CHAPTER 4: BUSINESS
Outside the delicatessen the streets are flooding. It's raining in the Narrows. The day is a dreary one.
Inside, Martha Aiken lies in the fetal position on a fold-out couch, shivering beneath a large patchwork quilt. She occupies what was once a wine cellar, what is now The Joker's 'office'. There are no windows, but she can still hear the rain coming down, somehow. The dust clogs her senses, and she is plagued by the abundance of spider webs in the corners.
Strange random items coat the wine cellar walls and fill up the old wine-shelves, items that describe the mentality of The Joker perfectly. There are old strange stage masks, hammers, knives—all manner of sharp-bladed knives—various other kinds of weapons, a coyote skull, some dead rats nailed to a support beam, old black-and-white pictures of nobody in particular (some in frames, some stapled to the ceiling, some cut and some ripped out of magazines), an odd assembly of clothing hung in a kind of closet that more-so resembles a hole chopped into the cement wall by an axe or a sledge hammer, and strange, surreal paintings of gutted women with pig's heads and howling mouths for stomachs. Martha wonders if the scarred man, The Joker, painted these himself. Either way, they frighten her. She tries not to look at them.
But the strangest things in the room are the odd assortment of newspaper clippings splayed out across the surface of the desk facing the opposite wall. A series of articles all about the Batman, ones dating back to the year he arrived in Gotham. She wonders if her captor has an obsession. She has looked at these articles in her spare time (for, like the spider webs, there is an abundance of them as well), read them over once or twice without moving them (she dares not touch them), and she's seen his handwriting and doodles in the margins of some. She does not touch the desk at all. She keeps her hands to herself like with most of the rest of the items found in the wine cellar. She knows that he has the positions of most of the things there memorized. No matter how scattered and messy it all may look to her, somehow he can sense when things have been disturbed. Martha Aiken discovered this when he first brought her into his office, and found the consequences most terrifying.
The Joker had locked her in for the night, this was after her show of hysterics in the dinning room. He had locked her in, pushing the key under the door from the outside.
"The door opens from the outside only." He had explained to her from the other side of the cellar door. "Haven't the slightest idea why . . . Must've been some pretty expensive wine down here, I suppose. Meh. At any rate, I figured you might feel a tad uncomfortable if, say, I or one of my men had access to this place while you were trying to sleep. So, naturally, I figured maybe you'd feel a little easier if you were the one in control. However, Martha, you oughta know something else. My little room I'm offering up to you, well, it's kinda sorta wired to blow."
And indeed it had been. She'd found several drums of gasoline near the far back wall where he'd told her to go looking, all of them attached to a kind of blinking clock-like mechanism. And she had believed him when he had gone on to say he had the detonation remote with him on the other side.
"If, in the morning," He had warned her, "I come a'knockin' and you don't slide that key back, I'll blow you into itsy bitsy little pieces, Martha. Understand?"
"Yes." Had been her grave reply.
"Excellent. Nighty-night, then!" And off he'd gone, his footsteps climbing up the loose wooden-step stairs until she could no longer here them with her ear pressed to the door.
There are odd post-it notes and lists on lined paper covering the floor. Signs of The Joker's attempts to be organized. Being alone, and finding herself curious during that first night, she unknowingly disturbed these papers. She picked up a list, read it (half the things on it were written so sloppily she could barely make them out), and set it back down. When next The Joker entered in to check on her, carrying a small tray of food, and noticed this small difference, he became enraged—sending the tray flying and making threats of no more food and the like.
Approaching her with narrow eyes, he had grabbed her by the wrist, and said in a low, dangerous whisper "If you ever touch anything in this room again, I'll keep the room key and crush your head in with a hammer while you sleep, mmmkay . . ."
Needless to say, Martha Aiken has not slept well since then. But she has, at least, been eating semi-decently. Each day (a number have gone by thus far—although she can not tell how many) The Joker comes to the door, knocking a particular knock that she is certain must be some strange take on Shave And A Haircut, and she obediently slides the key under for him. And each time he waltzes in to meet her with a tray of food. Sometimes he isn't just visiting to feed her. Sometimes he comes to take her to the bathroom so that she may wash up in the sinks or use the facilities there. One of the stalls is stocked specifically for her with several boxes of various feminine items and a trash can for the depositing of anything old and used. This both surprises and worries her, to know he has foreseen her staying up to (or longer than) a month, and been reasonable (and realistic) enough to prepare for it. Sometimes he gives her a change of clothes, and whenever she's courageous enough to ask where he's gotten said articles of clothing, he either says he's killed a prostitute or robbed the salvation army, both of which, to Martha, are believable answers. Sometimes he comes in simply to retrieve an item or piece of paper from his desk. Sometimes he comes in looking like he wants to retrieve something, but in reality it's only that he's making sure she hasn't been disturbing the placement of anything. But mostly, he comes in to talk. And the main topic of conversation so far has been the technicalities of Gotham 1st National.
Martha lies on the bed, zoning out. She has been comatose, in a manner of speaking—a zombie—in this place where he's put her to rot. She yawns, eyes fluttering sleepily.
Up until now it's been a very business-like relationship. Come in, sit down, not too close, not too far, well mannered pleasantries, hello, how are you, ironic being that she is his hostage and he can only imagine how her "day's been going". Up until now it's been him poking and prodding her with the strangest questions.
"Put yourself in my place, Martha. If you wanted to rob Gotham 1st National, how might you go about it?"
Up until now it's been him asking her for information about things she had never really thought of before. When it came to working at, what was to her, simply the bank, she never really paid that much attention to the precise number of feet between the entrance doors into the building and the teller desks. And now she was being asked for those sort of minute details, and often times she would find herself struggling to give a helpful answer. But she has at least been cooperative. She's told him everything and anything she could, all while trying to ignore the fact that talking about the bank is making her miss her old life, is making her realize how much she took the normalcy of her old life for granted.
She recalls how big the windows were at Gotham 1st National. She feels like she's forgetting what natural sunlight was. She can't be sure how long it's been since she's felt the daylight on her face, but at any rate she's become accustomed to the dimness of the delicatessen, and her vision has gotten better in the dark.
He has her make lists when he is gone.
He gives her old dinning room place-mats and some crayons and asks her to "Please draw out a diagram, as best you can, of the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd floors. Like a blueprint, Martha. Like a blueprint."
He does this for two reasons. One: for his own benefit, to be better organized and thus better prepared in the end. And two: to help Martha avoid worrying about her fate, that which he refuses to confirm. And up until now she's done her best to behave and obey—to cooperate.
Up until now the proposition of release, the small and almost irrational possibility of it has begun to sneak back into her mind. Faintly, she has begun to think that if she really, truly has done a good enough job of cooperating, he might let her go soon. She has begun to think that, surely, it can't be long now.
Up until now, everything has been going steadily well. A routine, or something akin to one, had been formed between them.
Until today.
Today he knocks his knock and she lets him in and to her surprise, she finds he's carrying two bowls of oatmeal (breakfast, she guesses, as it's been for the last however many days) rather than one.
The two sit down on the couch together and he sets the tray up on a small coffee table facing the couch. He's got another clothing article under his arm and he sets it down in between them, grinning.
A brief silence.
"So," He begins, watching her cautiously take the oatmeal and sniff it. "How are you, Martha? Everything goin' well? Mind if I, uh, eat with you?"
She stares down at the oatmeal, brow furrowing. He's in a very friendly mood today, a little too friendly. She's thinking now that, maybe, just maybe, he's got all he wants from her.
Maybe, just maybe, he's put poison in her oatmeal.
"What's the matter, Martha?" He chirps happily, rocking back and forth like an eager child. "Not hungry today?"
She says nothing, sets the bowl down.
He licks his lips, shrugs.
"You know . . ." He muses, pointing to his face, "I still haven't told you how I got these scars."
"Aren't we going to talk about the bank today?" She asks him carefully.
"Mmmm, I think today—today we should do something different. Something unplanned. Wuddya think?"
She purses her lips.
"What's that?" She asks, eying the article of clothing.
He stands quickly, grabs the thing, shakes it out. She sees it's nothing more than a small velvet bag, out of which fall several make-up items. Lipstick, face-paint, eye shadow, baby wipes and a red hand-held mirror all land on the coffee table in front of her. She looks down at his make-up, puzzled.
"Let's play dress up!" He shouts. "Want to?"
She eyes him guardedly.
"No thank you." She tells him, feeling uneasy. "I would rather discuss Gotham 1st National."
"Aww! But that—" He grabs her, yanks her out of her seat, "—is no fun. Is it now, Martha?"
She watches as he pulls a long dagger out of the inside of his vest and angles the blade at her menacingly.
"Here, now. I'll tell you what. For every part of your face you cover, I'll wipe that part of mine clean. Sound good to you?"
"I don't understand." She says, trying to wriggle away from him. She hates being this close to him. "I-I'm confused. What has this got to do with Goth—"
"Absolutely nothing! I was feeling bored!" He screams, shoving her back onto the couch violently. "Weren't you?" He asks, voice suddenly calm and gentle.
She looks around, panicked now.
"Fine. Fine." She says hastily, and goes to take the lipstick.
"No." He snaps, and she quickly withdraws her hand from the coffee table. "No . . . The face-paint first, Martha. The face-paint first."
She takes the face-paint and he takes the mirror, holding it in front of her. She opens the container and dips her fingers into the cold, white paint. Slowly, she raises her fingers to her face, and while looking in the mirror, starts to coat her left cheek with it.
"That's it." He says coldly. "Have you ever wanted to be somebody else, Martha? Have you ever wished your face could . . . look different?"
She says nothing, continues to smear the paint over her cheek until she looks as pale as he does. His face seems cool and uncaring. He replaces the knife with one of the baby wipes and starts to wipe the makeup off of his own cheek.
Several minutes pass. Neither speaks.
She keeps her eyes on the mirror, as best she can. He's stopped holding it strait, part of having to devote a minor portion of his attention to his own face which, as it stands, is almost completely devoid of makeup now. Several used baby wipes litter the floor around his feet in a crumpled pile.
He points down at the table with the mirror, gesturing toward the lipstick. She glances nervously at it, and back to him for approval. He nods once and she picks it up. Slowly, she starts to put the lipstick on, movements delicate and poised.
"No!" he hisses.
She jumps, fumbles, drops the lipstick.
"Pick it up!"
She hastily obeys.
He points the mirror at her and she wonders whether or not he's about to throw it.
"What do you think you're doing, Martha?" He asks her, voice irate. "Getting ready for your senior prom? This is not a beauty pageant!"
Trembling, she raises the lipstick to her face and starts again. This time she mimics his design, and spreads the lipstick over her lips, going past the corners of her mouth and coating her cheeks in thick globs that arc upward into a crooked smile.
He relaxes, and the flare of anger that had consumed his eyes recedes until his expression is once again that of dull contempt.
"Much better, Martha." He coos merrily.
The mirror is back in place now, more or less, and she can see her face.
She suppresses a gasp. She looks like him, but it's much worse. She looks like herself as well. She shudders and quickly looks away, feeling sick to her stomach and doing her best to focus on the material of the couch cushion beneath her. He seems to notice her discomfort and she hears the mirror hit the floor with a faint thud. Looking up she gets her first good look at him in the whole of their shared time together.
It is odd, seeing his naked face. She stares at his scars, studying them and noting how, while they still appear quite menacing, they now seem somewhat pitiful. She tries to imagine what it felt like for him and incidentally remembers her own scars. She clutches at her wrists as her breath catches in her throat. Her eyes scan the newly exposed flesh around the eyes – his are sunken in, wide and gassy within darkened bags. She can't help but feel a little sorry for him, but even then the feeling is fleeting as she focuses on his face as a whole. His expression is banal, average. There's something about the way he looks now that his war paint is gone. He isn't ugly, and he isn't attractive. She settles on categorizing his face as common-place, or at least it would be without the scars. With them he is a kind of perplexing grotesque – the sort of grotesque you respect. He reminds her of the gothic gargoyles that grace the outer ledges of the skyscrapers in and around the city; you can't help but look at them, despite their unsightly appearance. They're mesmerizingly repugnant.
"Well," He asks, brow twitching enticingly, "I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. Nolan."
She eyes him up and down and considers. With the absence of his mischievous mask, and maybe a slightly blander outfit, he could virtually pass for an ordinary person.
"It's funny. You look almost – "
She stops herself, suddenly aware of what she is about to say. He glares down at her suspiciously. Her mouth clamps tightly shut and the silence is deafening. After a moment he bares his teeth in a wicked grin.
"Normal?" He finishes for her, with just a hint of amusement. "Were you going to say normal, Martha?"
She quickly shakes her head, afraid. She's offended him. She's tried not to but it is too late, he has guessed her remark before she's made it. Preemptive strike.
"N-No, no, I only meant – I mean I didn't – I wasn't trying to –"
He raises his hand, cutting her off mid stammer.
"I don't care." He says bluntly and tosses the mirror at her. She flinches, catches it, and flings it aside as if she's just been handed a live rattlesnake.
"How cute." He taunts.
Before she can reply he jumps over the table and twirls about-face, letting himself land heavily beside her on the couch. She tries to scoot away, seeking shelter from his proximity by retreating to the far end of her side of the couch. But he catches her by the wrist and drags her to him. He puts an arm around her shoulder and keeps her there with a firm, tight grip. She doesn't look at him.
"You know," He begins, breath hot on her ear, "I used to be normal."
He emphasizes this last word with an obscene amount of sarcasm, and stares at her in an attempt to gauge her reactions. Martha refuses to make eye contact, so he shrugs and goes on.
"Had a job, had a mail box, a coat rack and a set of keys. Even had a wife." And with this her head jerks up, mouth slightly agape, eyes catching his at last and his grin widens at her shock. "What's that Martha? You don't think I'm capable? We both have the same organ pumping our blood. You should try not to be so judgmental."
She swings her gaze away and back down to the couch cushion, cheeks burning.
"Times were tight, though. She didn't come from a wealthy family, and me, well, I worked at a chemical plant downtown. One day she tells me she's pregnant, and it's right then and there that I realize we'll never be able to feed the kid with just my measly two-bit salary. Oh sure, I asked for extra hours, pulled the night shift on weekdays, was dead tired on weekends after the morning shift. But it wasn't enough, Martha. God help me, it just wasn't enough. I'm your classic example of a down-and-out lower-class slob who had no other options – I had to resort to a life of crime."
She hears him speak, trying not to listen but failing. Classic villainous monologue? Deeply disquieting, heartfelt life-story? She has no idea, but she knows what it's building up to and she doesn't want to hear it. She clutches at her wrists and stares down at the threading of the cushion. Time stands still.
"Oh, it wasn't anything intense at first. No big jobs. I started small, and found I had a real knack for it. The wife never knew." He paused, shook his head sadly, and then went back to smilingly grimly. "After a while I began placing myself in mob affairs, and wouldn't you know it, they found me an interesting character. As a matter of fact, they found me so interesting that they felt it worth the trouble to try and eliminate me. Isn't that nice? Talk about being a celebrity." He declares arrogantly.
He withdraws the knife from his sleeve again and grabs her head, forcing her to look at it, to look at him.
"A couple of thugs showed up at the plant one night. I was working the night shift, the plant was dead, and they taught me their pleasant little lesson with crowbars in some shadowed corner of an unused office. The last of them gave me these." He points with a kind of sick pride at his scars. "Thought it was some funny joke. I can see why he did now, although, of course, at the time I couldn't."
She flinches at the image he has brought in to her mind. Pity mixed with horror and disgust blaze in the pit of her gut, and she is ashamed – ashamed to feel sorry for him, ashamed to be in this situation (although, really, what could she have done to prevent it).
"But that wasn't the worst of it, Martha." He finishes, voice a deep, hushed whisper. "I won't bore you with the details of what happened next. Needless to say they figured me for dead. So you know what they did, Martha? They took my wife out too. I got home in time to watch it happen. According to the papers the cause of the fire was electrical. Allegedly. But I know what really happened. Men like that, they don't leave loose-ends, now do they . . . It was around about the time the rubble started to collapse that I finally saw the funny side. It takes a lot of effort to be so serious all the time. Life, all aspects of it, well now they just make me smile!"
His grin is obnoxiously wide.
"So now you know, Martha. Now you know why this little heist of mine is so very important to me. And I'm not the only one. Half of my men have their own score to settle with Gotham's organized crime leaders. Now you know why your cooperation, your assistance with all of this means so much to me and the gang."
She squeezes her eyes shut, screaming in her head. Go away now. Just go away. Go back to the meat locker the restaurant dinning room go to hell go somewhere anywhere the next customer can come to my till would you like to make a deposit or a withdrawal thank you have a good day only go away just go away go away GO AWAY!
As if he were somehow able to hear her thoughts, he shrugs nonchalantly and stands. In an instant he's picked up everything from the tabletop, save for the baby-wipes, and has bundled it all back into the bag he brought.
He heads for the door. Martha says nothing.
Without another word he leaves. Martha doesn't move.
He's left her the wipes to remove the makeup, but not the mirror. Silently, Martha puts her hands to her face and starts to cry again. The tears mix with the makeup and leave freshly cleaned skin in their descending wake. She sits alone in her cage and cries, but she can't quite be certain whether she's crying for herself, or for him.