The Batmobile zoomed drunkenly past the gate and slid into the cave. Before the armoured sides had a chance to roll over the rock's edge, the mechanical floor gripped the car with a clunk, aligning the tires. A man dressed in black — horns protruding — fell from the vehicle. Batman staggered like he had a devil on his back. One hand clasped to his side as he bent double. His armour was so dark it was hard to see, but a deep red was dripping from under his hand and onto the gleaming silver of the floor. He let out a rasping cry as he tried to stand upright.

"RING! RING! RING!"

The Batcomputer brought the outside camera up on screen. Selina Kyle was at the manor gates, her finger franticly pressing the intercom. He lifted a shaking hand to the console.

'Bruce! Let me help you.'

He let her in. The gates slid open and he staggered out the gloom and into walls lined with walnut. A warm light twinkled down from the chandelier, making Bruce reel backwards. He wanted to shut his eyes. Always a bad sign. He made himself step after heavy step and unlocked the front door. Then collapsed. The hall had lost its clarity. He saw everything like an unfocused camera, light fizzing at the edges of all the familiar objects around him.

Selina was knelt beside him. 'You can't keep doing this!' Her voice sounded panicked. She began tugging at his armour. 'I can't keep doing this,' she moaned, shaking her head.

Batman's guttural voice spoke: 'and you shouldn't have to!' He took off his cowl and the sound rose an octave as the softer voice of Bruce Wayne finished: 'Alfred should be here.'

He did his best to help her undo his chest piece. Trying not to groan as the kevlar slid over his wound.

'Have you heard anything?' she asked, clearing the wound of dirt and fragments of his suit.

Bruce replied dimly, 'no.'

'Brace yourself,' Selina took a bottle out of the kit she had beside her and poured it over the slash in his side. Alcohol flared his nostrils and the room lit up like a firework. He heard his head hit the floor. Selina yelling 'Bruce!' was the last thing he remembered.

When he opened his eyes again it was morning.

He felt like he had been run over by a tank. Make that a fleet of tanks. Even the joints of his toes hurt. Bruce looked down at the left side of his torso and measured the run of stitches with his thumb and forefinger. The wound was a child's hand width. Selina had made a decent job, Alfred would have made better, but without her who knows where he would be right now. Hugging his mother at the pearly gates or greeting his father in hell? Bruce chuckled disquietingly.

'Oh good. You're awake. I thought you might have died.' Selina appeared holding up a brown paper bag and two coffees. 'Got these in case you didn't.' She placed an egg and bacon muffin in front of him. 'You have nothing in your cupboards except sardines, you know? For a billionaire that's pretty rich.'

He took the coffee she held out to him. Last night she must have wrestled his bulk onto one of the couches in the sitting room. The hard leather of the chesterfield was never comfortable, but she had lined it with every cushion she could find and he had a tablecloth crumpled around his legs like a blanket.

Gratefully he reached for the muffin and bit into it. Egg oozed a little at the sides of his mouth and he quickly licked all traces up. He could've eaten a canteen worth of muffins he was so hungry. So absorbed in his breakfast, he was only vaguely aware of the TV Selina had switched on.

'Bruce,' her tone was unsettling, 'I think you need to see this.'

He looked across the room at the screen. They were covering a book release like it was major news. Bruce stared, disgruntled. Cecile Horton – someone he had to buy off big time to leave him and his company alone after leading a witch hunt on anything remotely associated with Thomas Wayne – was sat looking presidential and holding a book like it was the bible. Bruce continued to stare, a feeling of deep unease creeping down his neck.

"The Wayne Arkham Connection: this is your latest book exploring the clandestine operations of Thomas Wayne while serving as a doctor at Arkham Asylum? His power over people and – as we all know – the misuse of it?"

Cecile Horton responded: "Yes. I feel I owe it to Gotham and the families the Wayne's have torn apart. The people need full disclosure on the individuals and their deeds that made – make – this city what it is today. How Gotham's golden age was built on the back of crime, and suffering, the abuse of power, and on the careful manipulation of public image."

"Powerful words, Miss Horton. Thomas is in the past, but this book really looks at the legacy of the Wayne's too. How their present fortune cannot be separated from the crime that amassed it. You focus on Bruce Wayne, his tragedy, his upbringing, his privilege – how did growing up with a crime lord affect him? Was Thomas a loving father or an abusive tyrant? Another victim or an unlawful prince: does Bruce Wayne still owe the people of this city? We're keen to know your thoughts."

Expressionless Bruce turned to Selina and then back to the television. Another story flashed up.

"Is this the price of vigilantism?" The screen was suddenly lit with security footage of last night's failure in Gotham Museum. Batman came into shot, chasing two masked figures dressed all in black. They looked like a cross between fencers and ninjas, jumping up onto glass cabinets like acrobats. They taunted him, ducking and weaving, throwing what they had stolen just out of reach to one another. Then, he tried to be clever. He lost his footing and fell. Bruce winced automatically, holding his side as the Batman on screen fell like a man overboard onto the spear held by Lady Justice. For non-Gothemites, Lady Justice looked like any other statue, but for the people of Gotham this particular figure meant a great deal. It was one of those icons a city has that defines its character. A face of Gotham itself — and last night — playing at this moment on the TV — he fell upon her, smashing the scales from her hand and breaking the tip of her mighty spear off, now embedded in his side as he fell hard onto the floor. The Batman on TV writhed, pulling the blade free and tossing it aside. The museum footage ended and they began pressing people for their opinion. One priest thought it was an omen prophesizing Batman's end, another person said it was nothing short of, "vandalism across Gotham's very soul," and that the police ought to have locked up Batman a very long time ago.

Bruce shook his head. 'What. The. Hell?' He leaned back and Selina switched the TV off. He chuckled uncontrollably. 'Great! They've gunned for Bruce Wayne and they've gunned for Batman, but they've never gunned for both at once!'

'Bruce,' Selina spoke like they'd just seen Batman die, 'that was a lot of blood. Did you get all of it?'

He was thinking the same thing. 'Not as much as I should have,' he answered wearily.

'Will Gordan?'

God he hoped so. His identity was on the tip of that spear, but — instead of dwelling on the seriousness of the issue — he yawned. His body was telling him to sleep. Selina took note.

'Alright,' she took the coffee away and replaced it with a glass of water. 'Your boo-boos have been stitched. I'll check up on you later.' She zipped up the leather jacket she was wearing. 'Just remember I won't be around indefinitely. You're lucky I am between jobs.'

The irony that he'd been chasing down a thief while being injured, and then stitched up by a different thief was not lost on him. Selina and him had a truce. Hell, Selina and him were friends. And, when everyone had either deserted him, died, been locked up, or simply had enough of his emotional distance, it was Selina who actually had his back. Bruce smiled a small cynical smile and Selina leaned forward and gave his forehead a quick peck with her lips. 'Give the boo-boo a chance to heal.'

'Today only. Tomorrow it's John and that awful gala —,' he failed at stifling a yawn, 'with those awful people. Or maybe I am the only truly awful one. The media certainly thinks so.'

'Cancel. Resting is more important.'

'I can't. Regina will never let me hear the end of it.'

'Cancel John at least.'

Bruce looked pained. 'I can't do that either.'

'Why not?'

'He…I can't disappoint him. He's trying, Selina. He's really trying.' Bruce looked miserably at the plaster ceiling above. 'I think he's trying because of me. Dr Leland said that first visit made all the difference.'

Selina shrugged, her voice indifferent. 'Okay. Do what you want.'

Bruce knew she thought him foolish. 'Are you coming to the gala?' he asked carefully.

'Depends. Can I rob some stupid rich people?'

'No.'

'Nah.' Selina smiled. 'I think I'll swing by Gotham Museum and have a piece of whatever those ninjas were into.'

Bruce just looked at her.

Selina switched the heel she was leant on, the curve of her hips leaning more to the right. 'You might see me…after the party.' She jangled her keys and fished for her motorcycle helmet. 'Don't forget to feed Samson.' The flea-bitten ginger tom suddenly emerged from behind the curtain at the sound of his name and meowed. His ears were nibbled at the outer edges and his nose was almost split in two were a claw had torn. Selina thought Bruce needed company, and Selina's idea of company — Samson jumped and landed like a sack of sugar on Bruce's chest.

'Ahh!' he grimaced, tentatively trying to move the cat that had begun rubbing its head furiously on his chin. Purring.

'Trust you two to get along. Both antisocial. Both battle-worn. Both like gravlax.' Selina batted her long eyelashes.

'And both are heavier than they look. Come on Samson.' Bruce's wide hands succeeded in coaxing the cat downwards. The tom spun twice and settled in a puddle of fur and muscle on Bruce's feet, brandishing a paw to be licked into a shiny, orange mitten.

'Rest!' Selina called from out the room. The front door shut with a click and he knew she was gone.

Bruce yawned while yawning, opening his mouth wide like a dog and the next thing he knew it was dark outside and the grandfather clock was nearing 3am.

xxx

He had slept nearly fourteen hours and it still wasn't enough. And now, as promised, he was clipping down the halls of Arkham with Dr Leland. He caught her looking at him from the side. Her habit of using her peripheral vision like a spy always gave Bruce the impression she was trying to work him out, and maybe scribbling conclusions in her mind that said Bruce Wayne wasn't as right or as stable as he made out. That there was more to his incarceration than Lady Arkham's drug. He didn't like it.

Bruce held himself a little too stiffly and then winced with a groan. Stopping in the corridor — doubling over like he was going to be sick.

'Are you okay?' she asked, alarmed. Reaching her hands to steady him, she noticed his own clasped to his left side.

'Yeah,' he huffed and made himself straighten. Her eyes lingered on his torso. He made himself continue up the corridor. She followed, taking fewer steps to keep in line with his sluggish gait.

'It is good of you to continue to visit John,' she said generously. 'Things were very confused for him and he felt a lot of resentment towards the Batman. I don't know how you were mixed up in it all…but the fact you didn't abandon him has meant more than I can express.' She caught his eye. 'He has more faith in people generally. And that is saying something.'

He didn't reply, digesting what she had said instead. It was good John was trying. It was good John thought people were worth trying for. He just hoped no one threw John's effort back in his face. It was harder to encourage John than discourage John. It didn't take much to knock him into a dark place – Bruce always imagined it like The Fun House. A cross between a Francis Bacon painting and a pantomime. Screaming faces and whirls of iridescent colour spiralling in a void. Poor John.

'You're a busy man, Mr Wayne,' said Dr Leland suddenly. She paused outside the door to the visitors room. 'What I am trying to say is: John's trust is a fragile —and I mean fragile — thing. Don't make promises you can't keep.'

Bruce knew Dr Leland was referring to John's suggestion that if he did good enough for long enough, Bruce could somehow work some Wayne magic to get him out. Eventually. On some bright, distant day in the future. That Bruce was big enough and friend enough to help him be free someday.

'I am not a fool, doctor — or at least I try not to be.' He looked at her in earnest. 'Still, there is no harm in asking: do you really think he's in here for good? Till death do him part?'

Her face was still and her eyes were studying his. 'I am afraid so,' she said gently. 'It was a mistake…I made a mistake in releasing him. Particularly into a city like Gotham. There's opportunity to lose your soul in every alley, trouble around every door. Even in high office for that matter — hell — maybe especially in high office.'

Harvey's sane and smiling face flashed across his mind, followed by a face he barely recognised. Although Batman had saved Dent from Cobblepot's attempt to maim him, Lady Arkham's drug had taken his friend's sanity. Pushed him into some hellish place that caused his mouth to tighten, his cheek to twitch and his eyes to stare, the whites mad with pinhole pupils and the shadow of his brow fixed in constant gloom. Visiting Harvey was to be accused one minute and to be begged for forgiveness the next. And the coins, and the counting of tiles, and the flipping of bottle tops — all confiscated — all made Harvey scratch at the surface of his skin in the absence of a fifty percent chance that might — might — just be the right decision. God, he missed the real Harv. He'd tried to do what was right and look where noble intentions had led him.

Bruce thought a moment. 'John did play a crucial role in saving lives. The police know that. I think people forget that of John, despite the murders.'

'Well you would know,' she said quietly. 'No further questions, Mr Wayne. I don't need to tell you discretion is advised. Enjoy your visit.'

A brown hand flashed a keycard to the door and Dr Leland ushered Bruce into the familiar wallpapered room, worn like sun-bleached canvas and built to receive visitors. Bruce was sure the wallpaper was as old as the house: exotic birds ducked and leapt from hand-printed branches, making the whole space seem like some aged avian ballet. The armchairs must have been replaced, but still looked pretty beaten, and there was the Victorian fireplace. Blue flowers glimmered on tiles behind a thick iron cage. He wondered if in the past patients had tried to escape up the chimney.

John had been in wait for Bruce's eyes to find his own and upon doing so leapt up. 'Buddy!' Bruce let John shake his hand like he was throttling a weasel. 'Wait till you hear what I have to tell you!'

Bruce sat back into threadbare upholstery, cocked his eyebrow and gave one of his devilishly handsome, lopsided smiles. John's teeth gleamed.

'I actually stopped a fight – I mean – I talked them down.' His friend held his arms wide, clearly very excited.

'Well, diplomacy is an art, John. You should be proud.'

John's eyes focused on someplace else as he began the tale. 'Billy accused Arnold's sock of plotting to get him with the mindknives. I mean, so much so, he was cutting off Arnold's blood flow. I wade in there — before the nurses have a chance to body slam anybody — and slowly, slowly whip the sock off! Arnold freaks. But I calmly demonstrate that it's just a sock and textiles don't hold grudges. Stopped loony Billy beating and pissing on an old man — and — his sock!'

'Well that's great, John.' Bruce clapped him on the shoulder. 'Reason is the best weapon we have against unhealthy and irrational thoughts.'

'You mean mad thoughts, Bruce?' John chuckled. 'It's okay. You can say mad,' and he leant forward to whisper: 'we are in an asylum.'

Bruce made to laugh, but his grin quickly turned into a grimace. He squirmed a little in his chair, holding his side.

'Hey, you okay?' John ogled him, genuinely concerned.

'Yeah. It'll pass,' said Bruce gritting his teeth, 'I am just about holding together.'

'Oh. OH! I saw Bat — I mean the flying squeaker — fall. I saw the other stuff too!' John's eyes popped. 'I mean he's your dad — a dad who loved you. Of course, you're not going to stop loving him, no matter what he did to who. You can't stop love that easily!'

Taken aback and actually rather touched, Bruce nodded. 'Thanks, John. You're right. And we can love someone without liking them too.'

'We can?'

'Well, without liking them completely. You don't have to agree with somebody morally to love them either, and vice versa.'

'You mean Harley?'

'Well, I —.'

'Nah. I am over her Bruce.' John flopped a hand like he was batting a fly. 'She used me. And her actions were wrong. But I can't help miss her, though. I find myself thinking about her sometimes.' He hesitantly caught his eye. 'That's not wrong — is it?'

'No, John,' said Bruce quickly.

The pale face lit up with a grin. 'But I find myself thinking about being out there with you more!' A deflated expression briefly clouded Bruce's face, but John appeared not to notice, punching a fist upwards: 'one day, buddy! You'll see.'

Bruce gave a weak smile, and before he could stop himself, he was speaking: 'I am sorry, John.'

'For what?'

'For everything. It wasn't fair.' He shook his head, searching for the right words. 'Between me and Harley…you never got a shot at the real world.'

His friend was taking it in, looking thoughtful. 'Harley led me more wrong than you did, Bruce,' he said finally. 'You, in your way, gave me an opportunity to do what's right. Not in a passive-citizen-kind-of-way, but as a hero —.'

'John, I am not a hero.'

'— but, I blew it. Literally blew it. Blew my top. Ran away on anger and adrenaline.' A white hand rubbed the back of his neck and into the mess of green hair. 'I honestly don't know how you do it. People try to kill you, boss you, slander you. They spit in your face every day and you go on saving them anyway.'

Bruce sat still. He didn't have a reply.

John continued: 'you're like a dog that gets kicked, but comes on home anyhow.' He turned to speak to some spectre at the side of them: 'Oh, so faithful hound.'

The lines at either side of Bruce's nose crinkled. He didn't really like this comparison.

Theatrical expression switched and now John looked anxious. 'Have you heard from your old man?' he asked.

Bruce tightened. Some of the anger he felt must have deepened his eyes or twisted his mouth, because John exploded with laughter, quickly stifled.

John held up his hand: sorry.

'No. I haven't.'

John didn't seem to know what was an appropriate reply, so he threw Bruce a well-versed line in therapy: 'and how does that make you feel?'

He sighed, deciding honesty to a friend was no bad thing. 'Angry. Sad. Betrayed…Abandoned. He was the last of my family and he walked out on me. He had no real obligation to stay, of course. He was — on paper — only my butler. Maybe I really am that awful…'

John blinked. 'I don't think you're awful — I mean I did. For a time. But then you came back. You came to visit me.'

Bruce was used to John turning all things back to himself. Especially when vulnerability was shared. The man had been in therapy most of his life after all.

'We are friends aren't we, Bruce?'

It was a question John asked nearly every other visit, and Bruce gave the same answer of reassurance: 'of course, John.'

However, Bruce did not expect John's next question: 'do you have many other friends?'

'I — no. I never did.' Bruce sat still, surprised at his own answer.

John looked astounded and then nodded enthusiastically in a display meant to assure him. 'Well, I've got your back, Buddy. You ever need to talk or — actually, I wouldn't always trust my advice — but I am here, Bruce.'

He couldn't hold back a smile. 'Thanks, John.' Then he caught sight of his watch and sighed like he'd stubbed a toe.

'What?'

'I am sorry, John.' Bruce's hand had found its way to the back of his head, where he drummed his fingers in irritation. 'I've got to run', he said. 'I am people-mingling and ass-kissing tonight.'

John's eyebrows raised and his lips pursed at the horror of it. 'Oh. Party.'

'In honour of Arkham, would you believe. The press will be there to slaughter me. I just —.' He gave up on the sentence and rubbed his brow.

John's expression mirrored his own distress, and then looking bewildered he said softly, 'cancel.'

He laughed. 'That's exactly what Selina said.'

'But, why not?'

'It doesn't work like that. It's all about face. What face you present.' Bruce's eyes wondered up to the clock on the wall. Its hands had run dry a decade ago.

John's own pale face screwed up tight in disgust. 'And what hoop you jump through, right?'

'Exactly.' Bruce got up and wished he hadn't, making a groan like a kicked dog as he held his side. 'Oh shit…bye, John.'

xxx

When Bruce returned to the manor, feeling like he'd been trampled by a cattle drive, he saw a flower on the doorstep in front of the great double doors. It was a plant he couldn't identify. True, he was no botanist, but he knew enough of Mother Earth's flora to realise this flower was quite unusual. It looked a little like a lotus. Its plump white petals seamed to glow, their luminous sheen capturing light and holding it within. The stem was thick, had been cut at the base, and protruding were a nasty set of thorns, hooked and slender like cat claws. Although the flower couldn't boast a great diameter, the scent rising up from its small gold centre made Bruce shudder with pleasure. It was glorious and sweet, smelling of earth, and greenhouses, warm fruit and tropical storms. His nostrils widened. And a cave smell, like water dripping on copper. He regarded the flower and decided to save paranoia for another time. The flower was probably left by Selina. He'd thank her and ask her about it when he next saw her.

Once inside, he placed it in a small crystal vase and thought no more about it. Samson came winding around his leg, purring so hard his meows quivered. After a few hearty pets and a nibble-lick off Samson, Bruce placed a bowl of prawns alongside the cat's usual pouch and biscuits. The ginger tom immediately rushed to the serving of crustaceans and munched. Bruce laughed, thinking about the press running an article, flaming the publics disgust that his cat ate so well.

Naked apart from his socks and trunks, Bruce studied his torso in the bedroom mirror. He was bleeding through the bandages he wrapped up on himself earlier. He carefully undid them, rubbed his wound with iodine and wrapped himself up with fresh. They weren't as tight or as neat as they could've been, but he was doing it on his lonesome. Just as he had finished adjusting the cotton scrim — reaching wearily for his pants — Regina phoned.

Bruce growled at the dresser. He had deliberately buried his phone underneath a pile of shirts. Fishing between cottons and silk he found the sleek black case and reluctantly pressed the button.

'Where have you been? I've been ringing for the last 48 hours!' Regina's voice breathed shrill down the phone.

'Sorry, Regina, but life happened.' He wasn't in the mood for this. He had to save his ass-kisses for tonight.

'Life certainly has happened!' Wasps buzzed between every prickly syllable. 'Did you know about this book?'

'Yes, Regina, I gave Cecile Horton an exclusive,' he said, unnecessarily sarcastic.

Regina went horribly quiet, then spoke: 'I am not the enemy, Bruce. I know you like to think I am. When it's convenient. Remember: what hurts you, hurts me.'

Bruce didn't answer, but listened to the breaths stammering down the phone like a terrier snuffling in a rat hole. He smirked, pulling his lips down sourly.

'I can't promise the press won't sneak in. This gala is hosted respectively by Gotham, not us. Just think about how you're going to behave. And if needed: it is better to keep your mouth shut than say something you can't undo.'

She made herself calm, so he had to be too. 'I understand, Regina.'

'They're going to push you. They're all going to push you. You're the story, not Thomas.' She actually sounded concerned for him.

'I don't always think people know the difference,' he said bitterly.

There was a long pause. 'Good luck, Bruce,' she said quickly, then there was an incessant hum droning in his ear. She had put the phone down. Bruce sat with his head in hands. It was funny how often he felt like crying. He could feel like this for hours and hours and still no tear would even wet the corner of his eye. The stoic face of Bruce Wayne looked back at him from the mirror. He looked over his reflection's bandaged chest. I don't want to go, he told the mirror in his head. His reflection's mouth moved, 'well, you have to,' it said sternly. He nodded. Where were his pants?

xxx

Bruce was dropped off by a chauffeur. The gala was hosted in city hall, that was lit up from the inside like light passing through a diamond. Bruce took a deep breath and pushed roughly past the press. Cameras flashed and some called his name. He focused on the stone gargoyles at the top of the columns, leering down like the devil was rising. The interior was a riot of brass fittings and marble floors, and mighty columns that appeared to take the weight of the building, but were really just for show. A green banner was hung between the stone acanthus leaves. Bronze letters read: "SUPPORT ARKHAM. SUPPORT MENTAL WELLBEING FOR GOTHAM."

He pushed his way between the ballgowns and tuxedos swarming the floor. The eyes that fell on him either quickly looked away or fixed him, the owner's mouth finding the nearest available ear to whisper in. There was a gaggle of people he was familiar with and towards this simpering throng he strode. His ears picked up the tailing end of the conversation: 'I don't want them mixing with the public,' a woman in a scarlet dress was saying. 'Isn't that the whole point of the facility? We fund them and they have everything they need in there?'

Their faces turned in unison as he appeared on the outside of their circle. One looked expectantly at him.

Bruce cleared his throat. 'In principle, yes. However, evidence has shown that people do far better with the support of halfway houses and community programmes when re-entering society. For those able to be released, they need all the support they can get, lest they end up back inside the institution. So, for those fortunate enough not to need 24-hour care, gentle mixing with the public is of great benefit.'

The woman's face became as scarlet as her dress. Pursing her lips, she asked haughtily, 'have you found a new butler yet?'

'No, I haven't,' replied Bruce coldly.

Some unspoken agreement rustled among them and they dissolved from his side and into the rest of the crowd sweeping the floor. God, this was going to be a long night.

'What was that!' a voice hissed. Regina had spotted him.

'What was what?' he grunted.

'Didn't I say: if your words do no good, keep your mouth shut!' Her manicured hand clutched to his arm.

'What and just smile?'

'We are in a dangerous position, Bruce! Let us just get through the night.' She forced a smile, waving at somebody across from them. They began meandering around the room. Everyone drifted around one another in a kind of slow-motion performance that involved holding a wine glass with carefree fingers and a limp wrist, pushing your head back, while pulling strange simpering smiles that Bruce had only ever pulled when sampling colognes.

His cheeks were already beginning to feel rubbery, and judging from the dark twinkle in Regina's eyes, hers were too. She leaned in close, the urgency in her voice betraying her otherwise joyful exterior. 'The amount of mail Wayne Enterprises has received over this book — you don't want to know! Request for interviews on Thomas and you. It is only a matter of time before one of our employees says yes to the money!'

'Well, we'll pay them more?' said Bruce through a gritted grin.

'Ha! I am afraid that's part of the problem of our image. Things are not like they used to be.'

'So, what do you want me to do, Regina? Stop shaving, don a white robe and go live as a hermit on top of Arkham's spire?' He sneered, twitching his nose. 'Maybe getting sectioned would be a good PR move, eh, Regina?'

'Bruce. Don't kick at me,' for the first time her smile weakened. 'This Thomas-scandal never seems to go away…and just when it looked like it was done and buried there is a bloody book! With new, never before seen documents, and the whole of Gotham media is tailing it. And you don't do your best to look nearly as sympathetic enough!'

'The amount of money I've given —.'

'Yes! But that's the problem. It's just money. And Wayne-money, as far as they're concerned, is a never-ending supply of easy built on the back of —.'

'Crime,' he finished for her, his insides a wash of guilt. Beneath the bandage he was hurting. If they only knew what he gave. 'So, what would you have me do?' he spoke calmly and sincerely.

'You — and not your employees — are going to have to give interviews in response to this book. And I think the best way to play it is apologetic of and sympathetic to the material. We — the board — are going to have to script this, and you're going to have to play the bloody game for once!' Regina gasped, 'where are you going?'

He'd walked away from her. He couldn't do this. Not now, not when all he wanted to do was curl up in a dark room and wait for tomorrow's sun. Drinks were being given and somebody handed him one. He took it, grateful of some booze and gawked at the liquor in the glass. He'd not drunk absinthe in years. The drink was green like the colour of Arkham. He sneered at the organisers' attention to aesthetics, the kind of people who would try to colour coordinate the patients. Designer straight jackets and asylum glam. He tittered audibly.

At the entrance there was suddenly a frantic clicking of cameras. Cecile Horton had arrived. There was a mixed reaction from the room. Some looked hostile, others uncomfortable, some clearly supported her and others were simply eager for more gossip.

'Miss Horton! Miss Horton!' the press cried. She appeared to be accompanied by a man — although trying to be subtle — was clearly a hired guard. Bruce didn't know why, but he looked wrong. He didn't look brutish, if anything he was smart, clean-shaven and well dressed, but there was a look in his eyes like a shadow hiding a box of bones. This man was a killer. He was sure of it. Bewildered, Bruce shook the thought from his head and tried to get as far away from Horton as he could. The press was trying to get in at the entrance, but the thick arms of security held them back.

He looked about him, there were several people with phones, and a few more with discrete camcorders, almost hidden on their neck collars or top pockets. He turned away and found himself between one of these recorders and none other than Cecile Horton herself. He paled. She did the opposite and her cheeks were momentarily flushed. However, soon recovered she boldly stepped forward and addressed him. 'Mr Wayne! It's so good of you to be here, supporting the vulnerable. Mental health and the exploitation of less able people is a sensitive issue, don't you think?'

That was it. He was trapped. With effort he kept his voice light and conversational. 'Of, course.'

'Do you think it's time that Arkham got a new name?'

'I — no,' he stammered, trying to evade her deft strike below the belt. 'I think Arkham is part of Gotham's history, and rather than erase history, we should seek to extend the conversation,' he stated finally.

Horton blinked, clearly taken aback by his answer. All around he was aware cameras were watching him. 'Yet, you didn't always feel this way? What about The Thomas and Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital? The Wayne's connection with Arkham is more than intimate. How would you extend the Wayne-Arkham conversation?'

In the moment there came a disquieting throb in his chest, beating steadily harder as the smell of blood filled his nostrils. The cameras were watching him.

'Excuse me.' He pushed past Horton.

There was a bad smell, a really bad smell. But no matter the putrescence pooling at the back of his throat, there was this sweet odour that pulled him, called him to seek it. He must have pushed her too roughly and her bodyguard came forward. The smell. It was coming from the man. The criminals scent hit the back of his sinuses like a blast of cold air, although the man in front of him was hot and throbbing. He heard the blood pound and then the man pushed him. His fist whipped and struck the man hard on the nose. A spray of red stained his hand, and up his sleeve and onto the polished marble floor. Trembling, he licked the foul substance off his knuckles, exulting in its iron-sweetness. He shut his eye. Images of wicked deeds — the rape of women, and the murder of a child — flitted behind his eyes.

He heard his own voice speak low, but clear. 'I've judged you: criminal. And in the name of those you've wronged I now claim your life.'

And with that he sunk his teeth into the man's neck. Cecile Horton screamed. The room was in complete panic. Those in the vicinity ran, some stumbled, while those at the back knew something was wrong, but didn't know what. With security running towards him the press spilled in.

The world span away from all reason. There were bats everywhere. He sunk to his knees and his teeth closed around the spluttering throat again. His limbs felt rubbery, fingers numb as his nails scratched into the man's chest and face. Numb. Like he was wearing the Batsuit. No. He was Batman. The man beneath him lay paralysed, jerking. He was fitting. There were bats running all over his body.

Bruce turned his head, blood running down between the grooves of his snarling teeth. He could see Regina standing there with her mouth a round pink hole. She looked like she was going to faint.

A sharp kick struck his head. Security were making the crowd step back. Cameras flashed. Somewhere in the distance he could hear sirens. The foot made to kick him again and he sprung up and into blackness.

He was moving his body — thrashing and winding — but everything was dark.

Punching and twisting and shrieking he flailed in the blackness.

The sirens growing louder was the last thing he remembered.