Chapter 38

The Batman makes a delivery

Emma's life gets difficult

Georgia gets a surprise late-night visitor

Monday night 10 pm

Jim Gordon headed into the kitchen, telling his wife he was getting some water, but he opened the fridge to see what there was. He kind of wanted to eat something, but he wasn't sure what. She would get annoyed if she knew; she saw the snacking as a heart attack waiting to happen, to say nothing of a criticism of how she fed him. The tapping on the back door window made him jump.

He opened the door and opened his mouth to speak, but didn't say what he had originally planned.

'You okay, buddy?'

He couldn't see much of the Batman's face but the guy looked wrecked. His eyes looked tired. But he held out a white box. Gordon took it, indicating the Batman should come in and sit down.

'The switch,' the Batman said.

So quiet, Gordon could hardly hear him. Opening the lid, Gordon's eyes widened.

'You did it.' He hoped he didn't sound too surprised.

The Batman nodded. Gordon read the note. His eyes went wider.

'Where was it? What happened?'

'In the basement. In a plant room.'

'What does she mean, if you get to use it?'

'Booby traps.'

That explained a lot: that drained look of someone who had been through a load of stress. He saw it frequently on the faces of his officers, and he had seen it on himself back in his frontline days. He could find out tomorrow what had happened at the Pleasure Principle gym. Someone would know, if there had been a call-out.

'Can I get you anything?' he asked gently.

A weary shake of the head.

'Go home, get some sleep. I'll deal with this, make sure it gets where it needs to go. Thank you. Good work.'

The Batman stood and took himself to the door.

'One last question – what has this got to do with Bruce Wayne? And what's with the Tin Man crack?'

'Ask him.'

Then the door was open and the Batman stepped out into the night, disappearing into the darkness.

Monday night, 10.30 pm or just after

Flustered, Emma opened the window.

'Nem!'

There was no point asking if he had seen her signal: she knew he would have. But he had never done this before – broken the rules. She let him in.

'Wait. Just wait here.'

Ran, mystified, had been ushered unceremoniously into her bedroom, with instructions only to come out when she said so. But she needed to check he had stayed put. Her tone and urgency had concerned him, coming completely out of the blue as it had done.

'Okay.'

She followed Nem out into the living room. He didn't settle. He put something down, then pacing about, he removed the gauntlets, cowl and cape. His hair looked damp. He handed her the something: a red silk heart-shaped cushion, not very well stuffed, by the feel of it.

'What does it mean?' he asked.

'Oh, Nem. In The Wizard of Oz, the book, not the film, the Wizard gives the Tin Woodman a silk heart stuffed with sawdust. Did someone give this to you?'

'It's for Bruce. What does it mean?'

She shook her head. He was too agitated for her to want to tell him that maybe someone had misunderstood, thought it would mean Bruce had no heart.

'Can I get you anything? Have you eaten?'

'Tell me about Matilda.'

So he hadn't read her messages, and he was too wired or too tired to do so now. He went to fix himself some whisky while she spoke.

'The Matilda effect is named after Matilda Joslyn Gage. She was the mother-in-law of L Frank Baum – '

'Don't tell me – who wrote The Wizard of Oz.'

He looked up at her ceiling and let go of a long, heartfelt sigh. It obviously meant something to him. She waited. Finally he sat down, but leaning forward, like he was on edge.

'What happens to the Tin Man in the book?' he asked.

'He . . . gets bashed to pieces.'

'So he dies.'

'No, I think someone puts him back together. I haven't read it. This is all from the internet.'

She sat down in the other chair and waited for him to process that. He put down the tumbler and put his head in his hands, elbows on knees. Had someone told Bruce he was the Tin Man?

'He has a heart all along. Nem – are you listening? He has a heart all along, he just doesn't realise it. They got it wrong. Whoever left this for Bruce – they got it wrong, if they meant to say he doesn't have one.'

Slowly, slowly, he turned his face towards her. Those agonised, black-rimmed eyes, her abiding memory from that first time she had met him. She reached out to put a hand on his nearest wrist.

'It's a happy ending for him, Nem.'

Just as she removed her hand and he straightened back up, the tension visibly draining from him, she became aware of Ran in the doorway. She stood.

'Nem, I'm sorry.'

She beckoned for Ran to enter. She could tell from his thin-lipped expression that he was not happy, wanting to know what was going on. Nem also rose, and turned to face Ran. Ran's eyes widened in recognition. He turned to her in bewilderment.

'How long has this been going on?' he demanded.

'Nothing happens,' she said. 'We drink whisky, we talk. That's all.'

'It's not her fault,' Nem said.

'I'll be the judge of that.'

'Nothing happens between us. Nothing.' She held his gaze. 'He's like – like another child. I'm like an aunt. That's all. That's all.'

'And you felt you had to hide it? You couldn't trust me enough to tell me?'

'Look, Ran – if you wanna hit me, go ahead,' Nem said. 'It's been a hell of a night. You can't make it any worse. Otherwise I'm just gonna leave and let you two sort it out.'

Emma held her breath, waiting for Ran to make a move, if he was going to. Nem waited a beat, then started to gather his things and put them back on. As he started to walk past Ran to the bedroom, he said:

'Don't throw away what you have over a few glasses of whisky, a few late-night chats. She means a lot to me, but not the way she means something to you. And you mean something to her. I'm no threat to you, to what you have.' In the doorway he turned. 'Tell him, Em. Tell him whatever you need to, to make it work. But thank you. Thank you for explaining.'

Then he was gone, leaving Emma and Ran facing each other across the living room. She could feel his jealousy, his insecurity from a year ago resurfacing. They had been on an even keel since those turbulent days. She had to hope this storm (in a teacup, as it appeared to her) would blow through quicker, and that both her relationships would survive in some form.

Sitting on the chair was the red silk heart. It had been a happy ending for the Tin Woodman; she had to hope she could make it a happy ending for her and Ran.

Monday night, 11.30 pm

She was woken by the insistent buzzing of her cell. At first she had thought it was an insect in her dream, then she had realised what it was. It couldn't be work: she had not officially returned to duty after her compassionate leave. Groggily she reached for it. She swore softly as she saw the name. What on earth did he want, at this time of night? What couldn't wait till tomorrow?

As she opened the front door to him, she was already saying

'What the hell time d'you – '

But her words died away and her eyes widened as she saw that the person in front of her was not Bruce, but the Batman.

'What the fff . . .?' She pulled him in and shut the door.

When she turned, he was already disappearing into her bedroom. By the time she caught up with him, he had removed the cowl and the gauntlets. The cape was puddled on the floor at the side of the bed.

'What the – ?'

She tried again but he pressed a finger to her lips. Then he kissed her, an urgent, almost desperate sort of kiss. The kiss of life, like he was trying to take in vital life force from her. She could taste the whisky on him. When he released her, let them both come up for air, he started to rip open Velcro fastenings.

'What's going on?' she blocked his hand, so he couldn't silence her. 'What's happened?'

She took both of his hands in hers, forcing him to become still. 'Tell me what happened.'

He subsided on to the bed. 'I thought – I thought I was going to die.'

'Oh, baby.' Sitting beside him, she put one arm round his shoulders and with the other cradled his head as he leaned into her, hiding his face against her. 'It's okay. You're okay now.'

She got it, this stress. No wonder he looked so wrecked. That fear, that these might be your last moments, was overwhelming. She didn't know any officer who got used to that: the let-down from that cortisol surge; the thoughts you couldn't stop of what might have been, of what you had come so close to; of what you might have lost. Was that her, then? Was that why he was here, without even bothering to change?

'What do you need, baby?' she asked gently.

'You,' he whispered.

She let go of him, took his face in her hands briefly, then went to fetch some things from the bathroom. She stood in front of him, starting to clean the dark stripes from round his eyes, her fingers beneath his chin to tilt his head up.

'If only Matty could see me now.'

He put a finger on his own lips. She nodded.

'It's okay, I get it.'

He guided her as to how to take off the suit. When he was down to the running kit, she unwound the bandages round his hands. They were damp. The running kit was damp, clammy, clinging to him, making him shiver. After she had peeled it off him, she draped a towel round his shoulders. While he dried himself, she looked for signs of injury, indications that she should really take him to ER. Apart from some bruises and red marks, she couldn't see any damage: the suit had saved him from whatever it was.

He was so tired, so overwhelmed, that she encouraged him to lie down and sleep, wiping away the dampness on his cheeks and kissing them, stroking him soothingly. She lay up close behind him, warming him, her arm over him, listening to his slowing breathing, feeling his tight grip on her wrist relax, until she, too, fell back to sleep.

Tuesday morning

Although she was technically still on sick leave, she was working her way back in slowly, so Tuesday was one of the days she had decided to go in and do desk duties. It would also take her mind off the funeral tomorrow. He started to stir as she moved around and in and out of the bedroom, but did not open his eyes until she was zipping up her skirt. It took him a moment to realise where he was, his eyes seeking hers. When he found her, he appeared to relax a little.

He seemed a little subdued but none the worse for wear, starting to get himself organised. She was curious to know how he was going to get himself home, stepping out from hers in the bat suit, currently piled in a heap by his side of the bed. The answer was Alfred: she should have known.

She waited with him, bringing him coffee and making sure he didn't bump into the housemate. Alfred brought a suit carrier, which left the apartment bulkier than when it had come in. Bruce walked out in jeans, hoodie and waterproof, and stopped by a motorbike which was drawing attention, smarter and more powerful than his usual one.

Alfred had also waited, outside, by a black SUV that was also drawing attention, mainly to hand Bruce a helmet. Her eyes widened at the implication.

'Want a lift?' Bruce asked.

She realised that Alfred had been holding two helmets.

'He likes to think he can predict people,' Bruce said.

Briefly she wondered what Alfred's predictions were for her and Bruce.

Outside the precinct she got off and handed him the helmet. He removed his so they could kiss. He held her gaze for a brief moment, his eyes unreadable.

'Don't carry it by yourself, whatever it is,' she said. 'Talk to me. I'm here.'

'I will.'

Why did she have the feeling that he wouldn't? This strange, shy, totally self-contained man, used to dealing with things on his own. She watched him disappear into the traffic, then took herself inside.