AMOUR FOU - XIII Interlude n°3 "Civic-mindedness"
Where do we go, nobody knows Where do we go to draw the line
I've gotta say I'm on my way down
God give me style and give me grace
God put a smile upon my face
I've gotta say, I wasted all your time, oh honey honey
Where do I go to fall from grace
God put a smile upon your face
(Coldplay, God put a smile upon your face)
In everyone's lives there are secrets, small or big skeletons in the closet that, once let out with their sneer and empty orbits ruin the spotless façade of those who kept them hidden until then irreparably. He has yet to forget the months he spent with the puppet David Lepeskow to silence the authorities about the Crane scandal. It took a lot of skillful maneuvering to repair the institute's image, and yet he's still reading articles on the Gotham Times calling for closure. Incompetent and dangerous are the most common definitions used for the staff.
Jeremiah Arkham, in his almost sixty years, has learned a thing or two on the population haunting the place named after his ancestor: madmen don't hide secrets, they simply protect their world. The sane, instead, lie purposefully. All of them. He's the first on the list, only he's better than the others and supported by tactful accomplices.
Sometimes Joan tells him that they should stop pretending, that ten years of clandestine relationship are too many even for someone as patient as her and that it would be time to set his wife aside and start living their love openly.
Whenever she talks like that Jeremiah Arkham feels especially cowardly. He doesn't like the thought of mixing his two private spaces together. Not after all the care he took to keep his little happy kingdom intact.
He doesn't like to call what he feels for Joan high and sonorous names. There's affection, there's a strong attraction. There's the pleasure of her company. Sometimes he suspects these elements are but an excuse to justify his involvement with a woman twenty years his junior, with cocoa skin, a soft and supple body and a vivacious sensuality. But ultimately it doesn't matter much to him, such mechanisms remain an unknown quantity even for those in his business. He keeps on repeating it to himself as he watches the tapes from the isolation cells.
Until now he simply trusted his instincts and had to read between the lines of Harleen Quinzel's aseptic resumes, trying to ascertain the truth of his suspects. Now, in the last tape, labeled JHQ13, Jeremiah Arkham's patience is finally rewarded. The way the two subjects search the other's gaze, their gestures, that tie both palpable and obscenely graceful, like a poisonous snake crawling, demonstrate it.
Jeremiah Arkham still feels guilt, but it's paling as days go by, as his desire to observe, understand and explore that extraordinary relationship case grows.
Don't worry, young Quinzel. Nothing bad shall befall any of us.
He won't let the girl go too far. He'll understand when the time to stop her, to take her away from her hideous lover has come. For now he can give her free rein. Because he knows that, the day she became an unwitting subject of study just as her patient, she was absolutely right: the Joker would never hurt her.
It's once again, as usual, the eternal process that brings two people to want each other, which defies any logic but the one of pheromones, and carries the overvalued name of love.
He's crazy.
Harleen Quinzel has said to herself once more, watching him rage over the map of Gotham.
A red mark, another one, one over the other, frantically, his gaze feverish, his mouth open in a ferocious sneer.
He's a genius, she thinks instead when he hands her the finished masterpiece, panting heavily, his brow covered with sweat.
Detonator, bomb, detonator, bomb, detonator…
Scores of straight lines crossing, mutilating the town in all directions. A gigantic powder keg.
"Are you serious?" she asks, trying to prevent her fingers from shaking.
"Never" Mr. J replies, mindless joy dancing on his features. "Have fun Harley. It's all yours. A gift. A boom here, another boom there. When you want to. A boom under the chair of someone you choose".
Harleen lets herself drop on the sofa. It's strange to see him sitting in her usual place at the desk while she's where patients traditionally are. But that's not the focal point. The crisscross of lines hypnotizes her. To blow city hall up one has only to pick the detonator hidden between 13 and Kennedy up. To say a definitive goodbye to the fashion district, one has only to take a stroll down Nightingale Street. There's a fuse waiting to be lit at every corner of Gotham, and no one noticed. For every charge the police finds there are ten others that won't be discovered.
Is this the way the boys in blue keep us all safe?
It seems obvious now. How can nobody have realized it? He wouldn't have had the physical time to mine Gotham General after seeing Coleman Reese's weasel face on TV, spouting to know the Batman's identity. Like the charges must have been already close to the ferries for his funny little diversion at the port to be set up on such short notice.
You really are portentous, Mr. J…
"How… how long did it take you to prepare this… thing? And why are you telling me?"
How many times did she ask this question? Every time he revealed a secret. But this one really is too big.
"And why not?" he replies. "It's your call now. You can go to the police and tell Gordon and his goons the whole story. I have nothing to lose. Sure it will take years to set the show back up, but I've got time aplenty. Or you could thank me for this gift I gave you and really start having your fun. The moment something explodes is electrifying, trust me. As if you were destroying and creating the universe at the same time".
Such a poet… No man ever did anything like that for her. Well, no man ever did anything like that, period.
She's through with swallowing bitter pills from the likes of Markus. If they knew… They're at her mercy now. And she's not concerned to know that every night she goes to bed with twelve barrels of nitrogen peroxide less than two hundred yards from where she lives: such are the little risks of being the right hand of a criminal genius.
"Don't get angry, but I doubt that I would dare it for real… I mean… there would be victims… and I don't want to kill anyone. Save for Odin Markus. And Jason Woodrue. And Cindy Walker. Did I tell you about Cindy Walker? A skank. In high school she talked Dennis Trapton into going to the prom with her after he'd already asked me and…"
"Harley".
"Sorry".
By now she knows when it's time to be quiet: a second before he loses his temper, or pretends to. She knows that Mr. J is never truly angry with her, and it goes in both directions. Why has Cindy Walker resurfaced in her mind? That was a lifetime ago. She's thinking about high school too much lately, and has since that must strange dream about the boy with overlong hair and the killer smile.
I know it was you. You can deny as much as you want, I just know.
Wrong. Mr. J never truly denied. Mr. J simply ignored her insinuations about it.
And even if it was him, why should he remember?
The thought saddens her. Forgetting about her…
"It's a gift. Do what you want with it. As long as I'm here I surely can't have any fun. And if you're too finicky for such little games that's entirely your problem".
Yes, he's right.
Now she has within reach the power to be just like him. Some latent invincibility. It's all up to her. Is this what feeling free is like? She stands up and hugs him tightly. She feels him stiffen instinctively, but does not relinquish her hold. The doctor can't close a blind eye on such things. And the doctor determined that the patient needs a boatload of human warmth.
Harleen Quinzel. She's the one they need. Jacob Columbine stresses it to Arthur Walsh while nodding enthusiastically.
That early morning call was welcome to him, but at the same time it caused him some stress. Being a literary agent surely doesn't make him swim in cash. And working for Columbine press and its greedy owner is even less profitable.
It's always a matter of runs and sales, never of pure talent. Arthur Walsh often looks back on the idealism he had to leave behind. And he had already predicted that his client the shrink would smash her delightful face into this reality sooner than later.
Now Quinzel is determined to draw out her big guns. No more self-help books for frustrated housewives. At long last, a nice, big fat tome on serial killers and the likes for the angry-looking teens to devour. Arthur has been waiting for Columbine's call for months, obviously to end with a shouted "No deal! True crime is a spent fad!"
Instead the boss invited him to his house for breakfast, offered him coffee and pancakes and started ventilating himself with a copy of his client's I'm okay. You're okay. H's the kind of weird, paperback edition. Well, in truth, there was never a hardcover one. But Columbine knows the magic word.
"Dust jacket, Walsh. A luxury, library edition. One of those with the title in big letters on the cover. That make it to the display window. Tell miss Quinzel to drop anything she's writing and bring me a well-sized book on the Joker, replete with morbid details. I want the first chapter within a week. I'll offer her a contract that will make her eyes shine like stars if she brings me the Joker's exclusive story. Do you realize that the entire Gotham has this chick's name on her lips and we're still here wasting time?"
If the thought of a starry-eyed Harleen Quinzel cheers him up immediately, the sign of a fictitious cash register filling his ears makes him even happier. His protégée is no literary talent; he finds her phrasing shallow and clumsy. But that's why her books sell: her readers, especially female ones, can keep their brains switched off while reaching the last page absolutely sure to have read something extremely deep. So she's not one of the very few writers that make Arthur Walsh still somewhat proud of his profession, enough to save him from depression. But Arthur Walsh is married, and a baby is on the way. And as of late 'the Joker' is synonymous with a carload of money in Gotham.
"Let's call her now!" he replies to Columbine, grinning from ear to ear.
"The DA's office is on your case. It seems that they want to sue you for negligence on the decisive day. But don't worry, miss Ducard has already shown her willingness to ensure you're assisted and, from our part, we can grant you that they won't find anything to grasp on. The sentence is already written, believe me. Rehabilitation through clinical care. We all but made it".
Harleen puts some more foundation on her left cheekbone.
Worrying? Wayland's call to inform her about the god-awful trial left no trace in her. The thought that she's not yet through with tribunals and lawyers only gives her a deep sensation of boredom.
I could turn the DA's office into a pile of smoking brands if I wanted to. Don't give me this poppycock.
"Ow".
She should be mindful about her fingertips. Mr. J was not overly polite when he pushed her away. She hates him when he hits her in the face. As if he didn't knew that to cover the signs up she'll have to make herself up like a… clown? Yeah, something like that.
No fuss. It was just a tiny bruise. It was worth it. I so love when he pretends that he doesn't want to be touched…
"Do you get a kick out of treating me like a punching ball?" she asked, pretending to be angrier than she truly was.
"I have to keep myself fit, you know. Staying locked here doing nothing I risk atrophy. You can come and kiss me, now".
She said no to him, and she's damn proud of it. She cherishes his expression as he realizes he's not going to have it his way. A confused child. So adorable.
Atrophy. I have a few ideas of what could keep you active.
Harleen moves away from the mirror. No one is going to notice.
I dare, I don't, I do…
Trying something beyond their pre-pubescent innuendo. Why shouldn't she? She's still dealing with a young adult male perfectly fit, atrophy or not. And that perennial one step forward, two backwards is tiring her.
No, I can't. If they see us, it's all over, for real this time. And an office surely is not the most secluded place in the world. It's so like a porn movie. Especially as everyone is apparently bent on minding our business.
There's no solution, at least for now. Their true honeymoon will have to wait for when he truly is free.
But I barely even started treating him. I don't want to treat him. I want him the way he is. And there's been no sentence yet. So I could not dismiss him even if I wanted to and even after the court's decision, in front of a commission, the fable of his perfect rehabilitation wouldn't stand.
Life is so complicated sometimes. What's a girl in love to do to spend a night with the man of her dreams? She wonders why her head is continually spinning. Maybe something's wrong at neural level. She's actually good enough to realize that her current mental state is more than a few cards short of a full deck. Stress really does have bad consequences.
Yes, I know, I really need a vacation. But I can't leave him here to fend for himself. Not when there's an entire city up in arms against him. He would feel marooned without me around. He told me so. He needs my presence.
The thought moves her. She knew she'd be able to make him open a little door to his most inner, fragile self. She always knew. But what's happening between them is going beyond every expectation she had. "Soon you'll be telling me that you want to take him home…" Arkham had told her, thinking himself amusing. Old idiot. Sooner or later his moment will come, too.
When her phone rings she answers with the voice of a dreamy girl, but the pink cloud she's sailing on vanishes once she recognizes her agent's voice. The final chapter. She's two weeks late with it. And since Mr. J is there she hasn't written a line, despite her initial plans to come to a close dealing with him. She attempts some excuses before Arthur starts talking about penalties and the likes. But he surprises her, stopping her in her tracks.
"Drop it, Harleen. Throw it in the bin. I'm at Columbine's place. He wants you to write a book about the Joker. Wholly about the Joker. We could meet tonight for the contract".
A book about Mr. J? Yes, she had thought about it. Then, like so many other things, even that idea disappeared from her mind. On the other hand it would be a crime not to register on paper the extraordinary experience she's living through. That they are living through. She'll have to talk with him about it. He's going to love it.
Or not?
Half of the money will be his, as she sees fair.
"What a good idea, Arthur. I'll start working on it immediately".
She still has thirty minutes. She had thought to afford herself a Kaboom Coffee cup on her way to the Narrows. But right now she's itching to start writing. She ends Walsh's call fixing a meeting for nine PM, then gets on her PC and opens a new document. She has it all. Title, structure, chapters. Everything is clear in her mind.
Centered, size 16, Gothic Bold.
Psycho Killers and The Women That Love Them Too Much
By
Harleen Quinzel, Ph.D.
Perfect. She knows where to start: the day he was brought to Arkham and they met. Obviously. It will be a splendid, heartfelt work.
The telephone interrupts her again. She saves and replies.
"Doctor Quinzel? My name is Cecily Wallace. I work for Gotham Tonight".
There's one thing everyone agrees on in that meeting room: the late Mike Engel was a jerk. A tyrant with make up artists and tailors, haughty with his staff, a bootlicker with the higher-ups. And yet he was "Mike Engel of Gotham Tonight". Lydia Filangeri is tired of being 'the journo who got away'. It's not her fault that Mike decided to go to Gotham General the day it was blown up. Neither it's her fault that Mike was killed by the Joker. But the time has come for her to squeeze her memory to the last drop, like a lemon into a glass.
A prime time special on the Joker trial. With a nice portrait of Mike on the scenery and some phrases aimed to the gallery like, "Will the killer pay?"
By now it's a given that, whatever might happen, judge McLean will declare the defendant mentally ill. Thus, it's the right time or a discussion that will leave a few casualties on the field. Prosecutors, defense, someone from the police, a few relatives of the victims, a couple of shrinks in the role of experts, some survivors, two press journalists. And his psychiatrist. The editor has been adamant about it. He liked the little doll ever since she responded to the press outside the tribunal, when observations were made about her relationship with her… patient.
"She looks good on camera, young and pretty" Joseph Leary insists. "And she's the focal point of a number of… spicy rumors. Ratings will soar".
Lydia elbows Shirley Williams, who's sitting by her side. Sometimes it's hard to be woman, and the minority. If it was for her, miss Quinzel would be massacred with tendentious, nasty questions.
But she looks good on camera, and… what else? She's young and pretty, so she must be treated with silken gloves.
"Why don't you offer her a weekly segment to solve whatever sentimental problem the girls of Gotham have?" she chimes in.
That would be such a fitting place for that frivolous-looking bimbette, much more than Arkham Asylum, where she's taking care of this year's big case.
"Have you read her books?" Shirley backs her up. "One wonders where she got her Ph.D.: the internet perhaps?"
Lydia thanks her silently for the support, but the glares from her male colleagues, full of condescension and their sugary grins all scram the same thing: "The ladies are envious, as predicted".
She sighs, resignedly. She has nothing to envy that girl for: her lean B-cup, the childish face or the necessity of walking on stilts not to be trampled on.
"So, it's agreed" Leary concludes. "The list of studio guests is done. I want them all. So don't mince words, folks, I want this show to go down the annals".
Oh, count on it, Lydia pledges to herself. I'm going to quarter her. It's a promise.
"Are those pigtails?" Joan Leland asks, coming to her side in the corridor.
Harleen is in such a high mood that she even returns a sincere smile. "No, my ears simply mutated overnight".
Pigtails. They're practical and don't make her feel a fossil. What's wrong with that? She's sure that Mr. J will love them too.
"You look happy this morning. Did something good happen?"
Harleen doubts the sincerity of her interest. Joan notices her suspicious glare immediately.
"Hey, just a few days ago you looked like a whipped dog. Your mood swings kind of jump to the eye". Harleen stretches out her arms. "It's probably down to the fact that I have too little sex. My patient does not cooperate and my nervous system is suffering the backlash".
It's true, just two days ago her morale was on the floor, but now everything is great again. He's right: no sense moping and screaming at the world. One has to trounce, crush, pulverize his problems, then forget about them.
"I see you decided to take it personally. Ok, maybe I went too far. I apologize. Will that do?"
Joan has become extremely serious and it takes a few moments for Harleen to pinpoint what she's babbling about. Then she puts the pieces together. Her insinuations on herself and Mr. J… It might not be the right time to tell her that moments ago she was absolutely serious. That her patient is really driving her out of her mind with her urge to jump in his arms.
"Forgiven" she says, smirking.
Really, why don't they all just disappear? Better to get along with the new staff manager, right? This morning she's ready to hug her worst enemy.
I, at Gotham Tonight…
She must buy herself a new dress, something very chic. They will take care of her makeup. She hopes she won't be overawed. Can it be really worse than a really important sport meeting? There are no opponents and she only has to talk. She needs some good advice and he's the only one who can give it to her.
She waits in her office, barely containing her excitement. Ten minutes. Can't they bring him to her early for once?
When finally her precious one comes in she has to fight back the instinct to throw her arms around his neck until they're alone. Then, without so much as greeting him, she tells him about the book and, more importantly, about her future guest spot at Gotham Tonight. And she's really not at all surprised to see him concede nothing more than a frown.
"So you're making money off me, Harley? A greedy servant, and a pillar of the system".
"Oh please" she grins in reply. "I even stopped at the cake shop to grab some pastries so we can celebrate".
She likes taking care of what he eats. The gruel they serve to patients is very far from a French restaurant. And it saddens her that for security reasons he can't even use plastic cutlery. So every occasion she gets she cooks him something herself and spoon-feeds him herself. She's not so crazy yet to hand him a fork.
"And what will you tell that rabble, Harley? What will you say about me?"
There's a hint of suspicion in his voice. Maybe he's really worried. Like I could even remotely think of doing anything that could hurt you.
"What a question. That you're out of mind and that judge McLean's decision to consider you mentally ill is absolutely sound. I'll keep how wonderful you are to me for myself, if you don't mind".
"Won… der… ful…" he whispers, as if weighing every syllable, dropping on the couch and lifting his wrists in her direction. Harleen doesn't need a word from him: she saunters there and frees his hands. It's a regular ritual by now. Sometimes she's taken by the doubt of having become his devout slave. And she likes it. She doesn't know why, but she likes it.
"Wonderful…" he repeats, lost in his thoughts, inaccessible to her.
What's going on in his head now? A shiver runs down her spine, alarming her.
"You can come and kiss me now, I told you. You said no. Said no. I've been thinking about Harley saying no for a while now. And now Harley is calling me wonderful. Harley does not have a clear idea of the way things work here. Harley has not realized that she's to erase the word 'no' from her vocabulary".
He got angry over it? She should tell him she was joking, that she never really meant to refuse him. God, she's in complete worship of him and he has this sort of doubts?
"Mr. J, I didn't mean to…"
"Don't interrupt me!"
Harleen steps back. The voice. The one that really scares her. The cry of a fierce beast. She hates hearing it. Hates feeling in danger.
"Why are you looking at me like that? Why are you staring at me?"
Pointless questions. He's grabbed her face: she couldn't avert her gaze even if she wanted to. And she does not.
"Wonderful, Harley…"
Impacting the floor is becoming a habit for her at this point. It's how it all begun. He's weighing on her, looking into her eyes.
"What does this tender, portentous flower that bloomed on the Gotham slime see that's wonderful in the face of a clown that can't stop laughing? A lie. Tell me how true is this love, Harley. Persuade me and maybe I'll let you live long enough to enjoy your fifteen minutes in the spotlight. But stop staring".
She doesn't know what's up with herself, but she's feeling sad. She's not afraid. She's not worried that he could hurt her. She's just feeling a wave of melancholy.
"I can't. I couldn't".
She smiles weakly. Persuade him? Of what?
"I would never takes my eyes off you".
She raises her head just enough to graze with her lips the scar on his left cheek, the wider and deeper one. Nom, she wouldn't want him any different.
"You really don't want to tell me what happened?" she attempts again.
She has a faint, very faint suspicion that he might have lied about it to his lawyer, also.
He ignores the question. Just like every other time. He takes into his fingers a lock of her hair and looks at her like she was a strange, exotic beast. "Your ears underwent a mutation overnight".
A dull laughter comes up from her stomach. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful… Tell it to me just once…
"You should stop dropping me down like a sack of potatoes. I hurt all over".
She had never seen the roof of her office from that perspective. There's a crack, probably due to humidity. She'll have to notice the maintenance crew about it.
Tell me…
"And you should really lay off that 'please accept my uterus' expression".
Do you…
Just another moment and they'll be free to go back to pretending they're doctor and patient. The time for laying oneself bare is over. Another ritual she knows full well. And another day she's missing her chance to ask him.
…love me?
She would sell her soul to hear it from him just once, but it's not going to happen. And she will have to live without it, happy to know it's like that anyway. Because she knows it, she feels it, and has no doubts.
You love me.
"I'm tired. Can I stand up now?"
She's almost praying for a negative answer. Closing her eyes she could almost forget where she is.
"Only if you find me a TV set. I want to see how you fare in the decadent world of showbiz".
Anything for you. Anything.
Does he really want to see her or is his ego simply looking for further stroking? It doesn't matter to her. Because they're a single entity now. The fact that he enjoys torturing her, delaying any physical contact thus driving her out of her mind, is transparent demonstration that he's not toying with her. If he was simply exploiting her he would not have wasted time. But he didn't.
You're afraid of me Mr. J, afraid of what you feel. Of what you could go on feeling. You're afraid of losing some of your strength through me, right?
Makes sense. Perhaps too much. But logic right now is a worthless, cumbersome burden. Harleen grins to herself.
This is what proves that you love me: that you're running from me. You know that if you were really to become my man then we'd be a couple.
The simplest means to prevent him from driving her away… That's her territory. And he's simply a prisoner, an inmate that doesn't know the rules.
You're lying to me, boasting a strength you don't have.
That face, etched with the signs of a life spent as a balancing act is still bent over her, waiting for a positive answer. But she chooses to remain silent. She's not afraid of his reaction when she slips a hand inside the horrendous red jumpsuit that assimilate him to the rest of madmen, maniacs and murderers who make up the hospital's population beyond the safe walls of her study. He could become angry, hurt her for real, even kill her. Some risks are just worth taking.
She keeps her eyes locked with his in silent challenge.
No rules, right? Not even your set…
Her clown is not grinning as her fondling turn into determined, assured movements that don't let him hide behind a mask of indifference.
Exactly…
The expression on his face makes him like any other man. She knows for certain that later, somehow, he's going to make her pay. But right now his breathing turning into wheezing, his hair more disheveled than ever, his flushed face and the way he parts his lips mark her first victory before he surrenders completely falling upon her.
With a curt movement he forces her head back, pressing one side of her face to the floor.
"Dilettante…" he whispers into her ear. "Goofy… clumsy… sometimes even taxing…"
Yes… certainly…
Paper napkins. It's what they need urgently now. Happily she has some in her purse.
"Pull such a stunt again, I'll cut those hands of yours off".
Yes. Certainly.
Harleen grins, his threats notwithstanding. She won this battle. But she's still willing to let him have the war.
"On the TV set… I'll see what I can do. Do you still want that kiss?"
Paulo Morales had known since the night he came to Arkham that he was dealing with a guy that would ruin his life. With him he broke the number one rule of every warden: never be afraid of a patient. The Joker gives him the creeps, and he can't hide it. He's not just a murdering madman. Probably he's not even mad at all. But he's still something else. When he was a child there was this movie his mother loved very much: it had Liza Minnelli singing in a Berlin cabaret before WWII. Truthfully he did not understand much of the plot back then, but there was one thing he never forgot: the guy with a painted face doing musical numbers with the lead actress. Actually that guy did not do anything out of order, except for winking ambiguously at the camera, yet Paulo could not sleep at night thinking about his face watching him in the dark. The word he would use nowadays would be 'fiendish'. Over time he learned to laugh about it and considers the worthy Joel Grey just an amazing performer.
The Joker, however, is making him feel anew the same shudder he felt as a frightened kid when he heard in the shadows the made-up man's obsessive song.
… …
And finally he realized that there truly are people around who know how to hurt you and hit you in such a way that you won't be able to get up again. He's one of them.
"Morales Paulo. Older brother of Morales Ricardo… or am I wrong?"
The exact moment the clown mentioned his brother Paulo realized that he was in trouble, and that he'd dragged his whole family in with him. He didn't think for a second that being locked up at Arkham would have been enough to prevent the merciless maniac from getting to Ricardo. Who's a hothead. Ricardo who ends up with bad company and then tries to get away from it by snitching off to the police in exchange for protection. A story repeated dozens of times in Gotham and beyond. They received threats all time, but the Joker did not have to resort to threats at all. He simply had to say his brother's name to make Paulo Morales' legs quiver. Then his laughter came.
"This won't hamper our professional relationship. No, Paulo, not at all. The idea of preventing you from being a good watchdog, all duty, doesn't even touch me. Hit me freely, Paulo, I recover quickly".
He didn't believe it for even a second and wasn't in the least surprised when that guy started politely asking small, insignificant favors. Insignificant, yeah. He couldn't do anything but comply, repeating to himself that he was doing it for Ricardo, that after all those little requests would not have amounted to anything wrong, that it would not have influenced his work in any way and, above it all, that establishing a good relationship with him would have avoided him the fate doctor Connors and that idiot Ian had suffered.
And I did tell him not to taunt him for the sake of it, damn it…
But right now his dear buddy the Joker has gone too far. And with doctor Quinzel's approval.
Paulo Morales thought long and hard before resolving to discuss the matter with doctor Arkham. He is aware that should his silent deal with the patient were to be revealed he'd lose his job and would also risk an enquiry, but acting on his own decision would be even worse for him. Thus he found it preferable to tell his boss everything about the latest brilliant bright idea this century's most famous clinic case and his own psychiatrist came out with.
"Ok" Arkham replies with no more than thirty seconds of thought.
For a second Morales believes he heard it wrong. "Pardon?"
"You heard me, Paulo" the boss replies with a sigh. "Once we discard the option of allowing him an evening of relax in the recreation room with the other inmates, because we wouldn't wish to spend the coming months scrubbing blood off the walls, if our dearest patient wants to see his doctor on TV a 14 inch set appears to be the most sensible option to me. At a safe distance from his cell. And patently he won't be able to manage it himself. Feel free to notify Mr. Joker that I'll be keeping him company for the evening myself."
Well, now I have seen it all.
The only thing Paulo Morales can think is that madness is really contagious, making the tired popular stereotype real. All considered, history says that the Arkhams aren't the most well adjusted of people. Or is it that the Joker has means to blackmail even the master of this house of horrors? That too would not amaze him.
He's about to ask if he should also provide popcorn and beer for this boys' night, but thinks better of it. It's not wise to be a smart aleck with the guy who pays your wage.
"As you wish. You'll bring the TV set, right?" he simply says, eager to close the matter as quickly as possible and leave behind all the Arkham oddities at least for the day.
The glamour world of TV stars isn't glamour at all seen up close. The dressing rooms are tiny and must be shared, to reach the makeup artist there's a queue longer than an end season sale at the mall, the lunch provided by the network is worse than the Arkham slop and the wings look like a construction site.
The only good part is that the bar serves a nonpareil Kaboom Coffee, even better than Apollo's. She ordered a triple one. With quadruple sugar and cream and a massive topping of pip and caramel. Such infinite ecstasy. Perhaps before attempting to approach the hairdressers once more she'll have another one.
"I knew she had to exist somewhere".
Harleen turns to look at the man who just emerged behind her. She could tell that voice in a crowd.
"Excuse me?" she asks, feigning indifference.
Jack Ryder looks very good in person, although close examination reveals that his casual look is in truth calculated to the last detail. The rebellious reporter, the thorn in the side of the rich and powerful, the journalist of the uncomfortable truths. And he's hitting on her.
"Kaboom Coffee. I always knew that somewhere there was a woman who just enjoyed it and didn't give a crap about calories". Jack Ryder has a sparkling smile and looks like someone who knows what he's doing.
"Truth to be told, I was considering an encore".
Should she ask him an autograph? Better not, she would rather not be mistaken for some kind of groupie.
"Jack Ryder" the man says extending a hand.
"I know" Harleen says, squeezing it. "Harleen Quinzel".
"The Joker's therapist" he adds. She immediately realizes that it was not the hypercaloric what brought him there, and it immediately makes her smile vanish.
"I wasn't aware that I was so famous" she points out with a hint of sarcasm.
He looks unfazed. "Believe me, you are. People are always eager to bring a beautiful woman under the spotlight, for whatever reason. There's a very good chance that, had the Joker been left to the care of a mild-mannered, middle-aged man, no sensation would have erupted".
Harleen sighs in resignation. It looks like the whole town developed a penchant for peeping through keyholes. But she can't complain about it now. Not after accepting the task of writing about Mr. J. What did he call her? A greedy servant, and a pillar of the system.
"It's not like I plan to spread my legs for the Playboy centerfold" she states. Definitely she won't have another coffee.
Jack Ryder is chuckling. "Modesty, feminism or a possessive boyfriend?"
"All of them. Is there anything I could do for you, Jack Ryder, the politically committed journalist?" she asks with a winning smile. She won't do other interviews without Mr. J's permission. He's the reason they all want to talk with her, after all.
Great. He truly is a sun that could make even myself shine.
"Two things actually. Give me your phone number and get me permission from Jeremiah Arkham to use cameras within your structure. After the Narrows disaster we haven't been able to shed light on possible flaws in the investigation that followed it. I would really like to get a first-hand look, and pass it to my viewers as well, at how you got back to your feet. It would be a good thing for you as well".
Sure, I'm so helping you snoop around, as if the vitriolic articles against us are not enough…
Perhaps she still has a way to strike a deal with that self-assured guy. A deal that would give him a new trail to follow and would provide her a satisfying revenge.
"I'll see what I can do. About Arkham I mean. About the date, as you yourself said, I have a jealous boyfriend. Tell me Ryder, if I were to give you a name and a place would you be able to start from that and discover something that's as secret as is sinister?"
It's nice to see how suddenly interests flares on his face.
"Speak" he says with a knowing smile that she immediately returns.
"Professor Jason Woodrue. Gotham University. Department of botanic".
"The signal".
Kurt Kaminski is not famous for his tolerance. This was one of the reasons why Jeremiah Arkham hired him. So he's not surprised to see him gnash his teeth while adjusting the antenna of the television set right in front of the Joker's cell.
"The. Signal. It sucks. I want to see my shrink on TV, not imagine her. Get off your ass, Kaminski, that's what you're paid for".
Arkham appreciates the newcomer's unexpected self-control. His partner, Roger Tills, closes the door after him. Thus this interesting evening begins. The number one instruction is that the patient's cell must not be opened at any cost. He is not to have a chance to seize the TV set. Knowing his precedents, he might use it to blow them all up.
"Any problem?" he asks the guard forced into the technician's role.
"Yup. He's the problem. Just tell him that he can't have a widescreen and an armchair. And that I'm doing everything I can".
Such a grotesque situation. If he didn't have a specific purpose, Jeremiah Arkham would silence the patient in a single gesture ordering the set away. But it's worth the risk.
The Joker is looking at him with his head cocked, grinning as usual. By now he thinks himself immune to it. They're both playing their cards ignoring the other's motivations. Provided such a monster has anything like that.
Escaping. And Harleen Quinzel. These are his priorities now. He's got no chance of the firmer, but the latter might be discussed, provided he'll let me apply the scientific method to his impulses.
"You're not happy with the service, Mr. Joker?" he tells him, returning his derisive grin. Then he has Tills bring him a chair. He won't be looking at the screen much tonight. The patient's face is much more interesting.
The Joker answers with an unintelligible muttering. He's checking him out intently and Arkham lets him do it, despite a palpable, unhindered hostility. He really seems to dislike him. Like most inmates he's probably identifying him with the cause of his confinement. A common, elementary behavior.
"You should thank me for this special treatment, you realize that?" he points out, hoping to garner a morsel of benevolence from his addled mind.
And yet the Joker simply shrugs. "Thank you a lot, doc. How can I return the favor?"
We shall see about it, Arkham thinks as he looks at the photograph hanging on the wall by a piece of tape.
His eyes must be playing tricks on him. The red and black mask with her face painted white is not Harleen Quinzel. It can't be Harleen Quinzel.
So this is what she passed you in that piece of footage. Her photo. Her photo in clown makeup. A ripple of mirth courses through him, but Jeremiah Arkham forces himself to suffocate it.
"What's up, doc? Don't like my loft's furniture?" the lunatic asks. "I know, it truly needs a woman's hand to help me keep it in order and provide a gentler touch".
Kaminski finally managed to find passable definition just in time for the live broadcast. Arkham lets him and Tills leave. Soon he'll have every answer her needs. Nobody had a chance to study such a situation until now.
Lydia Filangeri handles things even better than Mike Engel. She possesses a grace the egotistical late lamented, celebrated with a close-up hanging on the wall, could not have exhibited to save his life. With a suitably solemn expression she introduces a clip on the Gotham General bombing ending with the still unanswered question: who's the Joker?
Maybe we're a wee bit too obsessed with this fellow, reflects Arkham. And the fellow in question does not look at all bothered by it.
The patient's interest is only aroused once the report is over and Filangeri introduces her guests. Harleen Quinzel is looking concentrated and alert.
Almost like a spinster librarian, thinks Arkham watching the sepia trouser suit and pearl necklace. An outfit that brings him back to the day before the Joker came and that she stopped wearing as of recent. That's the way he likes her. He feels he can trust her in that version. Had I not seen what I saw, I'd be tempted to believe her.
"Look at her doc. So subdued. So self-controlled. Prim and proper. So much into her part. You all want her like that. You want to kill the mischievous leprechaun that lives inside her. But she's not like you and you know it too well. You wouldn't be here otherwise. What can you possibly hope to get from me?"
The question does not take him unaware: he's heard it often.
"Answers".
It's always like this. Perhaps Harleen Quinzel has them, but apparently is disinclined to partake of them with anyone who's not her patient.
Her patient?
"Sure". The grin on the Joker's face grows more provocative. "Why can't you just admit that you're nothing but a voyeur with a degree? A curious scientist who wants to make sure that his rare specimens will copulate. This is what you see when you spy onto me and my little doctor. A weird case to study in slide form. You're just crazy about us, aren't you? We're an unexpected stroke of good luck. This is why you handed her to me even though the idea of leaving her alone at my mercy gives you goose-flesh. Because you hope to write down everything that's going to happen from now on. Tell me who's the monster doc, me or you?"
It's called research. What do you know about it? Sacrifices are part of the package, but at least they have a purpose.
Is he just rationalizing or actually saying what he thinks? Jeremiah Arkham does not linger on the thought. He surely knows how to keep the situation under control. The notion that the Joker realized that if he allows him to interact with Harleen Quinzel is merely because he finds their dynamics intellectually stimulating.
"Will you still look so smug, doc, when I'll cut her into many, many tiny pieces?"
The way this lunatic waves his fingers and half-closes his eyes. He wonders how can Quinzel tolerate his presence two hours a day.
What a stupid question. She's smitten with this freak of nature, the Lord knows why.
"I could send you one of her limbs as a souvenir. Which one would you prefer, doctor? Pay no attention to her when she blathers that I'd never hurt her. She's naïve and in love. And once I'll have killed her it will be your conscience that will itch".
Arkham feels rage mount inside him. "What game are you playing at, clown? Do you realize that I could take her away from you snapping a finger? And more importantly, why are you so calm? Too much for my taste. A few unfortunate incidents but not a single kill. It's not like you, you should have gutted someone by now".
"Sounds almost like you're disappointed. But I told you: the doctor will be the first one".
Arkham is about to reply but the other man gestures for silence.
"Don't distract me. Now she's going to talk about me. Let me listen. She can be great fun whenever she's not aiming for it. Dear miss Filangeri just mispronounced her name. Ten to one that my sugar lump will blow off before this is over".
Keeping that complacent, peaceful smile is no trifle when the temptation to stand up and deliver a quick one-two to Lydia Filangeri is overwhelming. She already had to fight the impulse to leave when she came face to face with Odin Markus, invited as 'expert'. She put on a brave front and greeted him with all the venom she could squeeze into a phrase like "Congratulations for your latest book, professor".
It felt good to see him embarrassed. "I hope that book won't be a problem to you, miss Quinzel".
"Why should it?" she replied acidly. "Maybe because it's made off my work? Don't worry. Your analysis of the basic concepts of my theory on the rarest paraphilias is quite incomprehensible. Had you plundered my notes properly, those phrases would have made more sense".
The ancient fountain of knowledge has always looked quite a bit slimy. Didn't she choose him exactly for that quality back in college? Harleen knows instinctively how to tell a slobbering fool who'd do anything to get a hand under a twenty years old girl's skirt.
Unfortunately I've always had more brains than you, professor. And you'll have to acknowledge it soon.
"A flawless reasoning" he replied, laughing nervously.
I can't believe it.
And now the stage assistant had him sit right in front of her. So she'll have to endure the sight of his snout the whole evening. Add to it the rampant journalist who's virtually dispersing in the wind Mike Engel's ashes.
"We have here with us doctor Harlene Quinzelle. Good evening. You performed the psychiatric survey on the Joker and are currently in charge of his therapy, is that correct?"
A dance of evil thoughts takes place in her mind. She wonders how many big wigs must have that moron bedded to be where she is. She wonders why she's wearing such a bright lipstick with such a dark complexion and mostly why can't she bother to do the minimal research necessary to avoid just opening her mouth and embarrass herself.
"Quinzel" she replies, and miss Filangeri glares at her as if she just started a magical chant. "Harleen Quinzel, if you please".
Tonight's mashed potatoes were truly something. James Gordon would have enjoyed them better had more words been exchanged during the meal. Things used to be better: although his job put him in danger on a regular basis, there's always been good chemistry between his wife and him. Barbara never went the passive-aggressive way to force him onto changing his chosen path. She always knew that joining the police was a choice grounded on ethics for him. What's changed now? Now that Gotham's finest are under him, Jim Gordon can't handle his private life anymore.
"What about going back to Chicago?" Barbara asks him as if it's a trifle, sitting by his side on the sofa while apparently absorbed by the monthly review she's holding. "Gotham is not a good place for kids. Gotham is not a good place for anyone. I would like them not to grow with the idea that the rest of the world also live in such a crazy fashion".
"You mean they don't?" he asks, repenting it immediately. Once again silence creeps between them.
She can't ask him to leave. To give in to such a temptation. He thinks about it all too often, and feels a coward for it. There just are too many things he can't turn his back to.
"I'm sorry, Barbara. Can we talk about it tomorrow?"
She answers by simply sighing as Lydia Filangeri, on the screen, glides competently between all the supporting cast of the Joker case. The real protagonist is there in photo only, while those maddened bees buzz annoyingly, yammering about his final fate.
Wayland, the lawyer, has only one word on his lips: "non compos mentis". And doctor Quinzel supports him.
"She looks like someone else.." whispers Gordon watching the elegant, composed woman. Was the crazy Harlequin just a mask? He wishes he could be sure. But this would not change the essence of the matter: the mask and the doctor are absolutely on the same page.
"It's not my duty to determine how this person is to be punished for his crimes. I was simply asked to determine whether we're dealing with psychotic behavioral issues or not. I analyzed the case and the answer is yes: the subject suffers of quite undeniable mental imbalance, folie de grandeur and inability to rapport himself to reality. I'm not saying that the criminal acts my patient, I hope I will be excused for refusing to call him 'the Joker', are not cringe-inducing, nor that, had I discovered mental soundness, I would not have been the first to call for exemplary punishment. Things simply went otherwise. Whatever decision the court shall take, I hope the subject will serve his sentence, which, I reiterate, I consider more than due, in a structure fitting his condition. This does not mean that he'll be back in the streets any time soon: there's a high chance that he'll never be free again. But he needs adequate care, and an environment that could manage his needs. The problem, I believe, is that public opinion sees the Arkham criminal asylum as some sort of seaside resort. Believe me, it's not".
Doctor Quinzel seems to be perfectly at ease, but Lydia Filangeri is not the placid sort. She loves teasing her guests. Talia Al Ghul recognizes in her the spirit of someone ready to fight with teeth and nail not to concede a single point to other debaters.
"What do you think of this, Shiva?" she asks her bodyguard who's massaging her feet as she enjoys the show on GCN. The wide-screen set hanging on the wall has excellent definition; she's able to make out every single tiny twitch around the board and give it her own interpretation.
"About what?" Shiva asks, eyes fixed on her calves and her own firm hands.
Her father placed her at her side ten years ago. Talia never thought she needed someone to watch over her, but she likes her company. She does not talk a lot and seems unimpressed with the lavish interior of the Gotham Grand suite, but is a good listener and is capable of being lethal when necessary.
She settles deeper on the couch and steals a candied orange peel from the tray on the table. "About our reason to be here. And tonight's programs".
Shiva throws her a cutting glance with her piercing black eyes. "Your father would not approve of what you're doing. The Joker is the antithesis of all his teachings".
Talia grins at her. "You think so?"
This time she doesn't agree with her.
"Yes, we could see it very well when your gates cracked open during Crane's tenure" Lydia Filangeri insists. "If I'm not mistaken you were behind his release, doctor Quinzelle".
"Quinzel. And 'discharge' is the correct term".
The diminutive blonde psychiatrist is gathering the majority of points. Talia is happy about it.
"See, Shiva, my father's aim, when he came to this city, was to set the downfall of Gotham in motion. It would be pointless for me to dismiss the most powerful weapon on the market, the one that already caused a madness such, that it brought the place into chaos".
Shiva shakes her head. "Are you sure you can control him? There's no reward he's after, and you know that well".
"He's after something, I tell you. I can offer him the best entertainment in his life. We share a vision, after all. We're not crude mobsters, we are idealists".
Lydia Filangeri runs to another of her guests. The mother of the guy the Joker tortured and killed in the video that still has record views on YouTube. A blow below the belt to even the field.
"That woman, that eccentric shrink, is an unexpected stroke of good luck. Our biggest concern was how to get the Joker out of Arkham. She'll take care of it. We only have to make sure she doesn't make a mess of it. She's new to the fascinating world of illegality".
Indeed, her father's prophecies were correct. In Gotham the wolves are at other wolves' throats on every corner. She'll have definitive proof of it once she meets the beasts that will bite Pino Maroni's throat. Then, as a new gang war escalates, Gotham will do her duty and burn to the ground.
And the clown shall be my small, functional match.
"This will make an enemy out of Bruce Wayne, did you consider that? What will you do then? Will you welcome him as an enemy?"
Shiva doesn't leave her off the hook. The picture was too rosy. A blow had to come, and it did. Talia closes her eyes. Bruce Wayne. The admiration in her father's words, and the sadness for his betrayal in phrases whispered to her ears.
"You'll bring him back to us, Talia, someday. You'll show him the mistake he's done".
She accepted. Doty, she had told herself. Bruce Wayne. Now things have changed.
"I don't know, Shiva, I still hope for things to change. That he will come with me".
She'll tell him the right words, seduce him again if necessary. Or she'll eliminate him. But only as a last resort.
Alfred Pennyworth has learned to read his Bruce Wayne's face like an open book. Sometimes he realizes that he knows some facets of his personality that his master himself ignores. Be it pain, worry or a brief moment of peace, he needs no words to get them. The same happened with master Thomas. Bruce Wayne is not like his father, but in the deepest sense that makes honesty and integrity the driving forces of his being. Thomas Wayne acted in the open, in full view, politely yes never wavering. His son is a creature forged by darkness and suffering. Alfred doesn't love him less for it: master Bruce needs him more than his father did. Because master Bruce needs a firm hand to keep his hold on reality, to remind him that the Bat is an icon, and nothing more. A hard task, when the world of the Bat absorbs every second of his days. Alfred Pennyworth wishes he could wrestle the remote control from him and switch channel. On channel seven there's "Singing in the rain". Instead, the obsession for the Joker continues. Alfred ignores the brouhaha of lawyers and psychiatrists as he keeps running his feather duster on the shelves, a thing he'd never do during the evening if it didn't provide an excuse to keep an eye on his employer.
"Distasteful" master Bruce says in the voice he uses whenever something worries him deeply, which happens at least thrice per day.
"What, if I may ask, sir?"
He expects one in several possible answers. He could find fault in such a sort of program. Or in the Joker's law team. Or in the lady who's currently speaking: the psychiatrist.
"Her. This kind of madmen's doctor. She said perfectly sensible things, except for two tiny details. I don't think the Joker needs more medical care than I need a blond wig. And earlier, while the footage on the National Bank robbery was on, the camera was briefly on her and I could see for an instant a pleasured grin".
"There's a possibility that she was thinking about something completely unrelated, sir" Alfred points out, valiantly trying to get the image of Bruce Wayne crossed with Goldilocks out of his mind.
"Perhaps. But I think I'll be watching her carefully" Mr. Wayne asserts firmly.
Exactly as expected. Although spying on girls is quite the novelty.
"Are you planning to go out tonight, sir?" he asks, knowing for certain that the answer will be affirmative.
Lydia Filangeri is almost out of ammo. In less than five minutes the show will be over.
Jeremiah Arkham can be justifiably proud of Quinzel's behavior. She defended her position while keeping a neutral appearance. That he knows such appearance to be fake is of little concern. And he can also be happy of the Joker's behavior: his attention peaked during his dear doctor's turns to speak, and reached considerable levels during the services that recounted his deeds with proper disgust.
You can feel validated only when people take notice, isn't it so? Is this what you like in her? That she worships you? Narcissist. But then, isn't it like that for everyone? We exist because other people perceive us.
Jeremiah Arkham reminds himself that it's not the time to brush up the basics. Something's happening to his important patient. Now his grin is purely ecstatic.
"Now's the time. Here it comes" he says, pointing at the screen euphorically.
Lydia Filangeri has fumbled again. "As only a few moments ago doctor Harlene Quinzelle said…"
Arkham is beginning to think that she might be doing it on purpose.
"Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel. You really can't say it, right? But it's not difficult. Try to spell it" the victim of the verbal wreck hisses through her teeth.
He never saw such murderous fury in her eyes before. Probably Filangeri is going to sleep uneasily for a few days.
"I knew!" The clown's enthusiasm erupts. "Isn't she fabulous when she gets angry? I knew it. She couldn't hold it back, she just couldn't. Good girl, pumpkin. Now get up and strangle her with an electric cable!"
That would be the icing on the cake.
Arkham feels rivulets of cold sweat roll down his back. Mercifully, the closing credits prevent a fight from erupting in front of the world, but now there's another problem. Apparently the Joker can't stop laughing hysterically. And it's not a trick. It will take a huge dose of sedatives to calm him. But after all he behaved himself: maybe he'll order Tills and Kaminski to spare him the evening ration of blows. Maybe.
After hitting bottom one must forcibly rise again. Harleen Quinzel is really starting to believe it. Two days after her appearance in Gotham Tonight, her life seems to be shinier than ever. Newspapers wrote that Lydia Filangeri really couldn't fill the late Mike Engel's shoes. She thinks she could ascribe part of the merit to herself. It wasn't total triumph, but it came close to that. She just couldn't overcome the mourning mothers. Not much to do when crying parents come into play.
After all it's what the network moguls are aiming for. Share. A nice massacre, grief-stricken relatives and bingo, mission accomplished.
This doesn't bother her. She defended Mr. J to the best of her ability without falling into the trap of evident bias. Even Dr. Arkham offered some guarded praise. But it was Mr. J's reaction that put her in a good mood.
"Passable" he told her. Which, to him, is really pouring out his heart.
To celebrate, she bought a t-shirt with his face on the front. Well, rather a sketch of his face. Two black blots and a red grinning arc on white.
"I'll wear it to sleep" she announced him. And Mr. J mugged in disapproval.
"You make me feel an objectified man. A new, but rather unpleasant experience".
God, she treasures him. He and Arkham watched Gotham tonight together. She wishes she could have witnessed it. The boss gave her some strange recommendations: unaccountably, he now looks to be of the idea that he could kill her any time soon, without a reason.
So what if he does?
It would be paradise. The tragic crowning of an extraordinary love story. What would her Joker whisper to her in her last moments? Idle question, it's not going to happen. He's far from thinking to hurt her. If it was just a game or irritation, he'd already have done it. Perhaps she'll tackle the issue once she'll have made him esc… once I get him in front of a commission, after I coached him extensively on how to look completely sane, to have him dismissed.
Truthfully that could prove a difficult moment. Once he's out of Arkham. But it's a worthwhile hazard.
He could decide to keep me by his side forever. It would be magnificent. I'll make it so that he wants it, too.
Is there anything she wants beyond that? No, nothing.
She's the only Gothamite who doesn't mind working on the weekend., who enjoys buying her groceries in a hurry Saturday night at a supermarket and spending her evening watching TV, going to bed early to wake up on Sunday morning to get back to work. And if she only could she would camp in her office, or directly into Mr. J's cell. Because she pines for him every moment they're away from each other. Her mother used to always tell her.
"When the right one comes, Leeny, you'll see him coming from afar. And it will seem to you as you had always been at his side".
Just like that, like a broken clock twice a day. The strange thing is that she can't wrap her mind around the notion that every other woman can feel as she feels for someone that's not Mr. J. He's one in a million, wonderful, extraordinary and every other man is nothing compared with him. Sometimes she's amazed by her own good luck.
Luck?
Oh no, it's something completely different. They searched for each other, and chose to be one. It couldn't have gone otherwise.
That time… ten years ago… that boy told me his name. Why can't I remember it? Johnny? No, it wasn't Johnny. Definitely it wasn't Johnny.
The sun has long set when she enters her condo's parking lot. But it will be springtime soon, and the days are getting longer. She can already feel its scent in the air, amidst the whiffs of smog.
I don't want him to spend the warm season locked inside a cage. They made a squalid caterpillar of him. I so wish he'd regain his butterfly colors.
Harleen parks the car and opens the door to take her groceries off the back seat. She discovered he likes stuffed eggs. She'll cook him a platter to brighten his Sunday.
And as side dish some lettuce with shrimps and balsamic vinegar.
The reflection that Mr. J is more the type for medium-rare steak brings a smile to her lips. Oh, the blood. But for that they'll have to wait to be far from Arkham.
Harleen Quinzel is not an easily scared person: working with schizophrenic murderers day after day she learned not to fall into groundless panic. This is why she turns to look above her shoulder a moment too late, when the steps behind her have come too close. And realizing that she's surrounded by three men with their faces covered with a nylon mask she remembers what genuine, ancestral fear is, the fear of a physically weak female who ends up being prey.
The purse. She'll surrender her purse, hoping that they don't want anything else. The thought makes her terror peak. Irrationally she tries to slip between two of them. Wrong move.
I know him know him know him who is he?
One of the men grabs her by her throat and slams her against the car. "What's this, lady?"
This voice this voice and this pungent eau…
She can't order her thoughts. A fist connects straight with her face.
"What does it mean, that monster needs help?"
Hitting on the asphalt isn't nice. No adrenaline. No Mr. J to both hurt and send her into orbit. There are only those three schmucks driving her to exhaustion with kicks to the back and stomach. She must stand up, try to run. She can't stay there. But it hurts too much.
"We know what kind of help you give him. You suck, know that? What, honest citizens aren't enough? Let's set things straight".
No. Anything but that. Please, no.
She closes her eyes, waiting for the worst to happen and determined to struggle with all her strength.
Ricky… Thomas…?, she suddenly thinks as a dark, unexpected shadows lands among them.
Now when you work it out I'm worse than you Where do we go, nobody knows
Yeah when you work it out, I want it too
Now when you work out where to draw the line
Your guess is as good as mine...
Don't ever say you're on your way down, when…
God gave you style and gave you grace
And put a smile upon your face
(Coldplay, God put a smile upon your face)