Chapter 39
Good news for Gotham City
No bad news for Bruce
Bruce reflects on Edith's tactics
Tuesday lunchtime
The leaflets had come like tickertape, blossom petals, snowflakes, swept by the wind into all corners of Gotham city. A silent carpeting: no fanfare, no drawing of attention to themselves.
The switch announced itself in a storm of public service messages. This was a drenching, an attention-getting noise of notice me, don't look away – I could just save your life. On the news, on Instagram, a Facebook advert, the front pages of newspapers; posters in the windows of doctors' offices, gyms, hospital clinics, public service vehicles; even precincts. It was not possible to avoid the information.
The tv was on in the breakfast room of the vast penthouse at the top of the Wayne Foundation building. His suit jacket slung over the back of a chair, his tie loosened, Bruce was grabbing some lunch, standing, while he watched the lunchtime news bulletin.
The mayor had just given the news anchor an interview, in which it sounded like her office were taking the credit for the find, and the anchor was in the process of moving on to talk to the head of Gotham Public Health.
'No credit for you, then,' Alfred said, entering.
Bruce shook his head. 'No votes in that.'
Alfred patted his shoulder.
'I don't know how many people this affects,' Bruce said. 'We couldn't retrieve the membership lists.'
'So . . . chaos at ER then, are you thinking?'
'Depends. That doctor they were using, he should have records. They ought to be able to trace people – unless he destroyed the paperwork.'
'So you don't know how many lives you saved.'
'Not enough.'
'Better than none, though. You should take that.'
'Yeah. Better than none.'
And he would take it. He didn't seek publicity for what the Batman did: his reward had to be in knowing he had averted disaster, and that only he could have achieved that. Although it was slightly annoying that the woman who berated both Bruce and the Batman publicly a lot of the time was happy to claim credit for his efforts, when it suited her politically.
He was sort of pleased that the switch was in use, that the word was getting out there, but images, thoughts of Monday night kept creeping up on him. He was having to push down the wave of panic that wanted to wash over him and swamp him. He hadn't died: he was still here, he had survived. Kai had survived. Other, unknown people were going to survive, after Monday night. Celebration felt inappropriate, especially as this fight had cost the lives of Rachel and Matty. Quiet satisfaction might come in a few days, when he had processed it all.
He was most pleased that none of the news bulletins had mentioned his father. She had been unable to get his name out there, to attach any blame to him for the seeds and their damage. He knew that Kateri and the might of the Wayne Enterprises publicity machine were working to minimise any links with Edith Crowne, emphasise their high standards of ethics and safety, and to shut down any question of compensation. She had won some battles, but she had lost the war, as far as he was concerned. Whether Cobblepot got his money back, he didn't give a rat's ass.
Alfred liked to give the impression that he didn't read, but he was fond of quoting Sun Tzu:
Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance
Meaning the enemy. Or, in this case, her arrogance. For she had been arrogant, Edith Crowne. She had underestimated him: hometown boy, as she had liked to call him. But he was his father's son, and she should have realised that. His father's son: Thomas Wayne's boy. He felt a swell of pride – and of love.
And Thomas's boy had his father's business to learn about. Shrugging himself back into his jacket, tightening his tie, he set off back to his desk.