Chapter 4

I may have slept two or three hours that night. My insomnia kicked my arse, and I was still pacing around the apartment at three before I tried going to bed. Then my thoughts kept me awake—for once, positive ones about the way things had started for me as a taxi driver again. The first day had shown me I could earn a decent living if I kept at it.

Four cups of coffee gave me enough energy to get the bus across town for my counselling session at ten o'clock with Dr Kane. I hadn't met her before, but one of the managers at Arkham had arranged for me to see her, and the condition of me getting my prescription was attending weekly appointments with her.

When I was called into her office, my mood darkened, and I slumped in the seat in front of her desk. It would no doubt be the same as all the sessions I'd had in Arkham—endless questions about how things made me feel, from someone who was going through the motions to earn their salary.

"Travis Bickle?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Dr Kane."

I nodded.

She shuffled some papers and read one of them. "You've recently been released from Arkham Hospital after five years?"

"Yeah." I huffed out a long sigh.

"And before that you were in New York?"

"If that's what it says."

"Travis." Dr Kane folded her hands in front of her on the desk and frowned at me. "The point of these sessions is to help you integrate into society and try to live a normal life. That means you need to talk to me."

"I haven't anything to say."

"Perhaps you could tell me how things have gone this last week, since you left Arkham."

I shrugged. "I'm working."

"That's good." A sudden bright, exaggerated smile lit her face. "Could you tell me about that?"

"I drive a taxi."

"You did that before, in New York, yes?"

"Uh huh."

"And how's that going here?"

"I only started last night. It's okay."

"Good. Having an occupation will help. How about the rest of your time? What do you do during the day?"

I shrugged again. "This and that."

"Have you got to know anyone yet? Potential friends?"

"Maybe." I had no intention of spilling my guts about Jazz. It was none of her business. "The neighbours aren't too friendly," I said instead, and snorted out a laugh. "I think my appearance scares them."

"Have you thought about changing your hairstyle?"

"I've thought about it."

She did her best to get me to talk more—they always did. She focussed on what I was doing after Arkham, not my spell in there, or what happened before. I knew that would come later. The file on her desk was two inches thick and would have all the details in it of what I'd done in New York. There would be details of the charges, the endless interviews, the decision to send me to Arkham for rehabilitation, instead of prison.

I kept glancing at the clock as the hand crawled towards eleven and answered her questions as abruptly as I usually did. Eventually, Dr Kane closed the file and reminded me to bring my journal to the next appointment. She wanted me to write down my thoughts and feelings about things that happened during the week.

I waited until I'd stepped out of her office before I rolled my eyes. I had no intention of writing down my real thoughts, at least not in the journal I would show her. I hated opening up to anyone, most of all shrinks. None of them had helped me in the past.

I halted in the waiting room when I saw the man sitting there. His long thin frame was folded into a sagging chair, knees bouncing, hands fiddling with a rolled-up notebook. He had his head down, and lank hair hung around his face. It was the guy from my building—the clown.

"Hey," I said.

He jerked his head up, eyes wide, and pressed his hands onto his knees, stilling the bouncing. He looked like the proverbial rabbit caught in the headlights. He licked his lips, then laughed.

"My name's Travis."

"A-Arthur," he stuttered. Another laugh bubbled up, and he clamped a hand over his mouth in an effort to stop it.

"Seems like we have something in common." I nodded in the direction of Dr Kane's door.

"I guess."

"Arthur Fleck!" Dr Kane called out from behind the door.

Arthur lurched out of his chair, dropped his notebook on the floor, then stooped and scrabbled to pick it up. He straightened quickly, face flushed. "I, um, I guess that's me."

"I'll see you around." I let myself out of the building and walked away. So, my odd neighbour, the clown, was named Arthur, and apparently, he had just as many problems as I did.

I wandered down to the market and bought a couple of extra notebooks from the stationery stall. Then I walked back home. It took me about ninety minutes, but I didn't want to waste any more money on trains or buses until I'd earned some.

I microwaved a frozen dinner, then sat down with my current half-filled journal and a pen. I'd always written in journals, long before I had shrinks telling me to do just that.

"The neighbours," I began. "Sophie. Young woman, African-American, I think. Pretty, with a little girl. I don't know if there's a man with her. Seems nervous, certainly of me. Lives in 8B. I don't think she likes the mohawk. Perhaps I should grow it out, but I kind of like it after almost six years.

"Arthur Fleck. He seemed scared, too, all three times I've seen him. Dressed as a clown outside the music store, in the lift, in Dr Kane's waiting room. Lives at my end of the corridor, apartment G. Saw him unlocking the door once. I'm in F, so that means he's next door."

I paused and chewed the end of the pen. Arthur was next door, the other side of my bedroom wall. I hadn't heard anything of him—no crazy laughing.

"He's—" I paused again. "Forty? Hard to tell. Gaunt and unhealthy. Maybe looks older than he is. My height, brown longish hair. Green eyes. Pretty eyes."

I snorted. If I had to pick between Sophie and Arthur, I'd pick Arthur, but I doubted either one would look twice at me, except with trepidation. It had been way too long since I'd had woman or man—five and a half years. I'd been hopeless with relationships. I had one date with this pretty chick, Betsy, then had the bright idea of taking her to a porn movie. I never got so much as one kiss, which I suppose shouldn't surprise me.

After that—I shook my head. I couldn't bring myself to write it down, even if no one else would see it. I had sex once, since I was discharged from the marines. Once. And I paid for it. Iris's elder sister, she called herself, but of course they weren't related. Before that, my best friend in the marines. His name was Gerry. We did it in secret half a dozen times. Then—

I sunk my head into my hands. Why did I think of that? I'd successfully not thought of it most of the time I was in Arkham.

I shook myself and wrote some more. "He's as much a freak as I am. Has a laughing condition. Has a card saying it's involuntary. He sees Dr Kane, too. Something makes me want to get to know him."

I added a few paragraphs about Jazz, my new friend. Then I put the book down and picked up one of the new empty ones. I supposed I should write something for Dr Kane.

I scrawled a few paragraphs about my apartment and how I'd set myself up as a taxi driver, using the money left for me by my father. I knew she'd ask, so I added that he'd disowned me when I was seventeen and that I didn't care one bit that he wasn't around anymore. Then I closed the book and switched on the TV. Enough internalising for one day.

I didn't see either the neighbours, or Jazz, for the next few days. Friday night was busy, of course, and I took so many fares I didn't get a break for six hours, except to take a quick piss behind a dumpster.

Saturday afternoon, I checked out the city's "facilities." It had been over five years since I'd been in one of those theatres, and only last week I'd told myself it wouldn't happen again. But options for fun were limited. I doubted my appeal to either sex, and I sure as hell was not going to pay for it again and end up getting dragged back into that world.

The theatre wasn't too far from Dr Kane's office, which amused me in a sort of twisted way. I'd have to write my visit in the journal for her—see if she blushed. I bought a ticket at the small desk inside, and found I had a choice of three rooms with different films showing. I picked one about a rich guy on a boat with two women, and slunk into the darkened room with the reel running on a constant loop.

Only two other men sat in the gloom, staring avidly at the screen. I slid into a seat at the back and watched the action for maybe thirty minutes. The three characters were already romping on the deck of the yacht, exaggerated gasps and groans pumping from the speakers around me. It all sounded so fake, and I wondered what had appealed to me about these sorts of movies in the past. Probably lack of options. I wasn't bad looking, I didn't think, but I hadn't managed to have a relationship in the past—not with Betsy, anyway, or that other girl I dated twice before I went into the marines. There had been a connection with Gerry, and maybe we could have had something, but he was gone.

I glanced around, noting the two other figures sitting farther forward. One was clearly jerking off, his arm and shoulder moving vigorously. I chuckled quietly. That had been me once, but the yacht porn wasn't doing much for me today. Still, the guy was sort of hot—blond, shaved, and with a big dick. My own twitched in my pants. Now, if one of those girls on the deck had been another guy; why didn't they show movies like that?

I slipped out of the room, intending to leave, but first I checked out the posters on the other two doors. The second was a businesswoman and a builder who had been working on her house. The third was—I paused, eyes wide—two male cyclists, stopping on their day out for some fun in the woods. Really? A gay movie?

I glanced around me. No one else was in sight in the entrance to the building, except for the bored young guy selling tickets, who was now flicking through a magazine. What the hell. I opened the door and went in.