Epilogue

I have a burner, as the kids on the street like to call it – an unregistered pay-as-you-go cell. He and I have a signal system. I send an emoji, to let him know if I am going to be in and alone; in and not alone; or not home. He sends one if he intends to visit – usually a short time, like ten to thirty minutes, before he turns up. I can send my signal for days and weeks, and get no answer. Then one night there will be one.

If it is before midnight, then he wants to come and drink whisky and maybe talk. He takes off the cowl and sometimes the top half of the suit, but he does not take off the whole persona. The voice relaxes, but it never fully becomes Bruce's voice. He is still the Bat.

Sometimes he sits straight away, lost in thought, and it can take a while before he speaks. At other times the gauntlets go flying across the room and he paces, the anger fizzing off him. I can almost see the sparks. He is unable to settle, and I dare not open my mouth. If I put a hand on him, sometimes that quiets him, as if I am a lightning conductor and through me the anger runs to ground and dissipates; I feel the tension leave him. Once or twice he has shaken me off, and I have to wait for the outburst. Then he will sit, the calm after the storm. I don't challenge him on what he is telling me. Sitting in the warmth and the half-dark, I listen as sympathetically as I can; sometimes I ask a question that is meant to make him think about what is going on, what he is doing.

Sometimes he makes an ice pack from something in my freezer, holding it to his cheek or his jaw. I definitely don't ask about what happened then. I don't want to know who he is tangling with – I don't want to hear the word Mafia.

Now we have some distance on it, we are able to talk about the events of that evening, and the whole affair. He can tease me now about the time I wanted to hit him with the baseball bat. We talk about the hall of mirrors; about whether I could have shot Rafe Harlowe. Sometimes he still needs reassurance that I would have chosen him over Harlowe, despite him offering himself. Given what happened to his parents, I can't begin to imagine how that situation affected him, how he could even have brought himself to say those words. Then, at other times, he claims he knew I couldn't have shot him, smiling like a cheeky child. And it has dawned on me that that is what he becomes when he visits like this: a child. The fourteen year-old teenager he was when his mother died. I do not, for one minute, assume that I am some sort of mother-substitute. After what has passed between us, that would be too weird. But I am an older woman and I do not know if he has many of those in his life.

We have become Con and Nem, if I need a name to call him, but he most often calls me Em, as my closest friends do. Sometimes Auntie Em, if he thinks I'm lecturing him. I am very careful not to call him Bruce, as that is very obviously not who he wants to be at these times. Calling him Nem feels strange, but the alternative – Batman – feels even weirder. But he answers to Nem, so . . . I think he quite likes the name Nemesis.

He never asks about Ran, and I don't offer any information. Whether he's being sensitive or whether he has just closed the door on something that does not need to concern him, I don't want to know. Ran and the Bat are two different parts of my life. In return, I don't ask about his personal life. If Bruce becomes romantically linked with anyone, Lacey will tell me, I'm sure. And a tiny piece of my heart will break.

We never talk philosophy. We never discuss the end justifying the means, or justice versus vengeance, or rendering to Caesar what is Caesar's. That may come, one day. Although I will never tell him, I understand a little better where he is coming from, but I do not have the faintest idea where his journey will take him, where he will end up. That still does not make it completely all right, what he does, but he needs to work that out for himself. Whatever Auntie Em thinks or says will cut no ice.

Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule

If we ever do talk philosophy, I will have to admit to him that what I really wanted all along, I have been shocked to realise, was vengeance: revenge on Rafe Harlowe, as the godhead of Gotham Developments, for what befell James, regardless of Harlowe's or GoD's involvement or responsibility in the matter. I wanted to see someone pay somehow. We are not so far apart after all, the Bat and me. I think he knows that; I think he recognises a kindred spirit.

If it is after midnight, then I will let him into the bedroom and he will remove the suit, but nothing else. It could be three or four in the morning. He climbs into bed with me, and I hold him. Neither of us speaks. That is not what he is seeking. I guess that the evening has been traumatic on these occasions. Sometimes he sleeps, either with his arm over me, or with mine over him. We have never made love again.

Tell me it isn't only fucking.

Why, what else is it?

And that's all it had been: a release, a running to earth and dissipation of stress, like a charge of lightning. Had Nashton been right after all, that the Bat had just been using me for his own purposes? I choose to think not.

Now, my embrace seems to be enough to give him the connection he craves. I am Conscience at these times, but bringing the older woman's comfort just in her arms. I have never told Ran about this. Usually he wakes early, gathers his things and disappears down the fire escape into the black SUV. God knows what the neighbours think. On one or two occasions he has overslept, and Mr Pennyworth has had to appear in the store with a suit carrier, and a different person has walked out with him from the one who came in through the window.

I don't wish to give Ran up, either. We fit together well; we enjoy each other's company. It took several nights of long, emotional conversations to get past the knowledge that I had slept with the Batman. It was difficult to explain the need I felt the Bat and I both had, how we had met that need in each other, and to convince Ran it wasn't going to happen again. I was surprised by his strength of feeling for me, his jealousy, his hurt at being excluded after the incident. It has calmed down since then, as he realised slowly he could trust me, that I am the woman he thought I was. It has taken a long time to get back to the easy intimacy we were beginning to build after the Founders' Ball.

We maintain our separate lives, separate homes, but we sleep over at the other's place often. He spends time in the store on the weekend, and he is quite handy at fixing things, and quite sociable with the customers. I have met his kids, they seem nice enough, but they are protective of him and wary of me, the foreigner, so distance suits us all. He assures me they will come round, but I am not bothered. Unless he proposes one day – and I am not sure what my answer would be. Over our relationship there is always the shadow of the Bat.

I have not seen Bruce Wayne for months, either. He and I move in completely different circles, and he has no reason to speak to me, nor do I have a reason to contact him. On the couple of occasions when he has walked out through the store with Alfred (as I now call him), I have busied myself on the far side, too far away for us to speak. We have merely glanced at each other as he has passed.

Occasionally, Alfred appears in the store with flowers. The first ones were a gracious apology after my last face-to-face meeting with Bruce: an eloquent expression of what he could not bring himself to say. It was heart-breaking to see them trampled into the carpet when the apartment was trashed, the vase they had come in smashed and ground in. So malicious. More arrived at Lacey's house, after the incident at the amusement park. When I moved back into the apartment, when it and the store had been put back together, Alfred appeared yet again. When I protested mildly, Alfred said what he always says: Bruce will decide. I sent him back a basket of expensive tea and biscuits. I had thought to send a jar of the worst British instant coffee I could find in the British store, but at the last minute I remembered that that was a joke I shared with the Bat, not Bruce.

Once or twice I have stood outside the Wayne Foundation building, looking up at the windows at the very top, and remembering him looking out over his city. I think of him and Alfred, keeping watch. It was a momentous, tumultuous time in my life, when I had a contact number for one of the world's richest men, and he paid attention to me for what I knew and the contacts I had.

After his experience in the hall of mirrors, Rafe Harlowe was a broken man. He took a plea-bargained conviction for breaches of building regulations and codes and is currently serving an obscenely short sentence of house arrest with an electronic tag. He clearly had a great lawyer. Sometimes it is difficult not to agree with Edward Nashton, that justice is not always properly served when the rich and powerful avoid the sentences the rest of us get landed with. The great lawyer was also too good for Ms Das Gupta and her team, and Gotham Developments wriggled out of any liability for compensation for the deaths, as Bruce Wayne had predicted they would, the blame being placed squarely on the now-bankrupt and defunct Larsson Construction. Maybe Harlowe felt some obligation to me for saving his life, if nothing else, so the lawsuit is being settled and compensation is being paid to all the claimants as a gesture of goodwill. That is as good as it is going to get, I'm afraid.

Gotham Developments put right the damage to the bookstore and apartment, replacing (and upgrading) the furniture, no questions asked. But it strongly suggested that Harlowe and the Archangels had been behind it. Of course, they have been unable to replace the sentimental items they destroyed or damaged, and there has been no acknowledgment of that hurt and suffering. Are Gotham Developments and me good now? I'm sure Harlowe and the Archangels would like to think so. I am not so sure.

As for James and his death, I have no evidence that he was murdered, that his death was anything other than a very unfortunate accident. There was not enough of him left for a decent autopsy, and he was cremated, so there is no going back to look for clues. Ran has persuaded me that I need to let go of that, and accept things at face value. That was just Nashton playing me for his own purposes. James's supposed meeting with Bruce Wayne was just another rabbit to chase down a rabbit hole. Ran tells me I can't live my life like this, wondering what if all the time. And I know he's right. If I want peace, I must give it up, this speculating.

Harry and I have spent time sitting in the cemetery by James' memorial plaque, mourning, as we didn't do at the time. Harry owned up to what he knew he had done for the Archangels, he had kind of known what he was getting into with his promotion, but not entirely, so he said. Reluctantly, but with the air of someone making a confession that lifted a burden, he admitted that he had told Rafe Harlowe about the Larsson papers as soon as he had seen them. It was the Bat's considered opinion that that had led to the Mafia attempt on my life – the man they had sent had mistaken James's papers for the Larsson ones. Harry was shocked and contrite when I passed on this view. But he swore most sincerely that he didn't betray James to them. He claimed not to know what James was up to. I was unable to feel any anger, let alone express any. Too much had happened since, which had drained too much emotion. Anger requires energy, as the Bat shows me, and I have none.

Harry has resigned from his senior role on Harlowe's team, and has found himself a place in the property division of Wayne Enterprises, funnily enough. Nothing to do with me, or my connection with Ran, head of the division, I have since found out. He says he's happier now, despite the drop in salary, and Lacey can hardly contain her excitement at the thought that one day she might find herself in the presence of Bruce Wayne himself.

As to Edward Nashton, he has not yet come to trial. Harlowe and I will have to give evidence, which I am not looking forward to. I do not want to face him across the courtroom, and American trials are televised, which I will hate. The Bat wonders, when we discuss it, if Nashton will be found fit to plead, or whether he will be deemed deluded if he goes on about his God theory during pre-trial assessments. Nashton could easily expose him, as he regards Bruce and the Bat as interchangeable. Blackgate Prison or Arkham secure psychiatric hospital is a choice between a rock and a hard place, from what Harry and Lacey tell me. Privately, I wonder how the Bat will get out of having to testify. If he has to, then surely he will be exposed and his true identity made public. I can't think why the judge would allow him to give his evidence either in character or from behind a screen. Gotham City social media is already starting to wonder about him, so the clock is ticking on how long he can remain anonymous and effective – if indeed he is effective. I still have no real idea of what he thinks he is achieving.

I am considering whether to keep on the store. Once I thought it was what I wanted to do with my life. Now I am not sure that I want to see out my active days in a small store that has few customers. The settlement from Gotham Developments, without James's pension and our savings, will ensure I can move to a nicer apartment without the need to work to pay the bills. I like the idea of more space, three-hundred thread count sheets and expensive toiletries in an ensuite, but the new place would have to have an outside fire escape – can't see the Bat using an entry-phone and sharing an elevator. Ran doesn't understand why I don't want to move out nearer to him, to a small house, but I prefer the bustle of the city, I have decided. I like the security of an apartment, with other apartments above and below me.

I have been to the office of the Unalachtigo, and I am weighing up an invitation to volunteer with them, helping in a small way to put together their case for damages against the founding fathers of Gotham City. It may well bring me into conflict with Bruce Wayne, and I hope it does not sever my connection with the Bat. The Wayne family is involved somewhere, as they have been in so much of Gotham's history. I have never found out what shocked the Bat so much, that night in my apartment, but I am guessing that it was something about his family that he had never known. That they have not always been the good guys. I am debating whether to give him sight of Behind Closed Doors. It makes for uncomfortable reading, not only about his ancestors, but about several other founding families. They were brutal in their determination to build the colony. Given his great interest in justice, I am sure he would want to do the right thing by the Unalachtigo. On this occasion, I am sure the means and the end will be in harmony.

End

Quotations, in order, from:

A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens

John Thomas and Lady Jane, by D H Lawrence

Thank you, dear readers, for coming with me on this ride. I hope you have enjoyed it. I have not quite got the Bat out of my hair, so there may well be a sequel. I am fond of the Bruce I have created, and I was not able to show his side of the story, because I did not know his world. That should change once I have seen the film. I think I know what is missing from his life. Family. Warmth. Belonging – to somewhere, to someone who cares, to whom he matters. I would like to give him a possible chance of that, but what that would mean for the Batman, I have no idea at this stage. Hopefully after a sequel, I will feel I can move on, back to the world of shadows.

I hope you will join me on the next ride, wherever it takes us.