ELEVEN

Week Seventeen: Session 34 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel

Quarter to three.

Harleen was humming to herself while she waited for the guards to bring her patient in, reviewing her typed-up notes from the last few sessions and reflecting on the meeting she'd had with Joan on Tuesday.

She'd finally 'fessed up.

"We don't talk about much," she said. "We touch on things sometimes - like Batman, or his crimes - but then he always changes the subject."

Joan had a funny expression. "What does he talk about?"

She shrugged, humiliation making her blink rapidly. "Movies. Books. Music. Politics. Travel. Just… just stuff."

Joan reached out across the table and clasped a hand over Harleen's. "Harley, please think about this carefully before you answer. Does he get you to talk about yourself? However subtly it might be?"

She did think about that. She looked across Joan's office to the large windows overlooking the Asylum yards. It was a grey day outside, a light rain misting the tops of the trees. "No," she said finally. "No, he doesn't. I'm constantly waiting for it, Joan. I really am. I'm aware, I promise you. But he doesn't."

Joan sit back and smiled. "Harley, then you should be feeling very proud of yourself."

She blinked at Joan disbelievingly. "Excuse me?"

Joan sighed, gestured with her hand. "Believe me, I'm still not happy about this whole situation. But if he's talking to you - and talking to you about general subjects, not trying to frighten you or learn about you - then that is excellent." Joan's smile was perhaps a little rueful as she looked at Harley. "I'm afraid most Doctors cannot say they've had the same level of success."

A warm flush had begun in the pit of Harleen's belly. "Bu - but - we don't - he won't talk about himself, his past, his crimes, nothing!"

Joan laughed. "Yes, but Harley, he is talking. If I were you, I wouldn't expect him to really open up to you for at least a year, maybe more. He's a hardened psychopath and has seen more doctors than I care to count. Usually he can't help but brag about the things he's done. If he actually wants to talk about more general matters with you - this is a very good sign, Harley. It means - well, it just might mean you're getting through to him. It's progress. Don't be too disheartened or impatient. Just keep things going the way they have been. This is very encouraging."

Harleen's heart leapt about joyously in her chest. She knew it. She knew it all along. She did have a knack for this stuff! If she had studied properly, she would've got the same grades as the ones she screwed for, and here was the proof! She was getting through to The Joker! She, little Harleen Quinzel, professional jock, twenty-six years old and fresh out of school! She had to resist the urge to leap up and shout: "Yipppeeeeee!"

Joan's expression suddenly became serious. "However, Harley, I don't want you to become too complacent. It is entirely possible he has something up his sleeve. Please remain alert and aware and never, ever take him for granted."

Harleen barely heard her. The refrain was circling excitedly her head: I'm gonna be famous, I'm gonna be famous, I'm gonna be famous.

Out loud she said: "Yes, of course, Joan."

She didn't think there was any need to tell Joan about the rosebud. She never had found out exactly how Joker had got it into her office. It had given her a strange, fluttering sensation to think he had been in there - touching her belongings. She had thought of him, in the darkness, fingering through her purse, her notebook, her drawers. But it seemed he'd somehow managed to persuade someone else to do it for him. Anyway, it didn't really indicate anything except that Joker thought she was different to the other Doctors he'd had, and that was a good thing, wasn't it?

She also didn't really think it necessary to tell Joan that at the Iceberg a month ago, the Penguin himself had come over to personally greet her and her friends, informing them their bill had already been settled before giving Harleen a knowing smile. Her friends had been impressed; and though she'd known it was a serious professional compromise to accept this gesture from Joker, it was already done - and she thought it might help develop their trust. Certainly, he'd been delighted when she thanked him and very understanding when she said he really couldn't arrange that sort of thing again. No, that wasn't for Joan to know, she'd handled that one just fine by herself.

Five minutes to three. They were four months into their sessions together now and while she thought things had been progressing at a snail's pace, she was still transfixed and intrigued by him. Everything he did seemed wrought with meaning. She'd seen Bill Clinton once, when he'd been on tour. Even in a crowd of all those people, he'd stood out, absolutely magnetic, drawing all eyes to him. Sheer charisma. Irresistible allure.

The Joker was the same. Except ten times as much.

She had over a hundred pages of typed notes and observations now, material she knew the public would lap up. How, after she'd watched the movie he had requested, he had raved over the performance of Donald O'Connor in Make 'Em Laugh. How he had delighted over Jean Hagen as the primadonna star, Lina Lamont. It was utterly unexpected and disarming, and considering how he had almost off-handedly mentioned it was the perfect soundtrack to evisceration, it was just the sort of thing that would sell books. She'd loved the movie herself, which had been a pleasant surprise. It had been so - fresh - so innocent and so entertaining. She hadn't laughed so hard it what felt like months and although at one point she'd realised she was laughing alone, in her apartment, while her friends were out on the town, she reminded herself of her goals and how this was work towards them.

And so they'd laughed together. She'd felt her sides begin to ache as they went over Make 'Em Laugh and Moses Supposes as well as all the fumbling trouble over Lina's microphone. She remembered in the Drama Club - she'd always played those dizzy dame roles - how the audience had laughed - how she'd swelled to hear it.

She shook her head a little, discomfited by her recollections. She'd meant to join a community theatre group after graduation, but there just hadn't been time. She focused her mind back on her patient.

She hadn't expected him to be quite so good a conversationalist. He talked easily, charmingly. He was interesting. He had witty observations on almost everything and a rather playful sense of humour at times. She had seen nothing more of the dark predator who had smirked at her and asked if she'd ever been raped, or the maniac who had writhed and nearly broken his straps - she could scarcely believe he ever even had done those things.

The door opened and he was led in. She smiled brightly at Ethan and the other guard, Ross. She smiled brightest at her patient who dropped her a playful wink and submitted passively to being strapped down on his couch. It was beginning to bother her, the extremity of his restraint. In that position he couldn't do much more than move his head and flex his feet. It couldn't be conducive to his desire to share with her.

When the guards left, she spoke: "Are you uncomfortable?"

Both his eyebrows shot up. "Why Doc, such concern! I'm touched."

He was always so mischievous. She peered at him with gentle reproach. "Honestly, now. It can't be a very relaxing situation. And you're supposed to feel relaxed when you're in here with me."

"Heh." He let his head tip back against the end of the couch. "Funny the things you get used to, eh Doc?"

She couldn't say precisely why that remark bothered her. Perhaps it was because no one was supposed to be 'used' to being tied down.

"So, you think this is an inevitable and justified state for you to be in?" she asked him and he glanced over at her.

"Well," he said reasonably, "I've broken the rules of society, haven't I? When you do that, you get punished."

She paused for a long moment, blinked slowly at him. Her heart had started to thud. "So, you understand that the things you do are wrong?"

He shrugged lightly, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "I understand social majority dictates they are wrong."

This was - intriguing. Her fingers itched to take notes but she didn't dare do anything that might knock him off track.

"What do you mean by that?"

Lucidity. He was displaying lucidity. Comprehension. Give nothing away, stay nonchalant.

He smiled, as if to himself. "What do you think I mean by that, Doc?"

She swallowed, sat up a little straighter. "Well, I cannot say for sure. But to me, it seems that you are aware your acts are anti-social. That they are illegal. Immoral. And not the joke you claim them to be."

He burst out laughing and she leapt in her chair. It was the first time she had ever heard him laugh; really, properly cackle in the way he was so notorious for. All of a sudden she understood why so many guards requested a shift change when they were assigned to his ward at night. It was a frightening peal of hysteria, tinged with savagery, and it went on almost interminably long. But worst of all, was how enigmatic it was. As though he knew a secret she didn't, and that secret was about her. She cringed.

"Sorry, Doc," he apologised when he stopped laughing. "But that was a good one."

She recovered herself, urging her heart beat to slow down. "What was so funny about what I said?"

He chuckled, rolled his eyes back. "You're so cute, Doc. I don't think you'll get it if I explain it you. It's one of those gags you kinda have to be in on to appreciate."

She felt desperate. Another almost-there, slipping away from her grasp. "Please. I'd like to try." She struggled to keep her voice even.

He flickered his purple gaze over to her, his lower lip a little stuck out, then shrugged, grinned again.

"Why not." He decided. "It's like this, Doc: The things I do aren't immoral. Or anti-social. Or illegal. Those words and their definitions have been concocted by humanity. They have no true, inherent meaning. They're an illusion. That's the joke."

She felt herself frown, a little flicker between her eyebrows. "I don't understand."

He sighed, jiggled one foot, the cuff around it rattling.

"No one does." He said sadly. "No one except me. This is why I so often go unappreciated, Doc."

She took in a steadying breath, urged herself to stay in control, not to rush forward.

"Joker, unlike many of the other inmates, you seem to have no motivation for your crimes. No convictions which compel you to do the things that you do."

He lifted his head and stared at her, eyes round.

"Doc!" He exclaimed. "No convictions? Moi? Oh dear." And shook his head. "And here I thought - oh Doc. This is tragic. I have convictions. I have very strong convictions, in fact."

"Please tell me about them." The words left her mouth in a hurry and inwardly she cringed.

He chuckled, looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Doc, I just told you a moment ago. Don't you get it? Nothing means anything. Nothing. All of our social conventions, our community systems, our government and cultural practises and traditions - it is utterly meaningless. It has no intrinsic value except that which we assign to it. Do you understand what I'm saying, dear Doc? Maybe you're just too young."

He did not seem annoyed with her, just disappointed, and Harleen felt her heart sink straight into her stomach. She was losing him. Oh God, no.

"And the only reason we assign meaning to it is because it's the only way we can survive through this wretched gag we call life. And for what? We all die anyway, at the end of it. Does it matter, in the end, how? Why do we hold these abstract concepts - beauty, truth, liberty, justice, morality - so dear? Why do we elevate them so much? Have you any idea, sweet little Doc Quinn, how much our concept of morality has changed in just the last hundred years alone? There's no constant. There's no definitive. It shifts as we flounder, endlessly striving to sustain our paltry domination of this planet. In the end our struggle is the same of any living creature: survival. And for what? Why? What's the point? There is none. But we have to pretend there is, to make this vile, inane battle seem worthwhile. It's not worthwhile. We all wind up nothing more than dirt in the ground. No matter what we do. Do you listen to Tom Waits, Doc?"

She was spellbound. During the entire length of his speech he had become increasingly animated, lifting his head and shoulders from off the couch as far as they would go, his eyes bulging slightly, words pouring and tumbling over each other. It was passion, real passion, and she was excited and terrified he would shut down on her. Her mind raced.

"I think I understand," she said carefully, disregarding his final question. "That's the joke - the point you're trying to make - am I right? The joke is that no matter how hard we work, or study, or fight, what we value is an illusion. Because death is the end and that is indiscriminate. And you embody that indiscrimination." How strange the words felt, saying them. But she had to. To get him on her side again.

He relaxed, settled back against the couch. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me, Doc."

Relief flooded her, and a strange warm pleasure too.

"But," she said, "Is it so wrong to value things? To be proud of accomplishment - to celebrate our evolution?"

He sneered. "Do you think a hurtling meteorite on a collision course is going to take a detour because of Pythagoras' Theorem and that some guy named Michelangelo carved a few nice statues? We venerate these things as though they somehow prove our significance. They prove squat, Doc. Life is a joke, and it's a grand one, so why not enjoy it?" And he threw back his head and laughed delightedly, a softer sound that the terrifying cackle of before.

For some strange reason, she yearned inside to cry out that her degree meant something. That it was important. She'd worked so hard for it. But he would laugh at her - wouldn't he? Besides, that was hardly the point. She wasn't here to justify herself to him. She didn't need him to value her accomplishments. That wasn't what this was about.

Instead she said: "But surely you realise that if everyone followed your example and ignored all concept of morality, that you would no longer be unique?"

He wiggled his toes and squirmed about as though he was delighted. "But that's the best part of all - no one ever will. Everyone is too afraid. Belief is an anchor, Doctor Quinzel, and it keeps the rest of the world hooked to the earth while chaos whirls around them. Meanwhile I get to watch, and whirl and laugh. I told you before, every good comedian needs their straight man. Or men. Heh."

She paused, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, looked down at her notes and then back up at him.

"But you do understand, Joker, that your behaviour is considered aberrant by society and that you will therefore incur retribution for your crimes?"

A smirk sidled up his face and he dropped her a slow wink.

"Oh, I dunno, Doc," he said breezily. "Society seems to think there's a lack of understanding between us."

At that moment, the clock clicked over to four o'clock and the guards entered.

Harleen stared down at her notebook for a long moment after he had left, a strange chill echoing through her body. Then she lifted her pen and wrote:

I do not believe The Joker is insane.

--

Oooh! The thlot pickens.

Anyway, if you've been paying attention, you will have noticed Joker's got Harley to reveal quite a bit of information about herself, though she's unaware of it. He gets her to reveal little snippets of info, then distracts her by moving on quickly. Likewise, he touches on her vulnerabilities (like the run in her stocking - she can't afford a new pair) under the pretence of casual observation. God, I love him.