Chapter 25

Things seemed to get better for both of us over the next few weeks. I went back to working during the day so I could be with Arthur at night. His depression lifted as much as it was going to, and his meds had all settled into his system. He was calmer overall, but he still burst into inappropriate laughter sometimes, which would always be the case.

Arthur loved his work, and it led to a few party bookings, as well as some tips. We saved as much money as we could with the idea of finding a better apartment—one with a separate living room and bedroom.

I saw Wizard from time to time, usually when I was on my own. He seemed to want to ignore my situation and talk about other things. He never mentioned Arthur or asked how he was, which irritated me, but I understood. He couldn't bring himself to think about me with a guy, but he didn't want to lose my friendship.

I was the happiest I'd ever been in my life. Every morning, I woke up with Arthur in my arms. Every day when I got home, he'd be there making dinner for us. He'd bought a recipe book so he could try more adventurous dishes. I even tried making a few myself—some were disastrous, which we laughed over, and others were delicious. Arthur gained a few more pounds and his face lost its grey, gaunt look. He looked healthy and sexy, and I couldn't keep my hands off him. We didn't fuck that often—maybe once or twice a week—but we fooled around every chance we got. It all seemed too good to be true. I'd never had anything like this, and I almost expected it to disappear, like waking from a good dream.

It was Friday and I had an hour or so to go before I would head home. Torrential rain battered my car, so heavy I could barely see, even with my windscreen wipers going full speed. I hoped Arthur would have got himself a cab home, rather than walk to and from the subway stations.

Someone opened my back door and slid into the cab. I decided to make this my last fare rather than wait another hour. A hot shower wouldn't go amiss. I could invite Arthur to join me.

"Where you going?" I asked as I glanced in the rear-view mirror at the bedraggled, and strangely familiar older man. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I knew something wasn't right.

"Just drive."

I hesitated. The unmistakeable click of the safety being flicked off a gun made me stiffen, a second before the barrel pressed against the side of my neck, right over my scar.

"I said drive."

I shifted into first and pulled the car away from the kerb. "What do you want?"

"I've waited a long time for this. You left the city. I didn't know where. Then I heard you were back. Up to your old tricks, too. Some rich guy, alone in his house. Weird circumstances. Supposedly shot by an intruder and then shot himself? That was you, wasn't it? Two guys near that faggots' club. Your handywork? I've seen you around with your little arse-fucking buddy. I should kill you just for that. Turns my stomach."

"Who the fuck are you?" I growled. I calculated my chances of getting to my gun, which was in the glovebox. If I leaned forward to open the glovebox, I'd probably get a bullet in my brain before I could grab my own gun.

"I'm Matthew's father. You have no idea how it feels to lose your child. To see him on the news, blown to pieces by some crazy piece of shit like you."

I glanced in my rear-view again, and immediately recognised him. Sport's name was Matthew. If this man had fewer lines on his face, and dark hair instead of grey, he was the spitting image.

"What do you want from me?" I asked again. My voice was steady although my heart hammered against my ribs. Why the fuck hadn't I been more alert? Why wasn't my gun in my pants instead of in the glovebox? I could get myself killed by this idiot, and Arthur might never know what happened to me. He'd be alone. My jaw clicked as I ground my teeth.

"An eye for an eye." The end of the gun's barrel dug harder into my neck. I flinched involuntarily and clenched my hands tighter on the steering wheel. "Turn left at the intersection."

I did as instructed. As I drove, I became aware of everything around me—not just the older man behind me, who I knew planned to kill me. The rain was slowing. The streets were surprisingly quiet for a Friday at this time. A yellow cab passed by—Wizard was driving. He looked right at me. I checked my rear-view again and saw the cab loop around in the street, then start following me three cars back. "Fuck, Wizard, don't get involved in this," I said in my head.

We drove for ten minutes and when I was told to stop, I pulled up outside a rough old building, similar to the one Arthur and I lived in.

"Get out of the car." The old man pushed open his door, but stayed in the car behind me, the gun trained on the back of my head.

I slid out slowly and shot a sideways look back down the street. Wizard's cab had stopped two blocks away. "Don't do anything stupid," I told him mentally. Maybe he'd call the cops. He wasn't a vigilante, and I couldn't see him storming a house without a weapon, knowing I was being held at gunpoint. I doubted he knew I had a gun in my car, but maybe he'd check. Who knew? He was a smart man. I left the car unlocked, just in case.

"Inside." The gun prodded me in the back, and I walked into the building, through a single door, then up several flights of stairs.

"What do you plan to do with me? Kill me, or hold me prisoner?" I stumbled forward as the gun hit me in the side of the head. "Fuck!"

"Shut your mouth." He paused to unlock a door, then pushed me through it. After the door closed behind us, he hit me with the gun again. I saw stars; then I saw the dirty old carpet rushing up to meet me. Everything went black.

I regained consciousness to find my arms twisted behind me, and my wrists tied painfully tight with something. My temples throbbed fiercely, and I smelled blood. The carpet stunk of general filth. Cautiously, I opened one eye and could see only the carpet and the legs of a chair. No sign of Sport's father, and no sound. I tested whatever was tying my hands behind my back, but there was no getting out of it. I seemed to be tied with some sort of slick fabric—perhaps a tie. The old man knew what he was doing when he trussed me up.

"You're awake, then." A boot came into contact with the middle of my back. I grunted in pain, and my breath rushed out of me.

"I thought you wanted an eye for an eye," I said when I had my breath back. "I didn't tie Matthew up and keep him prisoner. I blew his fucking brains out."

"You piece of shit!" He stepped over me and I received another kick, in the stomach this time. I coughed and spluttered, struggling for breath. I wasn't in any position to taunt him, but I couldn't keep my stupid mouth shut.

"Is that the best you can do? Kick me around a little? Don't have the guts to pull the trigger?"

The gun went off, and I howled as the bullet punched through my shoulder, back to front. Blood spread across the front of my jacket, and the hole in the wood floor told me it had gone right through.

"Don't have the guts?" He dropped down to one knee in front of me. "Believe me, when I'm done with you, you'll be full of holes and begging me to put you out of your misery. I wonder how many bullets the human body can take without dying?"

For the first time, I felt a shiver of fear. My shoulder hurt like a bastard. He could put me through agony. I'd never see Arthur again. "Wizard, for the love of God, do something," I thought, not even realising I kind of prayed.

The gun went off again. Or I thought it did. I was looking right at it, and I didn't take another bullet. But Sport's father fell backwards, screaming. I stared at his body, uncomprehending, as bullets peppered the chest and stomach, one after another, until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. The gun fell to the floor by my feet and hysterical laughter filled the room.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Arthur!" Wizard's voice cried out.

"Arthur?" I turned my head to see him, pacing back and forth in the small space, hands clamped to the sides of his face as he laughed and laughed. "Arthur!"

"The guy's fucking insane," Wizard muttered. He crouched behind me and began fiddling with the tie around my wrists. "He was in my cab. Said he normally got the subway, but you'd be upset if he walked in that downpour and caught his death. He saw you driving with a gun to your head."

So, that explained it.

"How did you get into this?" Wizard asked. "You've got a gun."

"It was in the glovebox. I couldn't get to it," I said through my teeth. My shoulder was in agony, not least because he tugged at my arm in his efforts to untie me. "Find a fucking knife, will you?"

Wizard moved away. Arthur continued to screech with laughter, until it finally subsided into choking. Wizard returned with a knife and cut the tie, then carefully helped me up. My head hurt as much as my shoulder, and I swayed dizzily. Arthur abruptly pulled himself together and moved to my side—the uninjured side. His arms came around me and I leaned on him gratefully.

"We need to get out of here," Wizard said. "We'll take your car. Can't leave it out the front there. Mine's right down the street and there are a thousand like it. Less suspicious."

"You're bleeding." Arthur chuckled, then coughed.

"Here." Wizard produced two cloths from somewhere, and tucked them inside my shirt, front and back. "Arthur, you need to put pressure on both sides. It'll hurt like a bastard, but you need to try and stop the bleeding."

"No, no, I can't." Arthur clung to my other side, shivering.

"Do it." I forced my head up to look at him, hoping I wouldn't pass out. "It's okay. Do as he says."

He applied pressure, front and back, and the pain made my vision narrow. I hung onto him with my good arm, trying to stay on my feet. The blackness receded a little, and we began the very long, slow descent of the stairs.

By the time Arthur got me into the back of my cab, I was shaking and felt so dizzy and sick I could barely stand. I closed my eyes and leaned on him as Wizard got in the front and began to drive.

"Don't take me to the hospital," I muttered. "Can't go to the hospital."

I guess I must have passed out completely, or at least been so out of it that I didn't remember anything for a while. The next time I opened my eyes, I was in bed—my own bed—with Arthur sitting beside me, smoking, his face a picture of worry. My head felt like I'd downed a whole bottle of whiskey, and I immediately knew I was going to throw up.

"Sick," I muttered, and tried to move.

"It's okay." Suddenly, Arthur's arm was under my shoulders, lifting me up, his other hand holding a bowl for me to puke in. I felt too bad even to be embarrassed. Hardly anything came up anyway. He lowered me back onto the cushions and took the bowl away. Moments later, he wiped my face with a cool damp cloth. "The nurse said you have a concussion and you should be in the hospital," Arthur said.

"What nurse?" I closed my eyes to escape the light.

"Wizard brought a nurse. She's someone he knows. He said she won't talk. She fixed your shoulder and told us to get some antibiotics. Wizard used one of your prescriptions to get some. She said to keep an eye on you because of the concussion. You could have a problem with your brain."

"My brain's fine. It just feels like it's been thrown around inside my head."

"It might swell," Arthur said worriedly. "But you seem to be making sense. She said to ask some questions. Do you know what day it is?"

"Friday."

"What's my name?"

"Arthur Fleck."

"Do you know your name?"

"Travis Bickle."

"Who's the President?"

"Ronald Reagan. Arthur, I'm fine. I can think fine. It just hurts when I do it. Did she get the bullet out?"

"It went right through. It's just a hole. She said it missed the bones. She poked around a lot. It made me throw up."

"Makes two of us. Arthur, I'm okay, I promise. I've been shot before, remember? Much worse than this. It hurts, but I can handle it. I need to not talk, though. My head hurts."

"Okay. But you need to have water, and some of the antibiotics." Arthur propped me up again, and I dutifully swallowed the pills and water. Not long after, I slept.

When I woke, who knew how long later, my head hurt less, and I didn't feel sick. My shoulder throbbed, and Arthur was sitting beside me, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking and laughing, with tears pouring down his face. Grimacing in pain, I pushed myself up with my good arm, and touched his shoulder.

"Arthur, I'm okay. It's all okay."

"It's not okay," he choked. "I can't do this anymore. I can't."

"What do you mean?" Anxiety gnawed at my guts.

He just shook his head and laughed some more; laughed so much he couldn't speak.