"Opportunity cracks,
Opportunity stutters.
It only takes a minute.
And it takes it, and it takes it, and it takes it, and it takes it.
I woke up with a feeling I just could not take."
Last I Heard (...He Was Circling the Drain) – Thom Yorke
The Cobble Hill Diner is busier on Sundays than you'd expect.
We open at 9 am, a marked difference to our 6 am starts Mon-Fri, and put on a few specials alongside our regular menu, namely our pancake dishes and Hash of the Week. Today, we're serving up our Strawberry Shortcake, Blueberry Blizzard, and Peachy Keen pancakes, and the Hash of the Week is our 'South of the Border' special: egg, bacon, potato, avocado, red pepper, corn, jalapeños, and onion, with a healthy drizzle of hot sauce.
The area is slightly nicer than the one I live in and given it's near not one but three churches and one of the overpasses going across the river, the customers on Sundays are usually nicer than during the week. Godfolk, peaceful and quiet. They tend to keep to themselves and not cause any trouble; they just want an indulgent breakfast-brunch-lunch before or after they've been to church, or just because it's the weekend—screw it, a nice hearty breakfast before a day trip off to the mainland. Most are polite but there are some who don't understand the difference between respectful silence and ignoring your server, but hey, who am I? Only God can judge them.
Today's a little different, however. I'm thinking it might have something to do with my lack of concentration. That could be i-
"Hey, watch it! Jeez, you almost spilled hot coffee on my hands!"
"Oh! I'm so, so sorry," I start, the damp cloth in my hand already wiping up the offensively hot liquid as I sit the coffee pot down. "I really am sorry about that, my head's been all over the place today. Would you like another beverage? Totally on the house, of course, as my way of saying sorry. Maybe a milkshake or soda float?" I don't look at the man until all spilled liquid has been absorbed by my rag, and even though I don't look at him sharply, he's still startled when we finally make eye contact. His lips are open, which leads me to believe he was about to answer and then the sight of my face knocked the words off his tongue. Great. That makes me feel just great. And here I was, trying my best not to think about it.
To his left, a small child sits forward, eyes wide, so I drop my gaze to the table, swiping with my cloth at invisible stains in order to ready myself for whatever brutally honest remark is about to spring forth from this child's mouth. I should have stayed home.
The man notices his child's sudden interest and beats him to the chase.
"Uh, a chocolate milkshake would be great, thanks. Really, that's too kind of you. It was nothing."
If it had been nothing, you wouldn't have yelled.
Maybe it's not my lack of concentration. Maybe today's tainted by the fact that almost half my face is seven shades of blue.
One and the same, really.
I nod and tuck the grimy cloth into the front of my apron as I turn away. A chocolate milkshake coming right up. Good choice. I could go one too.
On my way back to behind the counter, I spot my supervisor, Gary, poised with hands-on-hips, watching out one of the large windows, his back to me. I take his elsewhere concentration as my chance to escape behind the counter unnoticed, but as I approach the last stool on my right, he turns, crystalline eyes locking on mine and freezing me in place. He wasn't watching out the window—he was waiting for me. He pushes off the balls of his feet and inches towards me, face unreadable.
A severe weasel of a man, Gary peaked when he became supervisor of the diner—not manager, they exist but I've never once seen them—and the power trip went straight to his angular, bald head. He's worked here for years, seemingly for as long as the diner's been open, and he's never once aged in the time I've been here, always the stern, pale man pieced together with angles and lines and icy, blue eyes. Andrea, another server, and I sometimes joke about him even predating the diner: what came first—the diner or Gary's dad?
As he nears, he looks me up and down before stopping. Hands back on his hips. Not happy. Maybe. He's difficult to read, in part because he wants to be.
"Everything going okay, Carter?"
He always uses surnames, another way of distinguishing our rank in the hierarchy from his.
"Uh, yeah. All going well so far, Mr. Sullivan."
I'm lying through my teeth. I've made four mistakes and the evidence of the last is bleeding a dark wet patch on the front of my apron.
He considers my answer, actually, no, he pretends to consider my answer, given away by the fact he's smirking.
"Really?"
Catch-22. I don't want to admit I've just lied to him but I also don't want to lie any more than I need to. So I just nod.
"Hmm," he utters, spindly fingers drumming against his cheek as he cradles his chin. Unconvinced. His eyes glaze past me, back to the table I've just come from, and light up at something he sees. Then—they're flashing to me. "Forgetting something?"
Newsflash: 7.25/hour isn't worth this anxiety.
I check my pockets—got my cloth, my pen, my notepad—and once satisfied, and truly lost as to what he's getting at, I shake my head no.
He sighs.
I was wrong, then.
He rushes past me, impatient and excited all at once, and then reappears as quickly as he left. From behind his back, he proffers the coffee pot I'd forgotten about and thrusts it my way, forcing me to take it with both hands.
"Wake up, Carter. Whatever that is," he says, waving in the direction of my bruises. "You leave it at the door when you step in my diner. Do your job but do it well. If you can't, the door's right there to your left."
A hush has fallen over the tables around us, several sets of blinking eyes staring in my direction as they witness my admonition.
I can feel my cheeks swell crimson, face now depicting a cop car's lights, and I find I can't move, no matter how much I want to run and cry.
Gary is pleased as he retreats behind the counter. Frozen, I follow him with my eyes as he heads to the door leading to the back. Before he disappears, he turns to me with a smirk and suddenly, he's Rambo and there's no-one else in the diner. He's the man who partook in my mother's slaughter. He's every bad man. And he's—
—he's gone.
And the hush has lifted: tables returning to normal, the cacophony of cutlery and chatter commencing again.
And I'm unfrozen.
When I get behind the counter-bar, the coffee pot gets slammed into its resident spot with a little more rage than usual.
The diner's rush ends after 1 pm.
All that remains is a man sitting by himself on one of the stools at the far end of the counter and an elderly couple tucked away into their favorite booth. The man and child who received their free milkshake have long since left, with milkshake slurped dry and a surprisingly extra-generous tip left behind for me. Guilty witnesses of my public hanging seeking forgiveness.
I'm sat on one of the stools, tucking bundles of napkins into their holders. The television, stationed above the counter so that most patrons and staff can see it, has been switched over to the lunchtime news. I've not actually had the chance to tune in this morning so, in this period of downtime, I allow myself the luxury of watching.
"Welcome back to GCN Today. I'm Mike Engel, and here are your updates."
Shit, he's back at work? This guy can't catch a break.
"Dr. Harleen Quinzel, the Joker's resident psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum, has been reported as 'WANTED' by the police for her possible involvement in the Joker's escape. As of right now, she is missing and expected to be with the Joker, so is considered extremely dangerous. If you should see her, do not interact. Phone the Gotham Police Department as soon as it is safe to do so."
Damn, so the rumors were true. Maybe I should track down Elaine from Suds City and see what else she knows.
"Streets of Gotham have seen an increase in police presence this morning, despite no official announcement from the Commissioner. The Joker has not yet been caught, so taking extra safety measures are advised."
And what might those be?
How exactly does a normal Gothamite protect themselves against the Joker?
"All unnecessary travel is advised against. Public transport, though still deemed 'safe', is advised against if possible, particularly after dark. We're even hearing that shopping should, preferably, be carried out online, isn't that right, Gloria?"
I find myself shocked as I watch the news segment turn into an elaborate ruse to promote certain websites for online shopping. People are tuning in, hoping to receive genuine advice in coping with knowing the most dangerous domestic terrorist in Gotham (or even the world) freely roams our streets, and the corporations who own the media are capitalizing on it.
Joke's on them. Don't the bigwigs at GCN know their viewer base is primarily made up of the 'bad' Gothamites working two to four jobs in order to afford to live? I don't own a computer, and I'm not even the worst off. There's not going to be any online shopping.
"It's ridiculous, isn't it?"
Andrea. My favorite colleague, she was my mentor my first day here and is still the kindest of the lot. Still acts like my mentor too, because 'learning is an ongoing adventure.' She's a bit shorter and a little bit heavier than me but that's because she's had three kids. I couldn't believe it when her family came in for lunch one day. In her late forties but could easily pass for early thirties. One of those timeless women, y'know? Shoulder-length, well-kept black hair, kind, green eyes, great, big smile. She's not exactly stop-and-stare stunning from across a room when her resting face is on, but as soon as she smiles, you know it's over for you—and you're more than fine with that.
Looking to my left, she's there, hair pulled back into a low ponytail, resting on the counter. Her long nails are painted a glossy mauve today and her lips are shaded in reddish-brown. The more I look at her, the more I think I was wrong in thinking she wasn't always stunning. She is.
"Though, they do have some kind of point," she adds. "We all got so comfortable with no madmen running about that there's bound to be some people out there thinking nothing's changed and won't change a single thing about their routine." She sighs and pats the counter, pushing off and rounding behind it. Now, she's staring at my face, inspecting my bruises rather intently. "If you were in trouble, you'd let me know, right?" The question is not quite from left-field, given she'd grilled me this morning in the staff room, asking 'what the hell happened?', 'who did that?', and 'are you sure you're alright?', but I'm still a little thrown we've gone from chatting about GCN's shit show to me.
I offer her my best genuine smile. She's a mother and a mother hen at that, so I know she won't give up until she's suitably reassured.
"Andrea, honestly. I'm fine! It looks worse than it is." I make a point of gently prodding the tender skin around my eye and—oh, fuck, big mistake. I wince for a second before I force the smile back on. She looks unconvinced. "I told you, I slid on my way out the bath on the damp pizza box. Nicked my cheek on the sink. I'm fine."
She sighs and steps back.
"Alright, but if this becomes a regular occurrence, you best believe I'll be getting involved."
I nod once, twice, thrice to satisfy her before she finally recedes into the kitchen.
Once she's gone, I find myself letting out a massive breath. Look, I'm grateful she cares. It makes my heart swell, truly—her interest and kindness are lovely and everything I probably need right now. But I'd find this day a bit easier if people just accepted what I told them first off and let it be. I don't know what I got myself into last night, and I'm not sure obsessively thinking about it all night and day will help my long-term mental health straight off the back of evading the Joker.
The kitchen door swings open again but I keep my head down, focused on the napkins. If I don't engage, maybe she'll finally drop it.
As she approaches me, the bell above the door rings.
"Hey," Andrea interrupts, waving a hand in front of my face. I brace myself for what could be a continuation of before, peeling myself off the counter to look at her. I just catch the grimace she's been wearing today just for me, somehow thinking I'm oblivious to her constant eyeballing of my bruises, before she quickly regains her composure and masks it with her signature smile, melting my heart as she does so, and nods to the door behind me. "Your favorite customer's here." And with that, she's off to serve the pies on her tray to the elderly couple at the opposite end.
I allow her to pass behind me before facing the door and when I do, I falter.
It's Oz.
Dressed in a blue sport coat, tan slacks, and a white fedora, he looks the ultimate picture of late-summer relaxation—as if he's just stepped off a cruise ship onto the banks of Positano in the 1950s. His smart casual demeanor makes me blanch, not because I dislike it but because after last night? It's insulting and downright insensitive. How dare he think he can waltz in here looking like a contented tourist, smiling as he pockets his pair of black wayfarers as if this were any other sunny day, despite half my face looking like a Mark Rothko canvas and it being his fault.
My temple throbs in greeting as he takes a small step forward, still smiling, and jerks me over with his head. When I'm a foot away, he speaks.
"Nice day," he starts, glancing over his shoulder to the sunlit windows. "Been busy?"
I gape at him. Small talk. Really? It takes me a second to overcome the urge to lunge forward and throttle him and even then the urge remains, abated though lying in wait.
"Not really, nothing like last night."
I can't help myself with that comment and, having adopted the universal unimpressed stance—hip-cocked, arms-crossed, head-tilted with one foot slightly in front of the other waiting to be unleashed to tap at the most crucial moment—I feel a slight amount of perverse glee. His eyes take on a glint as he surveys my posture and he scratches the shadow of scruff on his cheek with a thick paw, the short, sparse, black hairs on the inside of his wrist contrasting against the brilliant-white collar of his shirt like baby spiders on bathroom tile.
"Well, hopefully, you'll have a more peaceful day. It is God's day after all."
After all these years, why would He show now? And since when did Oz care about God?
"You removed the bandaid," he comments quietly, only for my ears, halting my inner tirade.
"It came off," I retort, "in the shower."
He nods absentmindedly as he redirects his attention to the diner, hands in his pockets as he paces about, observing the remaining patrons and glancing briefly over the television.
"You had your lunch yet?"
"No, I usually don't take my lunch 'til half-past."
He chuckles emptily at that and shakes his head.
"Today's not usual," he says and stops pacing. "I think you should take your lunch early. We've got a lot to talk about."
My stomach drops.
"I-I can't, I've gotta work a bit lon-"
"Hey! Gary!" Oz yells out, manoeuvering around me, ignoring me, to lean on the bar.
What the hell is he doing, calling for my supervisor like I'm not even there?
"Well, hello to you too, Ozzy." Gary's reply is immediate, sending a chill down my spine. I turn to see him right there, opposite Oz and shaking his hand.
Had he been watching us? I swear, he was in the back office a minute ago.
Oz extracts his paw from the weasel rather abruptly to jerk his thumb behind him to me.
"Mind if Ruby takes her lunch just now?" His voice is firm. Not a question, more a demand. Oz the Boss in full operation. When he sees Gary regard me with outright disdain, Oz leans forward a bit more. "Y'know, as her other boss, I'm just real concerned about her face. I guess it's that feeling of responsibility ya get for all yer employees, ya get me?"
Oz, I can tell you now that Gary will never 'get' you about that. He couldn't care less about us. Which makes seeing him squirm under this line of questioning quite enjoyable.
"Y'see, I don't wanna make a big deal about it here, so we'll go for a walk or somethin' before eating. That alright?"
To add to what I said before, Oz never really asks for something he wants. He asks out of courtesy to the other person, but the achievement of his wants never actually relies upon how they answer. As far as he sees it, they can give him it the easy way or the hard way. He has no preference.
After a long moment followed by an almost imperceptible sigh from Oz, Gary nods hastily.
"Yes! Of course. I completely understand."
Oz slaps the bar and grins at Gary.
"Great! Well, ya might as well put our orders in now so that they're ready for when we come back, right?" He turns to me, a wolfish grin lighting up his face. "What'll ya have, Ruby?"
I don't think I've ever seen Gary so humbled.
The pavement's dry when we step outside and the sun beats down on us like a spotlight from the sky. The streets are quiet in a good way and, as we follow North 11th Street down towards where land meets the river, warm air slithers up the sleeves of my windbreaker, breezes around my face, and coats my bare legs, successfully saturating me in natural warmth. It's a welcome feeling, especially after being entrapped in the permanently air-conditioned diner, and it's almost relaxing. Almost, because we're still in Gotham City. And I know what's coming.
Before I can let myself dwell on everything that could be said, my eyes are immediately drawn to how calm the water is. White, bubbly froth lies atop the surface like remnant foam in an almost-empty cappuccino, drifting southwards, left behind like a friend group's slowest child. The boat tours come down this way; the noon departure being one of the most popular. I quite like the time immediately after it's left. When the river's left to be. When there are no other people around.
Usually, I take my lunch breaks at this time. I take a sandwich from the kitchen and meander down to the water's edge. There's a blue, plastic bench on the promenade situated in a perfect spot overlooking the water, facing buildings across the way that are much nicer than the ones my side reflects back. When I'm there I like to watch—people, boats, the birds—but mostly I like to dream: that maybe once I'm older, once I've saved up a lot more money, y'know, finally started a proper career path, that I'll be able to move into a place overlooking a body of water. It doesn't have to be in Gotham. In fact, in my dream, it's not in Gotham. It's a little cottage—or cabin, I'm still undecided—tucked away overlooking a lake or the sea or something. With only one other property nearby, on the other side of the water. A nuclear family lives in it. The dad's a stay-at-home dad, the mom's the go-getter, a lawyer maybe. I dream I'd come out each morning to retrieve my mail and their kids—a boy and a little girl—would be running around their large front garden, chasing a golden retriever, and then they'd stop when they saw me and wave. I'd wave back, come back inside to my own pet—maybe another golden retriever, maybe a Maine Coon cat—and I'd be happy there in my little house, smiling, safe, with something sizzling in the kitchen, a voice thick with morning asking if I want toast, the strong back of a man greeting me as I trudge through and—
—a thick-fingered hand punches through my reverie and wafts away the shattered pieces into the breeze like a puff of smoke before I can blink.
Oz.
Resigned in knowing that my daydream is lost to the wind and The Talk is coming, when I bring myself to look at him, I'm taken aback.
His fondness is plain to see. The corners of his lips are upturned in an amused smile, pinching his fat cheeks between them and his puppy-dog eyes, which twinkle beneath dark lashes.
But then he must see the other side of my face because the fondness drains from his as quickly as bathwater does whilst you remain in the tub. It leaves me cold. When he looks away, I'm grateful. The sun can warm me up again.
After a moment of shared silence, he sighs almost inaudibly and readjusts his hat. As he pushes it slightly further back on his skull, I spy a band of sweat where it had rested before. Is he hot, or is he nervous?
"Lost in your own little world there, hmm?" He says, allowing his fondness to color his face again. "Before I realized you were somewhere else, I was thanking you for agreeing to come on this walk, Ruby. We couldn't have this conversation in there or at the bar, for that matter."
His wording strikes me as strange, instantly stirring my panic, and I stop and turn to him.
"Wait, am I fired?" I can feel my eyes widen as they search his, scouring for an answer without giving him much time.
"What? No," he answers, his own eyes wide. He feels the need to clarify further when he sees the look of panic remains on my face: "No, Ruby. Of course not. I just didn't feel comfortable having this conversation where the ears of others could listen in, alright?"
Oh.
Okay.
Thank God.
"I won't lie to you, though—it did cross my mind."
Well, then fuck you too, God.
"But I don't see what good that would do. I'd be adding insult to injury," he says. He's smirking now, huddling closer to me, conspiratorially. The puppy-dog eyes are back, and damn it, if they don't work. I can't help but giggle along with him; when he stretches an arm across my back to pull me in closer by my shoulder, I bow my head towards his, our strides matching. I can only imagine how we must look: like two close buddies in on the same joke, or maybe like loved ones enjoying one another's company, or maybe like partners in crime.
He pats my shoulder twice before pulling away slightly. "Plus, I couldn't fire you." He pulls back further, out of my personal space and back into his own, and shoots me what I think he thinks is a charming smile but it couldn't even pass for friendly. It's downright shark-like but, in a way, I find it endearing. He always tries with me. "Why would I fire my favorite?"
I laugh then, surprised that this was the direction he wished to take this conversation, and poke a finger at his chest.
"Okay, now I know this conversation wasn't meant to be all about me. What are you buttering me up for? What was that last night? Who is Rambo?"
I'm still smiling as I watch him. It stings my cheek to do so, pushing leftover ointment into places I'd failed to cover on a bathroom break, but the wave of happiness I'm currently feeling is what I'm choosing to feel more. He'd been so angry and disappointed last night, it's relieving and reassuring to know that's no longer the case.
However, my questions have quietened him. The smile's gone as are the honeyed eyes and once again, panic swells in my chest, constricting my heart and lungs in tandem. "I didn't mean anything by that, Oz. I swear I was only-"
"Ruby, relax. Please," he says. He's chewing his cheek, stern eyes narrowed and glaring holes upon the sidewalk in front of him. He's contemplating, I've seen this before. Only then, it was before he joined the bar fight. "The truth is, last night wasn't a one-off." Something in his tone urges me to stay silent, imparting the message that he's still formulating his explanation, so I wait. "It-it was a business meeting of sorts."
After one in the morning?
So I had been right to think something shady was going on.
"I didn't mean for you to see that last night," he says, "I didn't expect you to see it. You weren't supposed to be there." He sighs. "But you always have been a diligent worker."
I decide to play dumb and give him an out, I don't want to know the full extent of what's going on. I don't need to know. All I need to know is how to stay out of it.
"Was it for the bar?"
I've succeeded in my attempt at dumb, judging by the sidelong glance he fixes me with.
"Not quite," he answers at length. "An old friend of mine came back to town last week so they were dropping in."
"I don't see how that's a business meeting." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Apparently, it doesn't take much for me to act dumb.
"Ruby, how much money do you think the bar brings in?"
I shake my head, confused by this derailment.
"Do you think it rakes in enough to pay your wages, Murphy's, and my own? And the bills? Hmm?"
I keep quiet. He nods.
"No. And deep down, you knew that. The bar's a dive, for chrissakes. Sure, we breakeven most nights. We have regulars. But it's not enough," he explains. "Ya gotta realize, everyone's gotta have a side hustle. My friend? He's part of mine."
All this obscurity is too much for my own selfish curiosity.
I find myself asking, "What's your side hustle?"
He smiles at my bluntness.
"I don't think you really want to know," he starts but after seeing my face, he sighs. "I facilitate," he answers, stretching his response like he's still thinking twice of saying it. "I provide."
From obscurity into the complete unknown.
"And? What does that mean?" I press on, glancing quickly to the street in front of us. We're about three blocks away from the promenade; the water glimmers in wait. I hadn't even realized we'd crossed roads, I'd been so engrossed.
He laughs and shakes his head.
"That's as much as you're getting out of me, missy. Up 'til now, I've told you things on a need-to-know basis—let's keep it that way."
Although I know it's truly best I don't know what he's up to—like, seriously, why haven't I learned that curiosity kills the cat?—I can't help feeling a little dejected.
He snaps his fingers all of a sudden, taking me off-guard. "In fact, on that note, you should know I have another meeting tonight but earlier, when you'll be around. Same friend, so same folks will be there as last night."
I question the need-to-know basis of that until it sinks in that that beast, Rambo, is going to be around later tonight during my shift.
My heart sinks and speeds up all at once.
"You okay with that? You wanna take the night off?"
I'm surprised by his offer, momentarily forgetting the shadiness of this future meeting, and truly tempted to take him up on it. But then reality crashes in and reminds me of my living situation.
"I need the money, Oz." My voice is soft, quiet. It's not always easy to admit my financial situation.
"That's alright, just thought I'd offer you that," he says. "I'll keep them all downstairs. Just stay up in the bar and you won't even know he's there, alright?"
When I look at him, he's smiling again—that nice smile he keeps for me. He means what he's saying. He cares. I nod.
We've reached the last crosswalk before the promenade, though just as we're about to cross, my phone beeps.
Typical.
As I pull out my phone, my sleeve catches on the other item in my pocket and it clatters to the ground, bouncing a few times before coming to a stop in the gutter. Before I can bend down to collect it, Oz crouches and retrieves it for me, turning it over in his hand as he studies it.
Shit.
It's one of my homemade creations.
You know.
One of the blueprints my dad left me.
Its design was that of a Swiss Army knife.
However, due to my time in juvenile Arkham, I shied away from owning something which could be perceived by police as a dangerous weapon and designed mine to look like a large, pink, bulky flash drive more than anything else. Given the features are hidden, it really just looks like a block of plastic. I altered it further, too, so that the only features I have are nail scissors, a bottle opener, a screwdriver, a USB—got to show I'm technically not lying—and, yes, a knife. I'd no interest in the numerous other features companies include in theirs—I mean, really, who needs a wood saw? Well, campers, I guess. But come on.
The look on Oz's face tells me he can't figure out what it is and if I'm honest, it's a massive relief. I don't know why I made it—well, that's a lie. I do—I wanted more protection. So, it's more that I don't know how to explain it if someone actually guessed what it was.
I let him inspect it for a bit longer while I read the text Andrea's sent.
'Order up! Better get back soon before we eat it.'
I can almost see her winking through the screen.
I pocket the phone again and see Oz holding out my creation.
"Y'know, just when I think I know you, Ruby, you turn that belief on its head," he muses. His eyes are narrowed even though he's smiling and the feeling it evokes is not unlike that of being interrogated. He holds my gaze for a beat, unblinking even as I take the pink plastic lump from his open hand. Eventually, he glances down and nods at it. "What is that?"
"A flash drive." Damn it. I answered far too quickly. And he knows it.
He nods again, seemingly digesting what I've said only his eyes reveal that he rejects my reply.
"Again, Ruby, you do surprise me. Didn't think you'd have much need carrying about a flash drive."
It's unsettling when he's like this. Curious and amused, like a cat playing with a mouse before it lands the deathblow.
"It's not mine. It belongs to one of the other waitresses," I say, not as quickly as before. More level and convincing this time, I think, too. "Lauren dropped it last night on her way out and I thought she was on shift today. I wanted to get it back to her before the school week started."
His face relaxes—success. I've convinced him.
Lauren is our 15-year-old weekend worker. Raised mostly by an overprotective mother, the story goes that when her father returned from one of his five-week business trips, Lauren gave him just a bit too much attitude and the next day he dumped her on the sidewalk outside and wouldn't let her in the car until she'd scored a job. I think he even encourages her to get out all her brattiness when she's on the clock, too, because whenever she's in, she makes a point of lamenting all her high school issues and worries to not only us but the customers too. One day, it made one patron so uncomfortable that she was demoted from waitress to kitchen porter and refused access to the front. After three weeks, she was allowed back under the strict condition that the only sentences she could say were, 'Hello, how're you?', 'What can I get you?', and 'Have a nice day.'
Oz hasn't had many personal dealings with her, primarily because he always waves me over instead, but he's around often enough that he's seen her and heard me complain about her.
Damn. I'm actually quite proud of coming out with that lie, but if I really want to nail this coffin shut... "Is that alright with you, Oz? Can I hold something for a friend without being quizzed on it or do I have to explain everything?"
His hands shoot up in defense and he's looking at me like I'm holding a gun to him. He's genuinely surprised.
"Woah, Ruby. Relax. Forget about it," he utters and lowers his hands slowly. He glances to my pocket where my phone is and jerks his head again, allowing a coy smile to take place. "Are my Blueberry Blizzard pancakes ready?"
We sit together in his usual booth, his little nook in deep-fried paradise, and when Andrea slides our full plates in front of us, I can almost see the deep pool of saliva collecting in Oz's mouth at the sight. No wonder, his order takes up most of the table: Blueberry Blizzard pancakes with a side of extra crispy bacon, regular hash browns, scrambled eggs, and two chicken sausages, as well as a vanilla milkshake. Naturally, mine is much smaller: a half portion of the Hash of the Week with an iced apple juice. In the clean mugs on the table, Andrea pours us coffees so black they look like they should be used to line cigarettes or fill potholes. With less caution she sets a small jug of milk down, a small white ring forming where the milk splashed, before scuttling off to deal with other customers.
Oz wastes no time in digging in, spooning big dollops of thick vanilla goo from his shake directly onto his pancakes and then swirling some around with the fruit compote. He piles three chunks of pancakes, a smear of compote-milkshake, whipped cream, and several blueberries onto his fork, shoves the obscene load in his mouth before it can escape back onto the plate, and chases it down with a loud crunchy bite of bacon and a slurp from his milkshake straw.
He hums too. Eyes shut in complete serenity as he munches away. Once he's swallowed that bite, he peeps one eye open and grins at me, lips and teeth and tongue stained purple, the lines of his lips slicked white.
"God, I'm tellin' you, Ruby. Blueberry day is the best day."
He's equally revolting and hilarious.
And then he's back to focusing on his plate, piling another mountain of grub onto his poor fork. I haven't even managed to start. I peek at the other patrons and thankfully none have noticed the pig at the trough in front of me; I'm grateful we sat in his booth—tucked away in the corner left of the door, away from everyone else.
About five minutes later, after we've both eaten a decent amount from our plates, he picks up the conversation again. "If you're struggling for cash, why don't ya reach out to your family?"
It's an unexpected topic, calling back to my throwaway answer earlier, and an even more unexpected way to broach it. The way he's just said it so casually, so openly, as if my problems are not relatable, are not as important as I consider them to be, it feels a bit like a low blow—and it stings more than my face.
We've never discussed many of our personal details—most of our chit-chats before I started working at Sugar's were light-hearted and about trivial things, conversations fuelled by banter. So this question opens new territory to us. Something I'm not sure I want. He is one of my bosses, after all.
I take a moment to finish my bite and wash it down with a glug of the cold apple juice, thankful I've got time to formulate some sort of answer. He doesn't need to know the truth about me. We don't need to go there today.
"I'm not in touch with my family," is all I offer. And hey, technically not a lie either.
"Ah, bad blood?"
"Not really," I answer with a gentle shake of my head, urging a forkful of hash past my lips to force down the words which itch to be spat out: 'There's no blood actually. Not anymore.'
I said we wouldn't go there today.
I feel him consider me. He's set his cutlery down, allowing his hands to rest idly on the table. He's no longer making those disgusting sounds and when I glance up, he's staring at me in a way I've not been looked at in years—since I was nine years old, actually. It's like I'm back in the hospital with the kind-eyed police officer sitting beside my bed, holding my hand as he explains what's happened to my parents in much less gruesome detail to how I remembered it.
A wave of blazing acid rises up the column of my body and I wrench my eyes away from his as I snuff out the flames of the past with my apple juice, gulping it down desperately like a parched, neglected child. The pain overwhelms: my throat burns, my head throbs, my heart hurts, and, now, my eyes sting. Tears. Of course.
"Ruby, what's wrong?" he asks. As if this wasn't the reaction he wanted.
My silence encourages him and it's when one of his large paws covers one of my small fists I realize that the recent clatter of cutlery was caused by me.
"I don't have any family. They're all dead."
The confession comes out as a whisper, all breathy and high, sucked out from its hiding place nestled at the back of my lungs like one's final breath. The last time I spoke about this was in Arkham before Sophie left me. Before I relapsed and stayed longer. Before I left and realized that I had to look after myself by myself forever forward. The therapists had mentioned that this—sharing—would be difficult, particularly the first few times. I believed them then, but as time kept pushing me further and further away from that period of my life and I refrained from entering into any real relationships, my belief waned until I could all but scoff at the idea. I was fine now, wasn't I? I had healed by now, hadn't I?
The soft trickle of tears on my face suggests otherwise, begging the question: can one ever heal from something like that? Or does it remain a wound so open, so deep, so vast, that even skin cannot stretch across its raw, bloody valley to meet skin?
Have I really waited so long to talk? Have I really not found someone before now? Have I spent six years of my life burying my head in a sandpit, putting the rest of my life on hold?
"Ruby," Oz says suddenly, his voice firm and clear, slicing through the vines of worry snaking and squeezing around my chest. My eyes snap up to meet his, and the action causes premature tears to slip out onto our clasped hands. Since when were they clasped?
"Ruby," he says again, shifting forward and bringing his other hand with him. He reaches for my face first, but he stops himself and settles for our intertwined hands instead. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea. This is clearly upsetting you and I don't want that. We don't have to talk about this, okay?" He pauses and gently squeezes my hand. His are warm, and a little sticky. "If you do, I'm here to listen. But if you'd rather not, I completely understand."
There's a minute where we're just staring at each other.
I mean, I know he's probably wanting me to reply but I'm finding it a bit of a struggle. I'm finding everything a bit of a struggle if I'm honest.
I can't believe I hadn't realized I've not spoken to anyone about what happened to my parents.
No one knows me.
"Ruby, shall we talk about something else?" He asks in a tone more like the one he used to prevent me from hyperventilating, and I realize he's probably getting a little tired of waiting so I nod. His relief releases in a sweet-scented sigh and with his empty hand, he pats my hand once, twice, before extracting both and resuming eating. I know he's uncomfortable, I know I'm uncomfortable, but I also know this conversation isn't as over as he's making it out to be. We might not have to talk about it now, but we will at some point. I know this. A person can't just say their family's dead without garnering at least some curiosity or suspicion. That's like throwing a lamb to a wolf only to save the lamb just in time.
He'll want to know. Understandably.
Well, for now, he can want.
I've lost my appetite, so I push my plate away and pick up my juice as I settle further back into the cool, leather seat. As he chomps away, I use the back of my free hand to dry my face and quickly check to see if Gary or Andrea are about.
They're not.
Good.
"Wanna hear a funny story?"
I look up to see Oz grinning with eyebrows cocked, ready to cheer me up, so, not wanting to put a complete damper on the day, I nod. Whether it'll actually be funny or not remains to be seen; Oz's humor is a little too vulgar for my tastes at times.
"When I was fourteen, my ma made me get a part-time job since I wasn't doing so hot in school. I tried everywhere: local stores, cafés, you name it. Nothing. Nada. Until one day, I saw an opening at Gotham Zoo. Penguin handler and parade guide. And whaddya know? I got it." He's smiling somewhat wistfully as if it was his favorite job. "I was good at it too. Bonded with the birds right-off, kept their enclosure clean, fed 'em well."
I'm failing to see the funny side of this. It sounds more like a story of missing what was.
"Anyway, all's going well. I'd been there almost a year without a hitch. Until one day, during the parade." He stops suddenly. His face is red, eyes watering yet burning at the same time. He looks livid. I'm worried about what's coming next.
"So, I'm guiding them down around the paths. Everywhere's cordoned off so no-one can touch them, right? All good. Until one teeny, tiny little fucker of a kid runs out and under the tape, tackles a penguin—Penny, my sweet baby—and falls on top of her." He shakes his head, sighing. "Place went wild. The penguins spooked the fuck out and started running everywhere. Employees were running around chasing them, trying to keep them on the path, but it descended into chaos. The public freaked when the penguins did, and, well, there ended up being a stampede."
This isn't funny at all.
Unsurprisingly, I'm more upset now than I was before.
"We went from seventy penguins down to fifty-six. All because of one little shit. I ended up leaving because of it. Focused on school instead."
There's silence while he downs his coffee.
Was that it?
Was that the funny story?
If it was, then maybe Oz should be coming with me if I ever go back to therapy. Sure sounds like he needs it.
"Anyway, the funny part."
Oh, good, we're not finished.
"I ended up acing the last few years of school. Got into college," he boasts with a wink, "and in first year, one time, I got so drunk I broke into Gotham Zoo. Next morning, I woke up with one of my penguins in my room."
I was not expecting that. Actually, I was not expecting any of this. Is...Is he about to tell me he's had different kinds of relations with an animal? Am I really about to hear something only an Arkham psychiatrist should hear?
I realize a little too late he's waiting for me to laugh along with him.
"Oh, my. Wow, Oz, I..." I trail off. I can't find it in me to even pretend this is just another 'boys will be boys' type of story.
He snorts in response, picking up the last bit of pancake to wipe his plate clean.
"Don't worry. I gave her back," he assures me with his mouth still full. "I returned her and in lieu of arrest or a fine, I offered to adopt every penguin they had."
What? This just keeps getting weirder and weirder. What is it with him and penguins?
My face must display my thoughts because he erupts with a loud chortle. "Yep, all 56 of them. 112 a month, down the drain just like that."
"A month?"
"Yep, it's two dollars a month for just one."
"Why would you offer that? Why not pay the fine? Do you still pay that? Have you canceled?"
He fixes me with a weird look then, as if my words have physically hurt him.
"Of course I still pay it. Why would I wanna cancel? Who else is gonna adopt them?"
I don't answer him. I can't. I'm lost for words.
This hasn't cheered me up at all.
Yeah, okay, his affection for penguins might be cute. Might be. But it seems so intense. And utterly out of character for the man I've gotten to know. And if they're so special to him, it's even stranger he's never once mentioned it before.
As he waves over Andrea, sending his compliments to the chef, asking for his bill, chatting her up, I can't help but think that the Oz I've gotten to know is only the Oz he's wanted me to know. That there's so much to him that I've never really known gotten beyond surface stuff. Paired with last night's experience, our earlier chat, and this utterly bizarre story, I'm left with a bad taste in my mouth.
And it's not the Hash of the Week.
I clock out just after 4 pm, changed out of my uniform and into my next (dark jeans, dark long-sleeved tee, windbreaker), and walk to Sugar's to start my next shift of the day at 4.30.
Oz left soon after that odd tale, a little stiff with his farewell. Maybe I should have laughed. I think he felt he'd freaked me out. Which, y'know, was true. But, for the sake of keeping my job, I probably should have reacted better. Oh, well.
The rest of the afternoon went better after that. No more mistakes, just good, ol' down-to-business working. I think the penguin story stupefied me.
Murphy's already behind the bar when I step in, five minutes after the start of my shift.
"You're late," he sing-songs as I walk past him, no doubt smirking at me like he knows something I don't.
Jerry Murphy is twenty-nine years old and thinks he's funnier, taller, better looking, and more charming than he actually is. He has a face that can only be described as rodent-like—you look at him too quickly and see his nose and mouth and chin blend into one long, pale snout. His chestnut hair falls lank into two meager curtains that frame his wide forehead, not quite reaching his murky grey eyes—a shame because I wouldn't mind those being covered, especially when they're narrowed. The stench of stale smoke hugs him like a second skin, raising the question of whether or not he bathes regularly, and his teeth and nails are a disgusting, in-between white-and-yellow shade.
I'm being nasty, I know, but he's never really been nice to me and when I pull down my hood, he stays true to this.
One look at my face and he scoffs loudly, then belches out a rough bark of laughter as he smacks the top of the bar. "Wow, you really are a mess, Carter. What'd you get yourself into?"
I ignore him as I slide out of my jacket and hang it up. We're not friends, we're not confidantes—I'd trust the cops who laughed at me the other night before I ever even considered trusting him—so I leave his question hanging in the air. When I've finished hanging up my jacket and bag, I swallow my contempt and join him behind the bar. But before I can get to washing my hands, he blocks me from getting past—one hand on the bar, one on the counter just beside the register. Those eyes I can't stand peer down at me, glinting with dark curiosity as he waggles his eyebrows.
"Some back alley fun? A jealous lover? A new late-night way to get cash?"
Just as I'm about to pull my fist back and clock him in his vile, rat mouth, someone clears their throat from behind us.
Oz.
Murphy pulls back smoothly, as if he didn't just insinuate some disgustingly specific scenarios, and grins at him.
"Here to punish Ruby for being late?"
Punish? Yeah, the cops need to be taking a look at his computer hard-drive.
"Shut up, Jer, she's fine. We've not even opened, for chrissakes."
My hero. Oz doesn't much like Murphy either. He's even voiced to me his hatred for the guy's blasé work ethic and inappropriate humor, but, for some reason, won't fire him and find someone else, which puzzles me more and more with each passing put-down Oz shoots his way.
From beside me, I hear another scoff and when I glance at rat-boy, he's shaking his head.
"I swear to God, you'd let her get away with murder if it meant she'd still work for you."
Murphy must be feeling extra bold tonight because this is the first time he's ever been so blatant with his scorn. The bar is quiet for a moment before Oz's jaw cracks from under the pressure he's gritting it with.
"You jealous or somethin', Jerry?" Oz's pitch has plummetted, and I've got a sinking feeling in my stomach. He's inching towards us but only considering Murphy, allowing me to shrink back, out of the conflict. If the shoe were on the other foot, Murphy'd do the exact same to me.
"You got something you need to say? 'Cause I'm all ears. You've got my attention, boy."
An unspoken conversation transpires through their eyes, Oz's livid glare locked onto Murphy's faltering gaze. After a moment, Jerry retreats with an emphatic shake of his head, bony shoulders slumping forward to shield his face from my eyes. Oz's face is awash with victory as he slices through the silence with a slap on the bar.
"Good! Glad that's cleared," he booms, voice ripe with authority and pride, short man syndrome in all its brash glory. "I came up here to let ya both know that all 'a downstairs is off-limits tonight. That extends to staff members too. Understand? I've got an important business meeting and I won't be tolerating any interruptions. That door stays shut."
I already knew this from earlier but regardless, I nod along with Murphy. Oz smacks the bar once more before pushing off and striding back to the door he came from. Before he disappears through the hall to the door to the stairwell, a loud ringing emits from one of the pockets of his slacks.
"Cobblepot speaking," is all that drifts from the stairwell before the doors close and cut off the rest.
I wonder if it's his friend, the one who'll be coming tonight. Or Rambo, maybe phoning to reluctantly agree he won't rip out my esophagus and-
Murphy shoves past me, then, bony elbow right to my side, as he trails off through the door to the cubicle-sized staff room behind the bar.
I can't keep in the sigh. It's going to be one of those nights.
The majority of the evening comes and goes with nothing much happening.
All night, we've not heard a peep from downstairs and there haven't been any surprise appearances either, which I'm grateful for. If Rambo swaggered through the door, I don't know how I'd react.
Our regulars came in at their designated time, stayed for a few hours, and have only just finished their final drinks, taking an extra fifteen minutes to slur their reluctant goodbyes. See you same time tomorrow, pals.
It's two hours until closing time—seriously, who keeps a dive bar open until midnight on a Sunday?—and the bar is empty.
Lack of sleep has me shaking as I wolf down a slice of chocolate cream pie in the staff room, my first time eating since my stunted lunch with Oz. I've run out of painkillers too, and the throbbing in my temple is becoming more frequent with each passing minute. I just want to sleep for a hundred years. Not just for the rest—the prospect of hiding away and not seeing a single soul for that amount of time is incredibly enticing too.
Just as I'm about to scoop up my last bite, Murphy's head appears in the doorway, startling me.
He smirks as he brings the rest of his body into sight, winding around like a vine of ivy.
"Chop chop, the garbage needs to be taken out." He's doing that sing-songy voice again.
"Give me a minute, I'm just finishing this off," I state, lifting my last bite in the box to show him.
What I was expecting him to do was take a look, maybe make some snide remark, and fuck off back to where he came from. What I wasn't expecting him to do, however—which is what he actually did—was lunge forward, snatch the box out my hands, pick up the last bite, and shove it in his mouth.
It must be the sleep deprivation because I swear, my heart actually broke.
"There," he says around the mouthful of pie, "all done. You can add this to the garbage bag too." He drops the empty box back into my hands, a large chocolatey grin on his face.
It takes all my strength not to cave his face in.
I won't lie, as I rush out the staff room, dispose of the box and tie up the garbage bag, and head towards the front door, tears threaten to spill down my face.
What did I do in a past life to deserve all this nastiness, all this shit? Why are people—men specifically—such bastards to me?
"Ruby!"
No. Please, no more. I just want to get on with the night, close up, and get home.
I half-turn back to see him looking at me like I'm daft. What else is new?
"Don't you think it's a bit late to go out the front? You'd have to walk all the way up and 'round. That's a ten-minute walk."
"So?"
"So?" He scoffs and leans forward, eyes wide. "That walk's only half-decent at the best of times and that's during daylight. Pretty dangerous for a girl like you to go alone that way right now."
I sigh. Never an easy time with Jerry fucking Murphy.
"Gee, Jerry, you want to take this out for me?" I ask, voice dripping with derision as I lift up the bag somewhat. A laugh squeaks out from the back of his throat as he shakes his head and points to some logbook he's leaning over.
"Can't. Gotta do this."
"Oh, of course. Well, then, what do you suggest? Do I just leave it until tomorrow? What are you getting at here?"
He leans back, arms raised.
"I'm just saying that if I were you I wouldn't be going that route at this time of night," he remarks. Eyes glinting, he adds, "it's only two minutes through the back."
So he wants to get me into trouble. Knew it. As I said, it's never an easy time.
"You heard Oz, we're not allowed down there tonight."
"It's after ten, surely his meeting's over by now," he proposes. "Plus, Oz wouldn't want his little favorite getting hurt."
The way he says that last part makes my skin crawl. He needs to stop caring so much about what Oz thinks of me, it's proving a little obsessive.
I sigh again.
For as much as I hate the guy and know this is a ploy just to set me up and watch me fall, his words are truth. It is a dangerous walk at this time of night—I'd be going close to one of the Narrows' bridges to loop around and the worst creeps who hang about the bridges don't take a day off, not even on Sundays.
Then again, the hallway downstairs might have Rambo lurking about.
The thought makes the pie in my stomach lurch.
Better the devil you know, though, right?
Another sigh and my path reroutes to downstairs.
"Wait!" I do, facing him. He hurls something my way and it's only when it lodges in between my fingers with a sharp sting, that I realize that it's the key for downstairs. Would be useful to have that on me, to be fair.
I wait for him to nod, as sardonic as it may be, before pushing through the door to the stairwell. I keep my steps and breaths as near to silent and steady as I can get as I tread down, elevating the garbage bag far enough off the ground and away from the wall that it won't hit anything except maybe my own clumsy knee.
Don't get nervous. Just get out and in again, as quickly as possible. There's no-one behind that door. Just hurry up.
I have to pause as I reach the door to the hallway. Through the slim glass panel, the red hallway pulses like a heart, almost in time with the throbbing in my eye socket and skull. Blinking in warning.
With a deep inhale I push through the door, maneuver myself through, and catch the door before it gets vacuum-sucked shut. The least amount of noise is what I'm aiming for.
So far, so good.
I lengthen my strides in order to cut my time, hoping that by doing the opposite of last night I'll come away unscathed. I can all but hope, right?
I reach the back door quickly, uninterrupted, and as I'm unlocking it, the voices in Oz's office drift down to whisper around me. The subject matter is indiscernible but I can hear the voices are all male. I can make out Oz's distinct gruff tones, his pitch deeper and much steadier than one of the other voices I can hear. That one fluctuates, no doubt its pitch as much of a journey as the words it's voicing. Whatever's being discussed is being discussed with animation.
This isn't why I'm here.
Get out and get in, remember.
Warm air and relief hit me as soon as I step out, the breeze from earlier still hanging around like the local cat, and before the door shuts, I slide in the brick we use as a doorstop.
I got out. And disposing of the rubbish was easy enough, there's only one bag after all and the bins are located to the immediate right of the door. Now to get in again.
Before I go back, however, I allow myself a breather. I climb up the steps I came down last night and take a minute to look around.
The sky is the clearest it's been all week, a lovely indigo shade as dark as some of the deepest parts of the ocean with silver stars sparkling like sequins on a party dress. Not a single cloud. It's not humid either, just warm. A perfect summer's night. It makes up for all the shit I've taken today. If I were a smoker, I can imagine this would be a pretty nice moment to light one up.
Holly Street is quiet, no cars passing here or nearby, except for when I strain, I can just about hear a bus chugging along. The 10.09 is on time for once.
Aside from a small corner shop at the other end of the street, closed on Sundays, Sugar's is the only business establishment. I mean, there were others at one point in time but given the somewhat impractical location, they've all died out or moved out. Now that I think about it, Oz's earlier words about needing a side hustle become increasingly more obvious. Had I really thought Sugar's kept afloat because of the regulars? Had I just not thought about it?
Have I just been burying my head in the sand regarding everything?
Huh.
Today's been one big epiphany.
As I turn to go back down the steps, I notice just off to the right that Oz's car is again surrounded by the same two black cars from last night. Makes sense, I doubt he'd lie about whoever he's meeting. But what doesn't make sense is the car I spot further down, five cars away from the furthest black car and hidden among other residents'.
A brown coupe.
Maybe they're just popular cars, in at the moment despite being shit-ugly.
Or maybe my intuition was right.
Maybe O'Doherty is following me.
The thought—and the following thought thread it inspires—unnerves me.
Has Gordon sent this man to watch me? If he has, is it out of protection or is it out of suspicion? If the former, does this mean Gordon has reason to believe the Joker's going to try to find me? Why wouldn't he tell me so? And if the latter, does this mean Gordon doesn't trust me? Why wouldn't he trust me?
No.
I must be wrong. It's probably just another resident's car. I doubt Gordon would waste manpower and resources on one civilian, especially when that civilian was able to remain essentially anonymous when dealing with the Joker.
A laugh bubbles up and out my mouth before I can register it.
I feel like I'm losing my mind.
I enter the hallway and lock the door behind me without any trouble. No noise, no slippery hands. A weird calm has washed over me, stabilizing every movement and thought. The red hallway is just red and has lost all effect on me. I even find myself thinking, whatever will be, will be. Damn right, Doris. Que sera sera, indeed.
A laugh that is not my own makes me pause.
It's vaguely familiar.
I step ever-so-slightly closer to Oz's door in case the laugh rings out again, but a door slamming shut from directly above snatches my attention.
No-one except Murphy is meant to be upstairs.
I wait for a minute, desperately hoping it was just rat-boy using the restroom while I was away but the faint beginning of footsteps on the stairs shoots my heart into my lungs.
Not him.
Someone else.
Someone else coming down here.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-
If I don't move, I'm going to get caught.
When I hear the footsteps pick up, I'm thrown into action because I'll be damned if Oz or Rambo or someone worse catches me. Especially while the reason I'm down here is stood smugly picking his teeth, up in the bar.
I try the supply closet first to no avail, locked up like usual in case of thievery, which leaves the broom closet. I rush to it, wrenching down the handle and stumbling forward as it opens inward. Oh, thank god. I haven't heard the hallway door open yet, which is good, because it means I have more time than I thought. But it's when I try to close the door completely that I run into a roadblock. It won't shut. And since I don't want to turn the light on and, y'know, give it away that someone has, indeed, been eavesdropping and disobeying Oz's rule, I can't see what's blocking the door from closing. I don't want to force it either in case it makes a noise.
How did I get here?
How did I end up here in life?
Would I still be here if my father hadn't be involved with the Italian mob? Would I still have this busted-up face, paranoia, and mental health issues? Would I be working here? Would I even be in Gotham?
There are moments that make you question the meaning of life, when you wonder whether or not predestination is real, if nothing is a coincidence, and this day has been one big moment.
Is this path my predestination? My fate?
No wonder there's been a drop in faith in recent years.
The hallway door opens.
Pushing the closet door as far over as I can, I hold my breath and keep my eyes on the sliver of the hallway I can still see.
Soon, a tall figure passes by, turns, and stops in front of Oz's door, and I have to bite a knuckle to mask my gasp.
Running a hand through his black hair is Officer O'Doherty.
It's not some trick of the light or sleep-deprived vision, either, if that's what you're wondering. I'd recognize those steely eyes anywhere.
I watch with bated breath as he plasters on a smile and enters the office, a short round of 'what took you?' following before the door clicks shut.
Holy shit.
So I was right, just not in the way I thought I would be.
Does this mean Officer O'Doherty is Oz's friend? He wasn't at all who I was expecting but given some of our regulars are beat cops, I'm not entirely shocked? Maybe this is why he was so cold to me when he escorted me home the other night? He'd heard I'd worked here so maybe he didn't want to give anything away, especially since their business meetings aren't exactly kosher.
Feeling slightly more assured in my thinking, I pull the door open and take a tentative step out.
The voices in the office are nonstop and not one is distinguishable from the rest. Good. They're busy, otherwise engaged. I can make a break for it.
It takes a few yanks but I manage to swing the door all the way closed, whatever had been blocking it seemingly dislodged.
But when I reach the door leading me to safety back upstairs, there's a sudden clank coming from the broom closet.
I don't even hesitate, I leap through the doorway and bolt upstairs, forgoing all efforts to remain silent, and rush into the bar, heart clattering against my ribcage.
"So, did Oz catch you then? You've been away a while," is what Murphy chooses to greet me with, making me jump from the suddenness of it.
"W-what? No, no."
I think I see a flicker of frustration dawn across his face.
"Well, did you stop for a smoke on your way out or something?"
"I don't smoke," is all I can think to say, mind still reeling.
"Happen to see a ghost?"
"What? No, I—oh. Ha, ha."
I'm not in the mood for jokes. Haven't really been all day, but definitely not now. Not with what's just transpired. Oz will know someone was down there. He's not dumb. And he'll take one look at my face and know it was me. I should've put the light on to see myself out, see what was really blocking the way. Hindsight's a marvelous thing, just not that helpfu-
Wait. If Oz knows, Officer O'Doherty will know. And he knows I work here.
"Hey, Jerry," I call out suddenly, feeling my anxiety build as another train of thought leads to my demise. He looks up and raises his brows as if to say, 'and?' "Anyone been in here?" Just ambiguous enough to let him think I'm talking about customers.
I let out a sigh of relief when he shakes his head.
"Nah, no-one. Why?"
"Just wondering. As you said, I was away a while."
Waiting for my shift to end feels like how I imagine it feels to wait for a jury verdict to be decided, a feeling not helped when you have absolutely nothing to do.
Murphy's not spoken to me since, which I'm partially glad for but the other half of me wouldn't mind some inane chatter to fill up the silence. The bar speakers are broken, the TV set is on the fritz. Maybe Oz's side hustle will help pay for newer electronics.
Speak of the devil. After half an hour, the hallway door opens and in walks Oz, hands in pockets. His face is closed off as he meanders around the floor, weaving in and out of wooden tables.
"Any customers?" His voice echoes around the room.
He's not looking at either of us.
I've got a bad feeling.
"Not many, just the regulars." Murphy's quick to offer. Eager to please after their row earlier on. "They left about ten."
Of course, he'd throw that in there. Now Oz knows for sure that some inebriated bastard didn't end up downstairs.
I'm right in my deduction because Oz looks up, then, and directly at me. Staring. I can't tell the emotion behind his eyes, it's too dark, but I don't need to be able to. With that one look, I already know.
He knows.
Fuck.
"We free to go now, boss? Even though it's early?" comes Murphy again.
Without averting his gaze, Oz nods and starts to creep closer to where we're stood behind the bar. At last, he peels his eyes away from me and addresses Murphy.
"Jerry, you're locking up tonight. Since you're opening tomorrow, keep the keys," he says, and then with a slow pivot of his head, he turns to me. "Ruby, you leave through the back. I'll see you out."
Fuckfuckfuck.
Not good.
Murphy wastes no time in collecting his things, shoving the logbook into his satchel, and striding to the front door, a "Night!" tossed over his shoulder our way as he leaves the bar.
The sounds of locks turning and keys jingling fills the room.
I'm slower than Murphy to gather my stuff, at first, in part because Oz is still staringat me. But when the unease becomes unbearable, I speed up, hurrying to slide my windbreaker and bag over my shoulders.
I go to turn the lights off—the main switchboard for upstairs is in the staff room—but Oz makes a strange noise.
"Leave all that. Let's go."
As we walk single file downstairs, Oz hot on my heels, I feel like I'm being marched to my execution. I feel sick.
The door to his office is closed as we enter the hallway, no other forms of light bathing us except the red. Back in the red again. Not where I wanted to be.
As we shuffle down to the back door, I find myself coming up with ways to ease the tension.
"How was your meeting? How was your friend?"
All of a sudden, Oz grabs my left shoulder and pulls me back with enough strength to near enough throw me against the wall. Not quite but close. It's definitely the roughest he's ever been with me.
He doesn't say anything as he stomps forward, jamming the key into the lock and when it pops open, he's wrenching it back. It slams into the wall a centimetre away from my shoulder.
"What the hell?" I can't help but exclaim as I jump forward. I'm about to protest some more when Oz's eyes, black and fiery coals, snap up with such anger it has me stumbling back.
"Go home and get some rest. I want you back here tomorrow. 10 am."
He offers no more explanation than that, just stands holding the door open with an arm outstretched waving me out.
10 am is before opening. Two hours before opening, in fact.
I'm going to be fired.
Oh, God.
This is it.
I'm going to be fired. Murphy won. He succeeded. He got what he wanted. And more fool me for going with it. I guess I thought Oz saw me as more than just an employee. More like a protégée. I thought just maybe he might listen.
"Oz, can we talk? Please, I thi-"
"Ruby, get out before I throw you out."
Tears rise up instantly before I can stop them, this ending to the day being the worst sting yet.
I don't want to cry in front of him again for the third time in twenty-four hours so I dash through the door as quickly as I can. Before I can even turn to look, it slams shut behind me, shaking the outside light above my head. The lock clicks into place and then I hear another door slam. Followed by a loud, high-pitched giggle.
Someone was still in there?
And to make it worse, it was a woman?
Gross.
For some reason, the idea makes me sadder.
As tears fall from my eyes, I can't help but think what a day it's been. I'm glad it's almost over. I just need to get home.
Before I got on the bus this morning I took a shoddy photo of the bus timetable with my phone, and although I'm already half-convinced my bus is only once an hour—so probably won't be around until 11.09 pm—I take out my phone just to double check. It'd be a glorious miracle if a bus going my way was leaving in the next ten minutes.
I climb the steps to street-level two at a time, eyes fixed on my phone's small screen. I think I can make out a time suggesting there'll be a bus in the next twenty minutes but just as I try to confirm it, a foreign hand comes into view, wraps around my phone, and throws it on the ground, smashing it into pieces.
I whip my head up to see Officer O'Doherty looking rather disheveled compared to earlier, his face beet red and his chest puffing in and out as he swallows air without actually breathing.
Oh, my God.
"You were gonna rat me out, weren't you?" He spits, stomping on the pieces of my phone for good measure.
Oh, my God.
This can't be happening. This can't be happening.
There's no-one else around, the street is empty. Too quiet now. There's not even the sound of nature. Of course not. Nature scurries and hides when the predator comes out.
"I knew you'd seen me when I heard that bang. You thought you were being clever, didn't you? Huh? You were gonna rat me out to Gordon!"
His voice is escalating in volume, screeching now as he loses all composure. His steel eyes are almost white in colour, blazing hot and piercing more than ever before.
It's a truly terrifying sight.
All of a sudden, he grabs me by both shoulders and shakes me hard once, twice, finally eliciting a "No! No! I wasn't!" from me, before he decides he doesn't like that and shoves me away roughly, off my feet and onto my ass. He towers above me as he pants, fists clenching by his sides, when he stops.
Reaching into the inside of his jacket, he brings out a-
A gun.
The tears are still coming and my own breathing is beginning to match his. I'm hyperventilating because I'm panicking because he's got a fucking gun.
With his free hand he tears at his hair, pointing the gun directly at me with the other.
"I know you heard who else was in there, I mean how couldn't you?"
What?
What's he talking about? Who is he talking about? Is he referring to the woman still in there?
"I told him I couldn't come here 'cause of you, but he wouldn't listen," he rambles, eyes on me but not really seeing me. Surely, the sight of a young woman in floods of tears, with a half-banged up face, and her hands in the air would coax someone to see sense.
"You're gonna rat me out now, for sure. Well, can't have that, can I?" He's speaking much quieter now, more to himself than to me but I'm glad I've picked up on what he's said because it sounds like I'm about to be killed.
He sneers suddenly and the gun is trained on my head with more focus than ever before.
"I'm not going to jail cause some dumb bitch stuck her nose in where it didn't belong."
Oh, Oz. What have you been up to in there?
"Hey, hey, officer. I have no idea what you're talking about, please, can we jus-"
"Liar!"
Pain blossoms on the right side of my head after he swings the gun up and back and across my right temple, knocking me onto my left side. When I look to where my hands are resting on the sidewalk I see drops of fresh blood appearing slowly like the first droplets of rain.
My head is swimming now. I thought it had been earlier but I've never felt quite like this before. I feel sick and sleepy all at once, and I know I've most likely got a concussion among other things.
I also know I'm not going to be awake for much longer unless I do something to stop him.
He's beyond reason. He's still towering over me, hurling abuse and rambling nonsensically. He's in a real spin about something and although I was solid in my logic earlier, I'm questioning it now. There's something I've missed in all this. He's not Oz's friend, and he's not following me. He was here for another reason, another reason he does not want me knowing.
I almost scream when he grabs my chin, wrangling me up to a sitting position, gun resting at my temple.
This is it. Gotta do something now, Ruby.
"I just can't have you ratting me out, you hear? I'd either go to jail or he'd kill me. Both are bad options for a cop."
I work my right hand into the pocket of my windbreaker as he caresses my swollen, bleeding face.
"You shouldn't have stuck your nose in. It didn't need to be like this, goddamn it!"
I find what I'm looking for as he cocks the gun.
"It'll be quick. Promise."
I click it open as he clicks the safety off.
It happens almost too quickly to register.
He goes to stand up to his full height, no doubt so he doesn't injure himself killing me, but I don't allow him the chance. I hold onto one of his arms with my free hand, gaining purchase, and as he pulls back I go with him—and my other hand comes out of my pocket and thrusts right into his lower belly.
For a moment there's no noise; we're just staring at each other both as wide-eyed as our bodies allow. But then as my knife slips in deeper, he groans and lets out one of the most terrifying gurgles I've ever heard, one like my mother let out.
My hand is wet.
And my other one is somehow now on the gun, lowering his trigger hand gently to the floor so the weapon can slide out his grip without killing either of us.
The movement, though gentle, causes him to stumble sideways and through the knife, I feel a stomach-churning tear.
I don't want to look down but I know I have to.
I gag on sight and cry more for good measure.
The wound has gone from stab wound to surgical procedure and I think I catch sight of an organ before I'm letting go of the knife, allowing him to fall onto his back, and wiping my bloody hand on his shirt.
I remember almost wailing, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," and then I—
—am back in my apartment.
In my shower, to be exact.
Not too sure how I got here. Wasn't by bus.
My clothes are strewn on the floor of the bathtub as I stand naked and shivering under the showerhead, a pale pink puddle collecting underneath them.
I didn't think much blood had gotten onto them.
The apartment is silent except for the battering of water against the sides of the tub. I've not even drawn the shower curtain. And the thought of his blood has me turning towards the toilet, falling to my knees, and heaving into the bowl. When I'm done, I simply rinse my mouth in the shower.
He can't be dead, right? I mean, I didn't stab him in the heart. He'll be fine. He can recover. He'll recover and I'll come forward. I'll own up to it. Get a few years. If I'm lucky. Maybe I'd be luckier if they locked me up for good. No more Murphy or Gary. But also no more Oz or Andrea.
He'll recover. He'll be fine. It'll all be fine.
There was just so much blood. For what started as such a small hole. I didn't think it'd go as deep and as far as it did.
I find myself heaving again.
He'll recover.
He'll be fine.
Policemen have endured much worse.
He'll recover.
He'll be fi-
Something scratches at my front door.
I know it's real because the sound slashes through the silence and my thumping head like a clap of thunder.
I shut the water off as soon as I hear it, in case it happens again.
It does.
Stephen King would have me believe it was Officer O'Doherty, back to enact his revenge.
I'd welcome that.
Because sadly this is Gotham and the only monsters we have here are people.
As I wrap a towel around my body and pad as quietly as I can, I wonder if it's Oz. Maybe he heard the commotion. Maybe he saw it. Would he help me though? Our last conversation doesn't inspire much hope that he would. Maybe he'd forget about that though. He'd know what to do in a situation like n-
A loud bang on the door stops all train of thought.
I'm hating myself more and more for leaving my Swiss Army knife behind. How stupid can one get?
As I get closer to the door, heart racing, my mind turns to Gordon. Maybe it's him. Mike Engel did say there was meant to be an increased police presence on the streets. Maybe they found Officer O'Doherty and put two and two together because of the location. But wouldn't he have announced his arrival like cops are wont to do?
I check the spyhole first, ready to put my fears to rest. Something is blocking it. A finger, I think. Blue in the light. Or maybe purple.
As I slide off the safety lock and begin to turn the key, I gasp when it finally clicks in my mind whose purple finger is blocking my spyhole.
I don't have much time to process further than that and block the door, as it immediately flies inward, throwing me back against the nearest kitchen counter. The collision of the back of my head and the hard surface top is not what I needed, and I find myself sliding down to the floor as someone in purple slacks and brown boots ever-so-delicately steps into my apartment and shuts the door firmly behind them.
Shaking in pain, I try to lift my head to see if my worst fears have come true but I can't. I'm struggling to even keep my eyes open by this point.
There's a loud crack and I can make out a pair of knees in front of me. Leathery hands grasp either side of my head far too gently for what I'd expected from him and tilt my head up so I see him.
The Joker.
He grins, grotesque and rotten, and I pass out.
A/N: Dun, dun, dun.
Here's another long update! I hope you enjoyed it! I'm sorry if it's not as good as the others or if it feels like it's filler. I think there are too many important details in this to call it that though.
Let me know your thoughts!