, he's letting me die and he's laughing…
Everything is green. The police officers are dying all around us, choking on the Joker's toxin as they claw their way towards the entrance, scrambling over the bodies of their colleagues, but there is no escape; out in the hallway, even the Joker's subdued goons are laughing themselves into a frenzy, eyes bulging as the malicious gas drinks up their lives.
And yet I am not dead, or laughing. The toxin is in my lungs, I can feel it tickling there, but it is not killing me. I stop fighting to free myself of the Joker, dare to breathe, and once the last of the bullets die out he springs from atop me and pulls me up alongside him, his eyes gleeful as he watches the last of the soldiers crumble.
"It was the antidote!" I yell at him through the madness. He laughs even louder.
"Well of course it was! Did you really think I'd kill off my favourite quack?!"
Sick as it is, I find myself laughing with relief, even as the last of the officers fizzle out around me.
The moment does not last long as seconds later the glass window of the observation room is shattered with stupendous force, and two of the Joker's masked henchmen come flying through, crashing to the floor; I cover my face with my hands to protect myself from the glass as it showers towards the Joker and I, shrieking in panic; when I look up I see a lithe figure emerging in the wake of the two unconscious goons. It takes me half a second to realise that it's Nightwing.
In his hands he holds his batons. Joker sneers like a rabid dog.
"About time we met face-to-face," the vigilante says, his voice distorted by a futuristic-looking metal mask which protects him from the airborne toxin. He presses a button on each of the batons, and the dual weapons come alive with a buzzing electricity. "Come get some, asshole."