Chapter X: The Joker's Joke (Part 1)

*Warning*: This JokerxHarley chapter contains graphic violence.

Harley

At the point in my story where Kevin's head is blown off, I'm interrupted by a soft, polite knock at the door of the interrogation room.

Detective Hadley exchanges a glance with Detective McCain: I can't interpret the look that passes between them. The earlier expression of pure empathy in Hadley's face is gone: now all I can read is a tired guardedness. She shifts her weight and slowly unfolds her body from the chair, rubbing her right calf. Standing, she flexes her leg several times, and walks over to open the door.

"Dr Quinzel's McDonald's has arrived." The voice is low, the tone even and controlled. Detective Hadley's back is blocking my view, but I glimpse the face of Commissioner Gordon over her shoulder. He lowers his voice further to speak to Hadley, and she steps outside the room, closing the door behind her.

I can smell the fried food from here.

"I'm sorry, I'm not hungry anymore... may I have some tea instead, please?" I ask apologetically, my throat sore and dry from the hours spent recording.

Detective McCain crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. Our eyes meet for a long second. There was warm amusement there earlier, and something more. Now he gives me a look that plainly shows what he thinks of me.

It isn't a friendly look.

I cross my arms in front of me on the table-top, and rest my head on-top of them, closing my eyes. Watch what you say next, Harley. If I'm doing this, then I'm going to tell them everything – except the reason why I'm really here.

A second later, I open my eyes in response to the scraping of a chair being pushed back: Detective McCain is standing up to check the camcorder. Standing behind it, he nods in my direction and asks gruffly: "Can you keep going?"

I nod back silently.

And continue.

…...

The sirens are getting closer. Johnny and Omar are dragging the bags of cash across the floor.

The blonde woman isn't with them. So either she's tied up in the vault, or she was killed in a way that didn't involve a gun - or any screaming. My memory's a little hazy on this point, but I think that J has about twenty-seven ways of meeting that objective... that I've personally witnessed. I squash down the mental images that accompany that thought.

Reflexively, I check the pulse of the unconscious man. It's so weak now that I can barely feel it. But it's still there.

The three masked men are focusing their attention on the wall across from the counter. The other two are fidgeting - checking their watches and pacing the floor - but Mr J is standing absolutely still, head tilted slightly to one side. His posture is relaxed, but his dark brown eyes are alert; flickering rapidly around the room. Underneath the fraying purple jacket, the hard muscle of his torso is visible. Underneath the mask, the ends of his greasy, dyed-green hair are poking out. He's slightly bent over, listening for something in the distance.

I check my watch. And like the others, I wait.

When it comes, the explosion is quieter than I was expecting. The hole in the side wall is smaller than we were hoping for... but it will do.

By the time the thick, white plaster dust begins to settle, Omar has already wiggled through the opening into the stockroom of the adjoining shop. Johnny begins squeezing the stuffed bags of cash through the wall, using his entire body weight to shove them through.

Outside, police cars are pulling up. Mr J turns to listen to the voice crackling over the megaphone. Behind him I see the security guard, the man who received a stab-wound earlier. Omar must not have hit anything major, because he's on his feet again and he's barreling towards the Joker, knocking him to the ground. The guard is a big guy, and he's using both hands to pummel Mr J. I can hear the smack of his fists hitting J's body, and the sickening snap of one of J's ribs fracturing; the sound prompts an ecstatic burst of laughter from the clown on the floor.

Johnny's onto the last bag now. Lily will be waiting outside in the stolen police car, in her stolen GCPD uniform. By now, Omar's probably in his GCPD uniform too, and is strolling out to drop the bags with Lily. I could hop through the hole now, leaving Mr J and the unconscious man behind me.

I remember something that the Joker told me in an early therapy session; about the first bank heist he ever pulled, and how he was the only survivor. I turn that thought over in my mind, as the sound of J's euphoric laughter and the thump of his head being slammed against the floor echoes off the walls.

Johnny's climbing through the hole now, following the last bag out. Before he disappears, he glances behind him at the Joker - lying on his side, pinned to the floor by the guard's weight - and then at me. Johnny bends down to skid his shotgun to me across the shiny floor.

"Make it quick, Harl'." he says, with one last look over his shoulder. I guess it doesn't occur to him that I would have a problem with shooting an unarmed man in the service of the Joker – and why would it?

The weight of the shotgun is heavy and the handle is warm. Cautiously, I balance it across my lap and sit there – motionless - as if I'm stuck to the floor with glue. All of sudden, I feel so tired that I can barely keep my eyes open.

The security guard's rage seems to be dying down. He's barely putting any effort into J's beating now. And that's a mistake, because while he was giving the Joker such a vigorous work over he was being allowed to live. Because one thing about the Joker is that... well, he does seem to enjoy getting a good beating now and then. But the guard doesn't know that. He pauses to wipe the beads of sweat that drip from his forehead and J's knife darts upward, severing first his right and then his left carotid artery. The security guard falls forward as the Joker stands up, without even glancing down at the man that he's just killed.

I gently feel for the pulse of the man on the floor. It's faint and thready but it's still there. And I know that however tempting it is to walk away from this mess, I can't. Not this time.

I bring my eyes up to the man in the rumpled purple suit and the clown mask, and I really look at him, as if I'm seeing him for the first time. He strides across the floor with a loose, confident gait. He doesn't even look down as he walks by me – he just aims his handgun at the unconscious man beside me, emptying two rounds into his chest.

There's a deep cry of pain - which doesn't make any sense, because the man isn't breathing anymore. He's gone. And then I realise that it's coming from me.

Without planning to, I pick up the shotgun from my lap and aim it at the Joker. My heart is beating so loudly that it's all I hear: the sirens, the voice crackling across the megaphone, the sounds from the huddled bodies on the floor – it feels as if they're all in another universe. The only thing that exists is the lub-dub of my heart and the green-haired man who is walking away from me.

I slides the safety catch off; the click-click echoes off the walls.

Slowly, the Joker turns around to face me. His eyes light up when he sees the shotgun in my hands. "Oh, now we're talking...mmm" he says; low and husky. For the first time in weeks, his entire attention is focused on me.

He advances toward me, sliding the mask up, with a look of sick pleasure and anticipation. Think Harley. Remember what you wrote after that first session.

And all of sudden, it clicks. I understand why he looks so thrilled: he's pleased with himself, because he's won. When you're dealing with a self-hating masochist like me, it takes a very special and a very clever type of evilness to push us to the point where we don't want to play anymore. Because until that point, it really is all foreplay.

Or is he looking so gleefully happy for another reason? Because now I really see him... and it sickens me. Is this what he's been trying to show me since that first meeting, when after ten minutes I knew that I liked him more than anyone I'd ever met - even though I wouldn't admit it to myself? Something that Mr J rapidly picked up on, and ruthlessly exploited - even as he seemed to find my infatuation increasingly baffling.

The funny thing is that almost two years later, I'm even further from understanding what's going on inside his head than I was then. Or maybe I'm just less ignorant of my own ignorance now. Either way, I probably made the right decision to leave psychiatry. Although assisting a mass-murdering sociopath to escape and joining him in a crime spree was possibly not the smartest way to change careers.

I can't help it: I burst out laughing. And Mr J laughs back, which makes me laugh even more. Is this what it feels like to be hysterical? I wipe away the tears that are streaming from my eyes and meet his gaze. There's a warmth there and something that looks like... affection? Like he's finally found someone else who gets the joke?

I tilt my head to one side, licking my lips: habits that I picked up from him.

And I squeeze the trigger.

...

Please review, with any suggestions to improve this chapter. I promise not to take offence... :-P

Note to the lovely Patrick Verona's Cougar:

1) No, this isn't a series of one-shots :-D. Harley and the Joker's story will soon come crashing into Mike, Selina and Bruce Wayne's story. Though that's still several chapters away. Sorry :-P.

2) Thank you for the wonderful and encouraging reviews... and check your fanfic . net inbox, lol!