x

Daddy's Boy

x

"Mr Doe often finds himself in the thick of an altercation. Just not many get close enough to wrap their hands around his throat!"

Crane sat back, amused. The sun caught the painting of the scarecrow so the wheat field appeared to be at sunset. Medication was making him feel drowsy, and it took effort to pull himself into a sober state. He spoke each word slowly and deliberately:

"Well…John's sense of humour isn't always…sensitive."

"Funnyman, huh?"

"Exactly."

"You know he's upset Mr Zasz — again?"

"…yes."

"Well, lucky for your friend, Victor is in isolation." Crane drummed on the desk cheerfully. "We managed to wrestle the sharpened foot-horn off him. Couldn't scratch Latin into the walls anymore, but honestly, sounds like a Benedictine choir in there!"

"…yes."

"John made you angry?"

"Yes. Misjudged humour…regarding…Alfred," he lied.

"Ah! Well, there's only so much a man can tolerate." Crane sniffed, but seemed satisfied with this answer.

John thought Themis was close, thought Crane was 'twisting the screw'. Gaunt face pulled to hollows below low cheek bones, Crane's weak chin and pale, wet eyes made for a sinister appearance, and if this were Hollywood then Crane's long, stooped body would be cast villain. Crane was diligent and professional, detached, and if Crane was Themis then he did a remarkable job of appearing impersonal. Though Bruce had to admit there would be a certain elegance to driving him insane inside his 'daddy's' institution, one he was sure Crane would appreciate.

What one wanted to believe and what one should were rarely the same thing. Could he trust John? Selina? Himself? Could he really ask any other to trust him when he knew his madness predated Arkham? Predated Alfred leaving him. Crane may very well be keeping secrets, but there was no needle back then, was there? Not in the days where he and Alfred argued their last together? Nothing to blame but his own brain. Insanity. He'd come to terms with it, which is why he found Selina's words so…unpalatable. They called him to action, and once again set him questioning.

"Still nothing regarding Mr Pennyworth, I am afraid," said Crane dolefully, blinking slowly, so that his wet eyes shone at the corners like he was about to cry.

He let emotion disturb the passivity of his face.

"It must be eating you up. Why, it's cruel not knowing!" Crane shook his head, a thoughtful twitch disturbing his brow. "What I am about to suggest maybe a little unorthodox so early in your therapy, but I think you're a man who appreciates the ends whatever the means. No matter how awful, the truth is important, yes?"

"Of course," said Bruce without hesitation.

"Well then, how would you feel about going under?"

He thought about the guns and the bats. His initiation. "Like last time?"

Crane laughed. "Oh no, deeper than that!"

"A pendulum?"

"A needle," said Crane simply.

Unease must have reached his eyes and Crane slipped into reasons why he should, reasons he couldn't disagree with:

"Mr Pennyworth lies at the centre of so many things. He's been both anchor and catalyst in your life since the day you lost Thomas. He's been butler, father, teacher, friend, servant — comrade from what you say — and a liar too. He's concealed things, encouraged harmful philosophies — yet he's been the dearest person to you as well. The last of your family. Arguably, the most significant person in your life to date."

A whisper meant only for himself slipped through: "Did he walk or did I kill him? Who betrayed who?"

Crane's thin lips smiled indulgently. "Well, Mr Wayne, is it time to find out?"

Alfred was alive, Selina had said so and John had heard her words too…only her words to go by though...what if she had said that to get him out? Knew he would never try to leave Arkham otherwise? Surely the police had a better idea, and they could find no trace of Alfred since he supposedly deserted him. Lies shadowing truth? Either he incapacitated Crane in this next moment, find John and escape now — accepting they would never find his father's secrets while risking the full force of Arkham's security — or — he lay back and accepted whatever was in that syringe. He made up his mind and lay back on cracked leather. Crane could very well be part of a conspiracy to doom him, a fate he may even deserve, but Crane could also have answers. Answers he wanted. Needed.

As the needle approached — sterile silver gleaming — Bruce couldn't help but imagine himself as Esther. The sickening pound of her chest as Thomas slipped the needle in and drained sanity away from her. In a crazy turn of his heart he imagined this was it. That John was right. That he'd wake up beyond the looking glass. If Crane really had suffered loss at the hands of his father, then perhaps it would be justice to turn him into one of them. Become the dog straining against its chain. Wild eyes devoid of reason. Perhaps that's all he'd ever really been…

The needle entered his vein and silently he made a vow: if this was it and he'd served his purpose then he accepted his fate, let Gotham have the justice it so desired, but if he hadn't and he really was needed, then —

Let me awake with answers. Lead me to the truth I seek!

"Ah, now then, listen to the tick and follow my voice…"

x

"Suspended," Alfred repeated. "I understand."

The principal's office was buffed to shine with a bright walnut desk and stained-glass gleaming with the 'Ashby Academy's' quill-and-dagger coat of arms. Behind Principal Walton hung the shaded folds of an American flag. In stony silence Bruce sat stiff and square. A substitute may have mistaken him for fifteen — for even with his baby face set darkly his height equalled most of the staff — but every teacher in the Academy knew Bruce Wayne was a seventh grader. A blight that frequented detention and caused other students to vacate the corridor, or else huddle in groups, expressing their disdain when Bruce had passed by a safe distance. 'Bully' was the word written on his report card, and Bruce sneered when Alfred asked him to wait outside. Sneered because he knew 'suspended' was Ashby-code for 'cheque book now!'

Wayne-money meant different rules. He could've set fire to Walton's Cadillac and the capitalist pig would've kept him on. Ever since he'd stoned the ornamental carp to death, he'd known he could do and say what for most boys would've spelt expulsion. The groundskeeper cried when he saw his carp. Coils of bust guts floating over spasmic gills, like the tousled frills of a ballerina. If you aimed a stone just right, you could hit those bubbling flaps and the fish would suck it inside, twisting and flailing, mouth gaping like it was gonna sneeze. Unlucky for the fish, Bruce had a good aim.

"Some of 'em fish are nearer 50 years old!"

"'Were' you senile schmuck."

"Why! Why do it—?" The groundskeeper had sobbed. It had to be funny seeing an old man cry like that, and when Bruce forced a laugh the groundskeeper made to swing.

"Well come on, old man — hit me!"

No. They didn't expel him.

x

Alfred stepped out of Walton's office, his face grey with disappointment. Without a word he marched him to the car. It wasn't the Bentley. Alfred should've brought the Bentley.

"And what about my stuff?"

"Already packed."

He was going to query the butler's tone — 'Master Bruce' was the correct way to address him — but the ashen sagging of Alfred's mouth made him stop. An unspoken anger radiated from the man, causing a trepid shiver down Bruce's spine that he quickly re-imagined as excitement. A heady rush of adrenaline that followed a conquering of some forbidden thing.

Soon the car left the haughty grounds of the Academy and rolled through woodland paths, brushing against the city of Gotham, following the long road back to Wayne Manor. Silence all the way. Silence as they entered the house. Staff curtsied timidly. The older members simply ignored him, acknowledging only Alfred. Bruce stood and glowered at his butler, and, when he was satisfied the old man would remain silent, he marched off upstairs. He pushed open the heavy doors of his room and admired his wall-to-wall run of signed movie posters. Yanked open the door of his own private study that he had converted into a gym and stared at a nearly empty room, his desk roughly returned. Ran to the proper gymnasium his father had built and found it locked.

He screamed, "ALFRED!"

"Yes, Master Bruce?" Alfred had appeared.

"My weights, where are they?" he asked, his chest heaving. "And I want to get in here!" He rattled the doors to impress his point.

The cold in Alfred's eye glittered, the corners narrowing though his lips remained still. "Dinner is at six," he said simply and began to walk away.

"Alfred!"

The butler froze, then quietly revolved:

"Another member of staff has given in their notice. Arthur will be tending the garden till a replacement has been found, Wayne Enterprises continues to profit, your grades continue to slip, and dinner is duck confit followed by plum pudding. Other than that, I fear there is nothing else to say, Master Bruce."

"Alfred?"

"Sir?"

"Well — aren't you?"

"Aren't I what, sir?"

Bruce's eye fixed uncertainly on Alfred, next daring him. For a moment it looked like Alfred wasn't going to respond, but he did, glaring:

"What you did to that boy was terrible. And furthermore, you are proud of what you did. You know right from wrong. Any child of Martha's would be privileged to have learnt good from evil. You cannot claim ignorance. You cannot claim a weak will — no one stood by to goad you. No other pressured you. All you can claim is your choice. And you chose evil, Master Bruce."

His heart quickened and excitement shot from his fingers to his toes. Felt so good he wanted to jump. Kick. Punch. Backflip.

"Who'd have thought Martha and Thomas's son a sadist."

"Well," his voice shook giddily, "aren't you going to ask me why?"

Alfred turned away.

"He had to get over them sometime!" Bruce yelled at Alfred's back, but the clip of heels never faltered.

x

Now alone in the east wing, Bruce grabbed the keys from the stone sea-monster while his heart still pounded good. Racing up the carpeted marble and along to his father's study. Unlocking the door, he crashed through, but his feet began to slow as he crept further to the steps that sunk the entrance to his father's special collection. The masks and broken torsos of gladiators marked twenty steps in, when he got to forty he'd be inside. The chamber was dark, but Bruce refused the light. The beat in his chest grew sick, it always did, pounded so hard that he could no longer tell if he was thrilled or afraid. Within the gloom he caught a glimmer of red. He took a step closer. Ruby eyes transfixed him, and the more he stood in darkness the more details shifted to make sense — whittled teeth and leather fingers and a hollow, black and senseless, where the mouth was stretched wide. Beneath the bat Bruce shivered and silently thought about the wicked thing he had done...

The boy was a year above, but skinny. Bruce was stronger than him and had let him know it. The boy — Sean Fetchly — was from a family who'd made their fortune with rail. The boy's parents and his maternal grandma were no longer here. Bruce hadn't been able to dig up much detail, but gossip said it'd been fire. Some freak accident in their holiday cabin in the early hours. Grandma was slow. Mother wouldn't leave grandmother and husband wouldn't leave wife. Bruce had explained to Sean how the smoke — and not fire — had killed them. Sean hadn't been there of course, not during board, and Bruce explained that if he had been there, then they would've probably got him out and left Grandma. He might've gotten away with both parents, but lost Nan — or kept just Dad and lost Mom too if she'd loved her mother more than Sean.

Bruce backed Sean into the communal shower with a box of matches and photos of the Fetchly's he'd stolen from Sean's room. He pulled his own shorts and t-shirt off so he stood just with his underpants on, now able to flex his muscles in the shower room light. He'd expected Sean to do the same, and, when he wouldn't, pinned Sean and tore off his clothes while the skinny boy shrieked and flailed. Bruce pushed him to the tiled floor and poked his smooth belly, slightly round with child fat, explaining that if he had any pride then Sean would start lifting, the heavier the better. Bruce explained that they were men now and that men had to be strong.

Bruce ignored the shuddering pleas and lit a match. He held the flame out to Sean who screamed, clawing at the tiled wall behind, and Bruce explained for this single flame to kill Sean he would have to be doused in petrol or something flammable. Bruce extinguished the flame on the back of his own leg and the smell of smoke sent Sean screaming again. High whimpers echoed up the tiles like a trampled puppy.

Bruce lit another matched and extinguished it in the same place, setting his face hard as his eyes grew pink and wet with pain.

He lit another and another and maybe the smell of burnt flesh was imagined, but if so, then Sean was lost in the fantastical terror of fire. Bruce went to extinguish a match on Sean's leg and Sean kicked at him like a half-stunned foal. Bruce picked up the pictures of Sean's parents that he had stolen and lit a match. Sean howled.

"Please…please…ughh." Sean wasn't making any sense.

"Your leg or your family?"

Sean reached for the photo and Bruce brought the flame closer. Sean cried and recoiled. Tried again, danced silly in a circle, his face rancid with snot. When Sean's cowardice had finally made his mind for him, Bruce brought the flame to lick the boy's parents, holding it under the photo, so Sean's mother began to melt. Her face grew dark, like a shadow had passed over her, before bubbling bright, crackling into ash.

Bruce held his breath as Sean's mouth parted slightly, his face without expression as his eyes gleamed with a horror as pure as an angel weeping over a fallen soldier. The tears slipped slowly from each eye with a cinematic majesty, and Bruce let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding as Sean's beauty crumpled in pain:

"NOOO!"

Sean tried to take the photo, but his lilly-fingers wouldn't curl. Bruce bit down as he pressed a match close to Sean's nipple. Finally, Sean's rage broke through his sobs and he hit him. The first punch was hard, the second harder, and Bruce let Sean try and draw blood, but he couldn't and now it was his turn. Bruce drew back his fist and Sean flew back against the wall as the ceiling began to rain to the wailing of the fire alarm. The whole school would be trying to evacuate, but he and Sean were here…and he made sure to draw first blood.

In the shifting darkness of his father's study The Bat turned.

Bruce ran from the room, along the upstairs corridor, through rooms that led to other rooms. In his irrational panic he heard footsteps, but saw nobody. The Batman could meld into a sliver of shade. The Batman always knew where you were…

He skidded into his parents' bedroom and into his mother's walk-in-wardrobe. From her gold and pearl evening bag he pulled a small pistol. He pushed himself further in and hid behind a silk dress. He pointed. He thought he saw a shadow pass over the half-open door, fancied he heard breath taunting him. The breathing got louder and louder till anger overcame fear and he leapt from the wardrobe with a cry, whirling in an arc, looking for something to shoot. The barrel of the gun landed on his parents' portrait. He'd destroyed the Fetchly's memory with fire. He raised the barrel higher and flicked it between Thomas's and Martha's forehead. They smiled kindly down at him. There were three bullets in the chamber. He let the barrel slip to the little boy between them. He tried to squeeze, but his lilly-fingers wouldn't curl. He let the gun slip from his hand and fell to his knees. One hiccough-sob left him and he strangled the rest.

Men don't do this.

Men pick up the gun.

x

Bruce requested dinner in the TV room, sprawled in the too big chair in front of a screen the size of a small cinema. Alfred was too weary to argue and served him his duck in silence. After picking the gun up, he decided he was going to try on his father's hats. They were all too big, but one just about sat on his head without sliding over his eyes. He put on a matching blue suit to go with his new trilby hat, and put on a movie filled with mobsters shooting each other up over money. Zorro was pushed to the back of the cabinet. He couldn't get rid of it for the same reason he couldn't pull the trigger upstairs, but neither could he watch Zorro save everyone — doing good without anything evil happening. It just wasn't how the world worked.

The gun's metal was warm in his pocket from the heat under his skin. He sucked on the end of the duck's femur, laughing when Tick-Tock-Tony took a tommy gun to the guts. Tony's eyes bulged as he slid down the bank wall, dollar bills fluttering as police sirens jarred with the alarm. Bruce laughed, leaning closer to the action. The screen became momentarily black and Bruce saw Alfred standing behind. He turned and looked at the butler who seemed about to serve pudding, but who had stopped, who was looking at the screen and back to Bruce with an expression that, although Bruce couldn't read, made his body feel smaller. Alfred's face grew slack, his eyes aching with disappointment. Then the thin mouth tightened, the stiff hand served the plum pudding, and polished oxford's left with a clip out the room.

Unexpected gunfire made him flinch, and he turned the movie off. He went to take the trilby off too, but stopped, straightening his lapels instead. He left the room as well. The house was deserted now. Not all staff were paid to come every day, and all day-staff left by five. From sunset to sunrise, it was just him and Alfred. Neither in the kitchen nor the laundry room — hadn't unlocked the gymnasium either. Alfred wasn't downstairs. Bruce raced across the black and white marble to the main staircase and saw Alfred coming down. The old man paused, straightened himself stiffly and continued to drag his suitcase down the steps. Bruce climbed slowly to meet him:

"Alfred?"

"There are enough meals in the freezer to last you the week. I am sure if you pay Mrs Alder she'll cook them for you. As for me? I am done, sir. I am done serving the wicked. The doctors can't help you, the teachers can't help you — I sure as damn can't help you! Ha, I've proved that!"

His voice was small as the butler passed him by, "Alfred?"

Alfred stopped, turned, and stared hard:

"That poor boy. Knowing what you've lost, you'd have thought you would have been sympathetic to his grief! Burned him, hit him — terrorised him — and proud of it!"

"I burned myself, see? I took thirteen matches — he only took one!" Bruce rolled up his trouser leg, desperate to show.

Alfred sneered. "And what's that supposed to make you?"

"A MAN!"

The mouth below the glasses cracked a smile. "A man…?" Alfred laughed dryly, shaking his head. "You're not a man, master Bruce." He took a step up. "Not a gangster, nor a pirate, nor a relic hunter, nor a Spanish outlaw, —."

"Stop it."

"— nor a werewolf, nor the creature from the black lagoon, nor a knight or a ninja — and certainly, Master Bruce — what you are not is a man!"

Alfred turned away and continued his descent, the suitcase thumping with each step. "You are Bruce Wayne," he bellowed, "a boy who is becoming less than a man — and I am sorry for it!"

Two fat tears slid down Bruce's cheeks as he shivered with hatred. The hat slipped and he dragged it to his side, his chest heaving as he slid out the gun:

"You're not leaving, Alfred."

The words trembled from his lips with a childlike fright, and he cursed himself as Alfred turned with a sad and pitying expression, but when he saw the metal glint his bespectacled eyes bulged out with horror, causing Bruce to feel a surge of electric-heat. Raising the gun dramatically his voice dropped low:

"You're not leaving and here's why!"

The suitcase was placed down with a soft thump. "Ever fired a gun, have we, boy?"

"Yes!" Bruce lied.

"Okay. So, you know the heart is left side of the chest?" Alfred loosened his tie and undid the first few buttons of his shirt.

Bruce knew that. He pointed.

"Come on now, men don't hesitate," chided Alfred. "That's it. Raise the barrel, safety catch, good. Now…fire."

Teeth chattered in rage as his boyish lip pulled back.

"Come now, Master Bruce, fire. FIRE!…No? Well, then, we're not quite ready for borstal yet, are we? Martha's clearly intervened somewhere…"

His veins beat thick with it, hated the mention of his mother's name. All the wicked things he had done, yet she had never once spoken inside his mind. Never once reached out from the dead. Just the bat with its wings beating.

"I am sure you can spend a night on your own, sir. You're resourceful enough." The suitcase continued to thump on each lowering step. "The Zellerbach's are here in the morning to talk through your options. I've called the doctor and he's passed you over —."

— BANG.

Alfred stumbled, then tumbled, his hands automatically grasping his leg as he fell down the remainder of the stairs, his yells muffling with the suitcase sliding behind. He hit his head hard as he crashed to the floor, then, lay still.

Skin tightened all over his body. Felt each hair on his head. The gun was still raised, his heart still racing behind the trigger pressed firm. "Alfred?" His voice was so small. He felt the gun loosen in his hand. "Alfred?" He stepped closer. "Alfred?" A ringing white terror engulfed him as he reached out and touched blood. Remembered the candied apples Alfred had made for him to bob. Himself carrying his Jack-o-lantern with Mother, running to Alfred so he could wrap him up warm in a scarf. Everyone pointing, smiling at the moon thin like a sickle. Everyone smiling.

He burst in a sob — "Alfred!" — his breath beside himself as he sucked in air. The house was huge around him and he so very, very small. He hadn't locked his father's study and The Bat would have climbed down off the wall. The rooms empty, Alfred dying — it would be creeping with its nails clicking along the ceiling, clicking till it dropped and took him to hell.

Bruce put the gun in his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut.

A vice like hand grabbed his wrist and snatched the gun away. "You stupid boy," groaned Alfred, his bloody fingers staining Bruce's cheek. He gasped and the old man hugged him. He tried to pull away, but the hands wouldn't let him, holding him in place.

"We need to phone —," whispered Bruce hoarsely.

"No," said Alfred, "no one else need know about this."

"But you're bleeding —!"

"Which is why you are going to help me…"

Alfred raised a bloody hand and Bruce immediately ducked under and helped raise Alfred to his feet.

"I forget sometimes you're still a child," murmured Alfred, "strapping shoulders like your father."

Together they limped to the games room nearby, and Alfred slumped painfully in a chair next to the snooker table. Bruce did as Alfred commanded and brought the medical bag from the butler's room. Alfred described the instrument he needed and Bruce held up the forceps.

"Never thought I'd be doing this again."

Bruce blurted, "you've been shot before!"

"Yes and worse than this," said Alfred dryly, "I was in the military."

"But…I thought you were always a butler?"

"Evidently not, now take out the alcohol and — oh my, that stings!"

Bruce had no trouble negotiating the wound, his face now dry and scowling hard in concentration. "Should I pull the bullet out?"

"Yes…" said Alfred grimacing prematurely, and he hissed through his teeth as Bruce buried the forceps in his leg.

"Here," said Bruce, holding out the bullet, "do you want it?"

"No…now pass me the alcohol."

"I would want it," said Bruce, passing the bottle.

Alfred breathed deep and poured. "Yes…well…I don't think the doctors would approve of you collecting trophies."

He watched in silence as Alfred took a needle and began stitching himself up. Al's wound was so much deeper than his own. He felt ashamed he ever thought it admirable. Ashamed he thought Sean's grief was his right to ruin.

"I deserve The Bat."

Alfred groaned. "Oh, not this again... Master Bruce, there are no bats —."

"Not batsss — The Bat!"

"The Bat?" asked Alfred uncertainly, tying-off the catgut.

Bruce didn't answer, but sat quietly. Lost in the painted smiles of Thomas and Martha on the wall behind. Their blood was in a safe place. Locked away and buried deep in his room. He hadn't held the tickets in so long, and he was frightened if he went to look now that they would disintegrate under his touch.

"Do you think they're watching us?" asked Bruce seriously. "Do you think they're ashamed of me?"

"I think they are concerned for you," said Alfred slowly, like he was considering his words. "I think they hope you'll open up and let the people around you help."

Bruce passed Alfred some scrim and held a safety pin at the ready. Bruce watched as the bandage soaked up some blood before a second layer mummified it. His eyes passed from Alfred seated to the TV:

"Can we watch Zorro?"

"— now?"

"Yes. Before you leave, can we watch Zorro one last time?"

Alfred sighed, leaning back into the chair with his leg outstretched. He took the glass of water Bruce had brought for him and downed the painkillers torn from a sachet. "Master Bruce," he gulped, "Bruce…I am not going to leave you. I was ready to. I would've done…but not for long."

Al's words did little to comfort, and Bruce sprung up wildly, trying to articulate the terrible emotion that was his companion: "People hate me, but I can't get rid of it! I need to be strong. I need to be ready!"

As if Alfred read his thoughts, he stated bluntly: "Joe Chill is dead."

"-what? When?"

"Three weeks ago," murmured Alfred, shuffling his leg, trying to find the least painful position.

Shock settled into a cold itch. The sadness in Alfred's eyes made him look like he was going to sleep and Bruce spoke loudly, "why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you are troubled and your trouble is becoming trouble for other people — the violence! — the sadism! — the gross sense of entitlement!"

"I have a code," said Bruce seriously, "I only ever hit people who are older than me."

"After you've goaded them into taking the first swing, yes, I know!" Alfred chuckled without humour, rubbing his leg as his eyes hovered on a spot above the pool table Bruce couldn't make out. "Principal Walton describes you as a bully and it's true, but there is something more going on here. Something the doctor needs to understand. This is not simply a bully who needs his wrist slapped, I feel…I think…"

"I need to be hit back," blurted Bruce, his chest rising.

"Yes," said Alfred tartly, "and then you need to win!"

"I need to be strong."

"So, why can't you be strong for other people?" There was a disgust in Alfred's eyes that made his compassion difficult to see, but Bruce did see it, and it made his belly feel like there were sea creatures living in it, slimy things with legs he needed to throw up. Alfred shook his head:

"There was a time when Bruce Wayne — an eight-year-old boy — stood up for his friend Oswald in the yard and challenged an older boy twice his size. He took a beating, but by God he gave a hell of one too! That Bruce was fearless! What's wrong with that Bruce?"

"That Bruce lost," he said defensively.

"Oh, I don't think he did…I think the Bruce tonight lost! I think the present Bruce is an utter coward."

He wouldn't let Alfred's words affect him, making sure to keep his face perfectly still, but Alfred read him anyway:

"Being the baddest won't stop men like Chill! Being a bully won't make you bigger than him! Pulling A GUN DOESN'T make you a MAN!"

"Being the BLACKEST might," he shouted back, horribly aware his front of control was disintegrating.

Alfred looked ready to scream, and Bruce really thought he was going to until the taught mouth sighed:

"I am pulling you from Ashby. We'll find a private tutor. Every time that boy would see you in the corridors he'd freeze. You'll be a memory almost as bad as the one where he's told his parents just died. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," said Bruce heavily, his words weighted theatrically. "And his name is Sean Fetchly."

"God help me…if I was that boy's father…" Alfred showed Bruce the back of his hand before curling it into a fist and laying it down. "But I am not. The child's father is dead…but I am not your father either…and that's the problem. I am 'the butler', the man you don't respect. The man who HAD to give up his life to stay by YOUR side!…I am sorry. I am sorry…"

Now uncurled, Alfred's hand shielded his face, trying to conceal the wretched disappointment twisting the corners of his eyes. His leg twitched and he turned it to the side, wincing.

"Neither of us want to be here," said Bruce quietly.

"It's not the house, Bruce, it's the god-awful shadow. It's watching you!" Alfred pierced him. "You were such a tactile child — loved his cuddles, hugged his friends — and now violence has replaced intimacy. People can't reach you and you seem to find hitting them the only way to meaningfully engage! It's maddening to see, Bruce!"

"I am sorry."

"Why! Why did you do that to that boy? To Sean who feels the pain of loss so keenly?" Behind glasses, Alfred's eyes studied him hard, asking for answers Bruce was unsure he could provide.

"I think I did it to see him cry," he said finally, his voice barely a whisper. "To see the groundskeeper cry too — and Sam and James!" Bruce sat up off his knees, determined to describe the feeling he had no understanding of:

"There was a moment when Sean cried where I could've cried too, and in that moment I felt like we'd known each other all our lives! — maybe even beyond this life!"

Alfred gasped. "My god, Bruce — you cannot connect with people through pain! Not like that, anyway…"

"I need to be hit back!"

"So you say —."

"No! You don't understand." Bruce drummed the ground in frustration. "I NEED to be hit! None of this feels alive," he said rubbing his face, his chest, his arms. "All of it feels numb. And my brain…It's only when I am fighting I feel real. It's do or die…and in these moments I know I want to live!"

Alfred covered his face with both hands this time, hunched over as if he was about to sob.

"Alfred? I am sorry." Bruce rose to his feet, wanting to touch Alfred's shoulder, but failing. "Please know I am sorry."

"No. This is…" Alfred's voice was dry, his eyes grave. "We have to find a way to channel this." Shaking his head, a quiet horror beneath the surface of his breath. A fierce grip closed round his shoulders and pulled him close. "You can't hurt people. Do you understand that?"

Bruce shook his head, then nodded. Alfred's grip was hurting him and he felt afraid, the glasses suddenly aflame with the chandelier's light. The hands shook him hard:

"You can't use knifes, or GUNS! — YOU — you CANNOT go down that path! I will not let you. People are just as real as you — and if you ever — EVER HURT — I'LL?"

Alfred let go and Bruce stumbled, letting himself sink to his knees, breathing softly.

"If you ever kill I'll make you a cripple. Do you understand that?"

Bruce nodded, believing in the two rings of blue, hot like his father's had been.

"I'll cripple you and then…I'll lock you away."

x

At a time where he was no longer capable of being a child, but not yet a man, the old memory, painfully buried, bloomed in his brain like stoked iron. They never talked about it, himself and Alfred. 'Bruce Wayne' detested guns. That was the narrative. What Alfred said, what Alfred needed them both to believe. Bruce Wayne hated violence and Batman was a necessity

He was paralysed. His turntable mind trying to stop its spin. At the edge of consciousness, he became aware of Crane. The cold whispers in his ear blistered into abstraction that made no sense. He was being forced under. Trying to fight it, straining within a lifeless body, limp like a marionette. Something furred was placed into his slack hand, rubbing up his thumb and wrist. He felt the tiny teeth and nose, a flat disc of folded leather. Tiny glass spheres where the dead bat's eyes should have been. Crane slid the bat to his throat and his heart jolted — terrorexcitement — a heat began, spreading from his groin, rising to his chest, tightening the back of his thighs. An electric kick at the back of his head as the bat kissed his lips. His wet tongue pushed inside it's dry, hollow mouth and a bead of blood ran from where its needle teeth pierced him. As his throat contracted his mind fell down into the Batcave…

He was dragging something. Something heavy towards a Wayne Tech metal box. A big box. The metal was a high-grade alloy that could withstand a high variety of environmental pressures. A box large enough to hold a man if the legs were forced up to the chest.

"You don't have to do it, Bruce. There are other ways of doing good in the world. But you — you pour everything into your bloody crusade! And I know you too well to hope you'll ever change."

The smell of polished wood rose gently with the scent of whiskey. Alfred slowed his step, perhaps waiting to see if he would respond, but he didn't. His mind was silent as he watched his only friend and last family member walk away from him.

"Rubbish goes out on Tuesday. And there's lasagne in the freezer. I am sure you'll manage."

Alfred's step faded from the room, faded from his life. Faded forever. No. He opened the box and forced the body inside. The legs wouldn't fit, so he snapped the knees. Took a saw and a hammer, cut and beat them to the sides of the chest.

He followed the sound of fading footsteps as shadows of clocks and armour washed over him. As he approached, Alfred turned, his old eye hesitant behind his glasses. The beat of his step was strong and as he held out his hands Alfred's lips parted:

"Bruce?"

His fingertips reached for the old throat and lifted Alfred clean off his feet. There was a strangled whine, but it was coming from his own throat, a panting snarl, a hitch of breath as he pushed the glass into Alfred's eyes with his thumbs.

No. This isn't real. This is not what happened.

Choked Alfred into a swelling silence, his cheeks bloated and pink, his hands feebly scratching at his own. The old limbs slackened. The arthritic body hanging limp. He let it sink gently, wrinkled hand flopping out, and then let go. His whole body began to tremble. Death stirred the monster in the depths. Felt The Bat rising. His fingers began to lengthen as he tried to undo his shirt. Tore it off. His body hot. Skin pricking with hairs like wires. He grabbed Alfred and dragged.

Dragged past the grandfather clock and into darkness. Packed the body into a crate and pushed it over. Crawled from his own skin and ate the treacherous face, crushing glass and bone and sinew against the back of his teeth, sharp and wide like axe-heads. Pushed the body over. Ate the evidence of betrayal, ate the yellow fat under the belly, the cartilage off the pelvic bone, the trousers soaked with piss. Threw Lucius's whiskey at the fire. Alfred Gone. Pushed the body. Ate.

Not real. Stop — SHOW ME THE TRUTH!

Alfred slowed his step, waiting to see how he would respond, old eyes hoping against the odds he'd choose sanity.

"Your right, Al. I will always be Batman. That will never change."

Alfred turned from him. "I know."

Like water rushing through tunnels to a geyser's mouth, a sudden release of pressure lifted his body up, arteries pumping as his muscles spasmed to propel himself up and off. Across and up. Up on the desk and through the grille in the ceiling. Crane yelled with surprise, reeling backwards as bats in their thousands turned the room black. They beat against the sides of the vent, shrieking with animal-pitch. Through the black bodies he pushed, his skin aroused with their needle fingers crawling over him, feeling each leather fold brush against him. Felt naked in their swarm. Alfred's face made him gag. The aching disappointment in his old eyes put out as he pushed his thumbs and glass into wet sockets. The creaking wheels of Alfred's suitcase. The last thing he heard before the silence. The silence of being alone. Truly alone. Silence shattered only when he picked up the present of Lucius's whiskey and hurled it at the fire. The burst of flame expressing what he could not. Silence. Lucius dead. Alfred gone. He alone. Dead. There was a gunshot…