The Dossier

I was getting increasingly irritated with the noise of fingers drumming on the bar until I looked down and realised that the fingers were mine. Instinctively I reached my right hand over to stop them and only then realised how much I was shaking.

The three shots of Jim Beam I’d had to calm my nerves hadn’t helped in the slightest – if anything they’d just made me more paranoid and tense. What happened over the next few moments would make my fortune – or ruin me.

I’d sensed he was there and turned around just to catch him awkwardly outstretching a hand to tap me on the shoulder. He stopped in his tracks and his arms returned to his side. For a few moments his hand twitched, as though he were contemplating whether to extend them for a handshake, but his nerves got the better of him and they relaxed.

“I’m - I’m not in the habit of meeting strange men in bars, Mr. Denny”, he began, “But I’ll admit your phone call intrigued me.”

He wasn’t as I’d expected. From his brave and confident writing that I’d admired for quite a while, I’d mistakenly expected this to be reflected in the man that stood before me. How did this cumbersome clumsy looking bespectacled man ever earn a Pulitzer price?

He looked me up down whilst adjusting his glasses and gestured towards an empty booth.

“Maybe we should go somewhere a little more private before you tell me why you’ve bought me here, Mr. Denny.”

I grabbed the remainder of my drink and sat down opposite him in the booth. The jukebox was right behind us and blaring out some old Laurie Anderson track. My first thought was that we’d struggle to hear each other, but perhaps based on the information I had, the less eavesdroppers that heard, all the better. And to the credit of the journalist, he heard every word I said.

“I think you should start making space on your shelf for a second Pulitzer prize”, I opened, “Provided you’re willing to reward me handsomely for this information. I have conclusive proof that billionaire Bruce Wayne is none other than The Batman”.

There followed a moment of awkward silence. I couldn’t read his expression – either he was completely blown away by the revelation or, more than likely, thought me an idiot.

“That’s quite an allegation, Mister Denny”, he replied once he’d regained his composure, “Of course you have proof?”

“You honestly think I’d take on of the most powerful men in the world without concrete evidence?”, I snapped, “A man, at that, who dresses like a flying rodent and acts above the law, dispatching vigilante justice against those who he sees fit? I’ll admit I’m almost scared to share this information with you, so I’ll have to insist before this conversation goes any further that I’ll be assured full anonymity.”

Another awkward silence. I reached for my glass and took a small sip of Bourbon whilst I waited for the journalist to take the next move.

He looked intrigued but suspicious – and who could blame him? There’s not a week that the National Enquirer isn’t filled with nonsensical unfounded superhero related tales and as far as he was concerned mine was just another one of them. In a rare moment of unfortunate synchronicity, a television on mute in the corner was showing an episode of Maury with the tagline “Martian Manhunter fathered my children!” proudly blazing from the bottom of the screen. The DNA test would prove to be false, as it was with every superhero paternity test of the week. The child would be that of some dumb toothless hick, completely devoid of any martian DNA.

He looked hurt, as though I'd insulted him. "Mister Denny", he said, raising his voice, "I’m a journalist of some reputation, and I pride myself on my sources always remaining a secret. But I’d of course insist that you give me something concrete, because I don’t like being made to look a fool.”

I reached inside my coat pocket, removed a small manila envelope and slid it across the table. My heart raced as he carefully picked it up with his huge clumsy fingers and removed the photograph from within.

He stared at it, and then to me, and then back at the photograph again.

“Is – is this genuine?”, he gasped, and placed the photograph down on the table.

A black and white photograph printed on photo paper – a slightly blurred shot of the Batman lying on his back, eyes closed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and the jet black cowl pulled up to his forehead revealing the distinctive features of Bruce Wayne.

“Indeed it is”, I said, smug in the knowledge that the journalist, from his tone, was completely and utterly astounded, “A case of being in Gotham at exactly the right place at exactly the right time, just after Batman there had been knocked off a roof by Killer Croc and was unconscious for less than a minute. Alone in an alleyway, or so he thought. And I had my phone. And just enough time.”

“But photographs can be faked, Mr. Denny. Or his lawyers’ll say it was fancy dress. And I’ll need more than just an out of focus picture to-“

“That’s the worst photograph of the bunch, to be fair. That one photograph, four years ago on a business trip to Gotham, woke up something in me. I began a crusade.”

I picked up my glass and finished the remainder. I allowed the bitter taste to swill around my mouth before swallowing and continuing.

“Armed with this knowledge, everything else fell into place. I’d deliberately try to book business meetings with Wayne when I knew full well that Batman was doing one of those team-ups that superheroes are so keen on in Coast City or Metropolis, or saving the world in those kinds of crisis that seem to happen every summer these days, and he’d be unavailable. When Bane released the footage to the press of him breaking the Batmans back? Wayne was unavailable for months on end on a “skiing vacation”. I dedicated my life to getting as much dirt on him as I could, to the point of obsession. I’ve lost my personally amassed fortune, my job and my wife to this quest over the past four years, and have compiled a dossier with every piece of evidence I could get my hand on. And it’s all watertight. Photographs of him mid-costume change from around the world, shots of Bruce Wayne climbing into Justice League teleporters dotted around the globe, DNA comparisons I’ve taken from crime scenes that Batman has attended which match those of Mister Wayne. Absolute conclusive proof”.

Returning the photograph to its envelope, I gestured to the barman for another drink. The man sitting opposite me was visibly shaken. I’d shared the truth with somebody for the first time in nearly half a decade, and he believed me. It felt good to be vindicated.

Armed with a fresh glass of Jim Beam, I leant back in my chair.

“So, what matters is – do we have a deal?”

“You can take me to this dossier?”

“Absolutely not. Where it is has to remain a secret for my own safety. If you’re interested I could retrieve it and we could go over the contents and take it from there. If you’re not, I’ll find somebody else who is and we’ll never meet again.”

“I’m definitely interested, Mr. Denny. And we’re certainly sure of resources to ensure that you’re.. compensated for your efforts. And for something this big, I can wait around until you return.”

We shook hands and I left the bar as the journalist settled back into his chair. As I walked past the bar I placed the photograph back into my pocket and looked back in to see him on his phone, presumably sorting out how I’d be paid for this huge scoop.

I hadn’t kept the evidence at my flat – if Batman even suspected I knew of his secret (although I was quite convinced he didn’t) a man of his resources could find where I was staying in no time whatsoever, even though I’d done my best to keep my location a secret. Paying for things with cash and not on cards, and the like – the evidence that I'd even left Gotham to come here was small at best. I headed to the subway where I’d had it all kept in a storage locker. Fumbling around in my back pocket I retrieved the tiny metal key as I walked towards the –

A red blur…

-and I suddenly found myself on my back as though I’d been knocked off my feet. In a moment of panic I opened the palm of my hand but to my relief the key was still there. Unsteadily getting back up I approached the locker and turned the key to open it.

And the locker was empty.

And upon returning to the bar, the journalist was gone. Only my drink remained as evidence we'd ever met.

Of course with no evidence I was little more than a crackpot with a theory that I couldn’t prove. And the journalist, despite my insistence, would no longer return my calls. I’d wait outside the newspaper offices to try and catch his attention, to demand to know why I was being ignored, but after months of trying I gave up. I’d see him walking out of the building with a crowd of his colleagues and would push my way towards him but he’d be gone. Vanished into thin air. Every single time.

Damn you, Clark Kent.

Adlib to Fade

It all began, as the more cynical of us always knew the end of the World would, in the most innocuous of places.

Having been forced to abandon my morning cup of coffee due to a combination of having those extra ten minutes in bed and a cat/pot plant collision, I wasn't in the best of moods as I sat on the subway. I'd also rather stupidly left my iPod on the kitchen worktop and the only thing in my bag to stop me having to acknowledge the existence of the commuters around me was an old free newspaper. Still, the pamphlet on a newly opened teeth whitening clinic was four pages long so would keep me busy for at least another five minutes, especially if I mouthed out the really long scientific sounding words.

I smelt him a few moments before I heard him. That pungent fresh tramp smell, generic in as much as all dustbins smell the same regardless of their contents, crept through the train carriage settling neatly on the unshaven hairs below my nose. I gagged and gulped for air momentarily before I heard that beautiful sound over the noise of my own coughing.

As one we commuters, we work-bound comrades, turned to face the tramp to find the source of this noise. He was dressed in an old woollen overcoat, a tapestry of strains charting the history of both coat and owner. His eyes were fixed skywards towards the ceiling of the train, and the faint sounds of music were emerging from behind the grubby net of his grey-veined brown beard. What little could be made of his expression was odd, as though he were humming a tune that he only vaguely knew. But such beautiful, exotic, alien music...

I felt a drop of water splash onto the back of my hand and was startled back into reality. The tramp had now shuffled off the train and was walking away from it, beginning the process of accosting a wealthy looking businessman who was pretending to speak on his mobile phone about something fictional, yet suddenly very important. Somehow three stops had passed for me in mere moments - luckily none of them were mine - and I put my hand to my eyes to find that the liquid that had roused me were my own salty tears.

Embarrassed and confused, I dabbed at my reddened eyes, gathered my meagre belongings back into my bag and stood to get up. Only then was I aware of my fellow commuters, and, from them, a subtle difference in the air, a faint shift. A young woman had been sitting opposite me all along and was openly crying into her closed fists. As I propelled myself towards the door, I tried to avoid eye contact with those I passed. A pinstriped gentlemen was laughing loudly to himself as he sat alone - each time his raucous laughter stopped to allow him to breathe, it was as though he were reminded of the joke he found so funny, and once again descended into hysterics. A woman and her young children were all huddled together in their seats, arms linked as they all mouthed a silent prayer.

This was indeed a valuable lesson that no day should never start without coffee, I thought to myself as I wandered through the office to my desk. Strong, strong coffee. I'd open my emails and look at whatever lack-of-planning-on-your-part-does-not-constitute-an-emergency-on-mine jobs I'd been lumbered with today, and try to put the events of this morning behind me. The trivialities of employment should have cleared my head, and admittedly achieved exactly that purpose for most of the day. It was all going so well, my head immersed in the tedious smog of office life, until I heard it again - that sound.

A colleague sitting a few desks away had his pen in his mouth - an iconic gesture from him that meant, far from concentrating on work, he was trying to compose a particularly barbed facebook reply - and his fingers were drumming absent-mindedly on his desk. He had a far away look in his eyes, a distinct thousand yard stare. The tapping was unmistakably the same rhythm that I'd heard from the tramp on the subway, and the drumming began to increase in both volume and speed and I

saw the dazzling sight of the gentle waves of a bright turquoise ocean reflecting a dark purple sky. Grass was at my feet; rich, verdant, bright red grass gently swaying in a honey and vanilla scented breeze. The sound of childrens laughter echoed from behind me, and I turned to

find myself staring at a screen proudly boasting that I had 13 unread emails. I'd only been daydreaming for a few moments, surely? The time blinking away at the bottom right of my PC desktop didn't agree. 40 minutes had passed and my office was now two thirds empty. The few that remained were hard at work, glazed expressions on their faces. My hand was still poised on my mouse which was waiting in eager electronic anticipation for the left click that had never came.

I was oblivious to the world around me as I made my way home. I barely registered the half-empty roads, the distinct lack of people. My subway station was closed when I got there, with no indication of any reason. Simply a large battered looking padlock on the gate I'd normally use. Still, at least the walk home gave me time to think - or more to the point worry myself into a hypochondriac frenzy about what could possibly be wrong with me. The possibilities were that the whole world had gone insane, or more likely, given the odds, that simply I had. A good nights sleep would help, and If I still felt odd in the morning a trip to the local doctors. Yes, sleep would be a good thing.

My night was a restless one. My bedside clock was the first victim of my insomnia, thrown into a cupboard under some old cushions so I could be spared its broken staccato rhythm, and in the early hours of the morning a car drove past my flat with its windows open, the occupant loudly and tunelessly la-la-la'ing the tune. It took a herculean effort to block it out and force myself out of bed to close the window. I sat on my bed for the remainder of the night, my head both empty and yet paradoxically full of random thoughts - of cosmic shores and impossible oceans.

Another day dawned, but one which saw no television. All the channels were white noise and static, and the radio stations the same. I opened my curtains and window to a beautiful sunny day, the humid air brushing against me. Everything was different - there was little traffic noise, and the only sound being carried through the morning air was bird-song, their avian chorus welcoming the day - a recognisable tune - that tune - and

spotted that the children had found a shell, a blue contoured thing the size of a large melon. They were excitedly yet gently trying to coax out its inhabitant, an beautiful exotic yellow crab-like thing with bright blue eyes. As it emerged, blinking its four eyes against the cyan sun, it sang. I heard myself laughing, laughs which turned into joyous tears. The song was beautiful - no, the song was beauty itself and

I walked out onto the street, my bare feet against the concrete. Others were doing the same - many in pyjamas or nightclothes, a few fully dressed. Some had been out there for hours, waiting for us. Cars drew to a halt, their occupants stepping out making their way into the now busy street. The odd naked neighbour even stepped into the road, but it didn't matter. It wasn't important how you looked - it was just important that you were there. The bravest and most confident started first, a rich baritone that reverberated through the air. My pensioner neighbour, naked as the day as he was born, looked briefly to smile at me and then without further pause threw his head back to sing. I filled my lungs with air and did the same, as did everybody else. As did everybody else. 

If you liked the verses, you'll love the chorus.