Chapter 1

I parked the old black Ford I used as a taxi behind the apartment building, and made my way up to my floor. The lift was broken again, and after a twelve hour shift, climbing eight flights of stairs was a chore. I dragged my feet and smoked on the way up. One of the other residents on my floor could be heard yelling at their kids, and in the apartment next to mine, a couple squabbled and threw things.

Shrugging, I let myself into my tiny apartment and closed the door. Gotham was such a shit hole—worse than New York. Five years here, and I wondered whether I should go back. At least New York didn't have a garbage strike. Most of Gotham stunk of rotting rubbish, and rats were taking over.

I made some coffee and switched on the TV, then popped a couple of sleeping pills. They should kick in by about 9am and I might sleep for two or three hours. I watched the news, all local crap except for the one interesting story about the vigilante clown. Some guy dressed as a clown had killed three rich young men on the train—two shot on the train itself, and the other mowed down on the platform with several bullets in the back as he presumably tried to run away.

The establishment reminded us that the "clown killer" was being hunted and shouldn't be at large for much longer, while the general public seemed to hail him as a hero for getting rid of some of the city's rich, entitled idiots. It amused me. I wondered if the clown would take out anyone else before he was caught. Thomas Wayne, maybe. That dick was hoping to be mayor. He was everything I hated in a person—brought up with a silver spoon in his mouth, only caring about people like him. People like me didn't matter. He was so like Palantine back in New York, they could have been brothers.

I grimaced a little as I thought about my plans to get rid of Palantine, which had fallen flat when a security guard noticed me trying to pull the gun out of my jacket. Still—I'd probably be locked up somewhere for the rest of my life if I'd done it. At least what I'd done instead, had resulted in me being praised.

The newscaster announced that Thomas Wayne would be speaking outside the town hall as part of his campaign to become mayor, and that he would be heavily guarded for fears the "clowns" he talked about in such a derogatory way could be planning to ambush him. I wondered if the so-called vigilante clown had chosen to dress up like that on purpose.

I switched off the set, made myself some breakfast, and went to bed. As I tossed and turned, unable to sleep as usual, I thought again about moving back to New York. It had been on my mind a lot lately, and I wondered why I'd left in the first place. I'd hated the scum and tried to do something about it, but I'd had no chance of making a real difference. So I left, thinking I could find somewhere better, but every city was the same and Gotham was worse than most.

Eventually, I fell asleep, but four hours was as much as I could manage. When I woke tangled in the sheets, sweating and shaking from another nightmare, I gave up and got out of bed. A shower, two cups of coffee, and a few pills later—the anti-depressants this time—and I was about as ready as I could be to face what was left of the day.

I'd been going through the motions alone for years, getting through each day with the help of drugs and wondering if I wouldn't have been better off dying from the blood loss when I got shot in New York. What was there to live for? I had nothing. I was nobody. I was useless at relationships. I couldn't bring myself to pay for sex—that would make me a hypocrite—so I frequented a porn theatre and gave my right hand a work out when I got home. I'd had one date since I arrived in Gotham—some stuck up bitch who thought she was better than me. She reminded me of Betsy in some ways; smart and beautiful, and much too good for me.

Days passed, and nothing changed, except the state of the city got worse with the ongoing strike, Thomas Wayne promised the earth to get himself votes, and the clown killer got more press as the cops failed to track him down. The day of a huge planned demonstration came, and I stayed at home. I had no intention of taking my taxi out that day, when riots were expected. It would probably end up smashed or set on fire. Instead, I stared at the TV, smoking and drinking beer, and watching the hands crawl around on my wristwatch.

The Murray Franklin show came on, and I went to make something to eat. I couldn't stand the guy and never bothered watching his show. He had some fool guest I'd never heard of, and Dr Sally, whom I had no interest in. I made some toast and fried a couple of eggs. By the time I returned to my couch, Dr Sally was just about done and Murray was getting ready to announce the next guest.

I didn't pay much attention as some wannabe comedian was shown on a screen above the stage, laughing hysterically in Pogo's comedy club and failing miserably to be funny. When Murray introduced "Joker" and the guy walked on stage, all done up in a red suit and a painted clown face with bright green hair, I wondered if anyone else watching had the same idea I had. Was this the guy on the train? The man with the clown face, wiping out three rich guys? Was he the kind of person who had the audacity to appear on a show like this, thumbing his nose at the world? Or was it simply a joke in poor taste—someone who admired the killer and wanted to make it obvious?

I finished eating and paid attention as Joker screeched with laugher, and told a very unfunny joke about a woman finding out her son had been killed by a drunk driver. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, as I watched him, jumpy and fidgeting, putting on a weird voice and saying it had been "a rough few weeks." There was a punchline in there, somewhere.

My instinct was correct, but even though it had crossed my mind, I still gasped in shock when Joker, whom Murray now called Arthur, said he'd killed the three guys on the train. His reasoning? They were "awful."

I snorted. He'd got that right. Half of Gotham was "awful." I watched avidly for the next couple of minutes, as Arthur grew more animated, more angry, and finally pulled out a gun It didn't surprise me. The only thing that surprised me was how he'd managed to get on stage for a slot on Murray's show, without being checked by security. Didn't they do that here? He wouldn't have made it in front of the cameras in New York with a weapon.

"Shit," I muttered. Murray Franklin, supposedly the greatest talk show host in decades, was dead, his brains splattered over the wall behind him, and Arthur was dancing. Then he was gone from the stage and the screen went blank as the programme's producers cut the feed. The channel switched to a news article.

I didn't think about what I was doing, as I turned off the set, grabbed my jacket and keys, and headed out. I suppose it was curiosity. I wanted to see the state the city was in after this astonishing murder on live television. Arthur, whoever he was, would be hunted by every cop in the city and probably gunned down rather than arrested. It would be interesting to see what was happening out there.

I got on the train. The nearest station was two blocks from my apartment, and the journey was only three stops. The moment I pushed my way into the over-crowded car, I realised the clown craze had spread. Most of the other passengers wore plastic clown masks made up like the sketched face in the newspaper after the subway killings. An excited tension rippled through the crowd as the train rumbled into the centre of the city. When it stopped, I was swept out of the car by the hordes.

The streets were in chaos. Cars were already burning in Gotham Square. Masked heroes smashed shop windows and looted; others set things on fire. The cops milled around, trying to get control and failing. I watched from the side of the street, fascinated. So much was going on, it was difficult to take it all in. I almost missed the cop car heading down the middle of the street, just yards away from me, but the impact of it being wiped out in a smash on the intersection caught my attention. Clown-masked men climbed out of the ambulance, which must have been stolen, and wandered around the car, peering in the windows.

I stepped off the footpath and moved closer. A crowd of chanting, air-punching clowns surrounded the car, as the ambulance occupants reached in through the back window and lifted out a body. I couldn't see from where I was, but it occurred to me that it was Joker—Arthur. He was probably arrested before he left the TV studio.

I edged through the crowd as three men laid the body carefully on the bonnet of the car. It was him—I could see the red suit. Was he dead?

I slipped between two larger men and halted a few feet from the car. Arthur lay motionless; broken and bloody. An air of disappointment surrounded him, a few people removing their clown masks and staring, sad-faced. They were in awe of him.

Suddenly, he coughed and blood sprayed from his mouth. My breath caught in my throat as he moved a little, then rose slowly like a marionet being lifted by its strings. Blood trickled down the sides of his face from deep cuts, and more dripped from his mouth. The crowd cheered and punched the air, urging Arthur on as he turned in a circle, performing a few dance steps. He paused side on to me, dipped his fingers into his bleeding mouth, and repaired his smudged clown smile with blood. Then he turned my way, arms outstretched, grinning, as the cheers of support grew louder. He was mesmerizing, and I couldn't look away. Then everything changed.

Cheers turned into screams, thrown cannisters sent up plumes of suffocating smoke, and groups of helmeted, armed men rushed from black vans. Special Forces, come to break up the riot and possibly kill some of the perpetrators.

"Run!" someone to my left yelled.

I took a step away, but hesitated as Arthur fell to his knees on the crumpled car, blood dripping from his lips. He shook his head and coughed, then sank lower, hands splayed out on the metal, arms shaking.

"Shit," I muttered. Should I run? Leave him there, when he was someone so many—including me—admired.

I glanced around me. People were fighting everywhere–masked demonstrators and armed men. Gunshots sounded and two rioters fell nearby. I covered the few feet to the car in a second and reached for Arthur's arm.

"Get up! Come on; they'll be coming for you any second."

He stared at me uncomprehending, eyes blank.

"Arthur!" I gripped his wrist tightly and wrapped my other arm around his back, then tugged at him until he slid off the car and landed on his feet. He staggered, flailed, and grabbed at me for support. He was my height, but painfully thin. I felt his ribs under his clothes.

"Come with me." I made for the nearest alley, dragging him along with me. His legs could barely support him, and he lurched at my side, one arm draped around my neck, fingers digging into my shoulder. He coughed, and blood sprayed down the front of his yellow waistcoat. He could be badly hurt, but he'd have to take his chances.

We reached the alley and I propped him against the wall in the shadows of an overflowing dumpster. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen if I hadn't grabbed him again. I held onto his waist with both hands, keeping him upright with difficulty. He wouldn't be able to walk far, and even if he could make it to the station, we'd be caught in minutes.

"I need to get my car," I said. "You'll have to stay here."

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and stared at the blood, unblinking. I didn't know if he heard me, or understood. I guided him around the other side of the dumpster and lowered him to the ground. It was damp and dirty, but he'd be out of sight. I could only hope he wouldn't disappear or get caught in the time it took for me to go home and come back in my car, assuming the streets weren't closed off. I left him and slipped out of the other end of the alley, away from the riots. Adrenalin pumped through my body as I walked to the station. Running would have drawn attention to me.