Chapter 1

"This will be your room for the duration." An orderly in blue scrubs opened a door for me and gestured to me to walk inside.

"Don't you mean cell?" I stepped through the door into the white room. Everything was white—the walls, the tile floor, the bedding on the narrow bunk, the chest of drawers, and the chair in the corner. I looked down at myself. I supposed I would blend in. The inmates' uniforms consisted of white cotton trousers, white shirts with short sleeves, and white slippers.

"The doors are only locked at night," the orderly reminded me. "This isn't prison."

"It may as well be. I can't walk out the front door and go back to driving my taxi." Grimacing, I sat on the edge of the bed. How had I ended up in a mental hospital? Even Iris's father praised me for getting his little girl home to him, and yet when I recovered from the gunshot wounds that almost killed me, I was pronounced insane by a judge and sentenced to seven years "rehabilitation." Five years on, and the fire at the facility in New York had shut down an entire wing. Those with less than six months to go were released early, and the remainder were shipped out to other hospitals that had room. I, along with two others, found ourselves in Arkham in Gotham City. I could have got out early, if I'd let go of my principals and told the councillors what they wanted to hear, but I hadn't been able to bring myself to do it. Maybe I should have.

The orderly closed the door and left me alone. I got up and checked out the drawers in the chest. The top one contained white boxer shorts and socks. The middle one had spare shirts and trousers in, and the bottom one held some towels—white, of course.

The room held nothing else of interest. I peered out of the window between the metal bars on the outside. The building was surrounded by large lawns, some trees, benches to sit on, and a ten-foot-high metal fence enclosing it all, with cameras set at intervals to make sure none of the not-prisoners escaped.

I tried the door to check whether the orderly had been telling the truth about not locking me in. It opened onto the white tiled corridor I'd been led down minutes earlier. I slipped out and shuffled along in my slippers, passing several doors identical to mine. Each had a small window about six inches square, made from reinforced glass. I glanced through a couple of them but discovered the rooms behind them to be empty. Perhaps the occupants were in the garden or taking part in some of the activities I'd been told about.

I turned a corner and passed another orderly, leading a middle-aged woman in the same outfit as mine. He nodded in my direction, while the woman hung her head, muttering, and ignored me.

One corridor led into another. I walked aimlessly, uninterrupted by staff or other patients when I passed them. When I came to a door leading to the outside, it opened but a bell sounded. I almost expected someone to stop me as I passed through, but then a whirring noise drew my attention to the camera on the wall above my head. They were watching me, probably from an office somewhere. Unable to stop myself, I gave the camera the finger before I headed across the grass to find somewhere to sit.

The first bench I came to was occupied by two women. One smiled in a sort of flirty way, while the other cringed, eyes wide. I shot them a brief smile and carried on walking. As I found another seat, a man of about my age, or maybe a couple of years older, came to it from the other direction. He paused, eyes wide, as I made to sit down.

"Oh! Um, I'll, um, I'll just—" he stammered, flushing, and backed away.

"Hey. You can sit here." The seat was at least long enough for three or four people. I sat close to one end.

"I wouldn't be bothering you?"

"No." I took in his tangled collar-length brown hair and anxious green eyes, under which dark circles shadowed his hollow cheeks. His white shirt hung from angular shoulders, and his skinny arms were marked here and there with small healing cuts. His white trousers were baggy and loose—more so than mine.

Cautiously, he took a step forward, then another. He scrubbed a hand up and down one cheek, then ran long thin fingers through his hair. Finally, he sat down at the other end of the bench. "My name's Arthur."

"Travis." The inmates hadn't been allowed to mingle in the New York facility. I'd stayed in my room virtually all the time for five years. This was a luxury—walking in the garden and having someone to talk to. "How long have you been here?" I asked.

"I forget."

"A year? Five?" I suggested.

"I don't know. A year, maybe. Yes, I think that's right. You're new. I haven't seen you here before."

"I arrived less than an hour ago."

He nodded. "What did you do?"

"You mean, to get in here?"

"Yes."

"Well, I was in a hospital in New York previously. Do you get to watch the news in here?"

"Yes."

"Did you see anything about the one that had the fire?"

Arthur nodded again. "Were you there?"

"Yeah. I was there five years. I have two years to go, so they sent me here."

"Did you start the fire?"

I grinned. "I wish. No, it was accidental. Something happened in the kitchen."

"Oh. What did you do to get in the New York hospital? Are you crazy?"

"I don't think so. People just don't understand me. I did some stuff. I helped some people. The cops didn't appreciate that." I dodged the question for the second time.

"People don't understand me either. They say I'm crazy. Maybe I am." He brushed his fingers across his lips. "I wish I could smoke. I used to smoke before. I miss it."

"Me too. What did you do, Arthur?"

"Did you see any news about Gotham?"

"No. We didn't get to watch TV in the New York hospital."

"Oh. Okay. Well, I killed some people." He glanced at me and giggled. So, he'd done the same thing I had. The giggle quickly became guffaws of laughter, verging on hysterical. He clamped his hands over his mouth and shook his head, choking as he tried to hold in the laughter.

Startled, I sat and waited for him to stop. When he finally did, he was left gasping for breath, red-faced and wide-eyed. He pulled himself to his feet.

"Where you going?" I frowned up at him.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said anything." He walked away, skinny arms wrapped around himself, head down.

I scratched my head and watched him go. Perhaps he was right, and he was crazy. Only a crazy person would laugh like that, wouldn't they? There had been plenty of them in New York. In the dead of night, I had sometimes heard wild laughter echoing down the corridors from one of the other cells.

I sat alone for a while, losing track of time as I lost myself in my thoughts. I tried to think about other things, but Arthur kept coming back to the forefront of my mind. I was starved of company; of human interaction. Five years without even a conversation other that with my doctor and councillors. Five years without a smile or a touch. I didn't know anything about Arthur, but he was the first person in here to speak to me, and suddenly I wanted to know all about him. I pictured him as he'd sat beside me—skinny and gaunt, shy and awkward, with those wide green eyes and tangled brown hair. My pulse quickened a little and I rolled my eyes at myself. I must be desperate to think about someone who was probably crazier than me in that way. But I couldn't help it. I was too lonely; too alone.

"Hello." A soft voice pulled me out of my thoughts, and I looked up at the blonde woman who'd smiled at me as I passed her and her companion earlier.

"Hey."

"May I sit with you?"

"Sure." I nodded and shrugged at the same time.

She smiled again and sat down. "What's your name? I'm Stephanie."

"Travis."

"It's nice to meet you, Travis. You're new, aren't you?" She flashed even white teeth and fluttered long lashes over blue eyes.

"Yeah."

"What are you in for?"

I hesitated. The flirty look she gave me earlier hadn't been imagined. She had already edged a few inches nearer to me along the bench, and even now she was giving me another winning smile.

"You don't have to tell me," she went on before I could speak. "Not that it would bother me. This is an asylum, after all. We get all sorts. Me—well I tried to kill myself. Nine times. Obviously, I'm not very good at it." She laughed. "Thank goodness. Or I wouldn't have met you." She shuffled closer. "The patients aren't supposed to touch each other, but you can get away with it in certain places. There are a few blind spots from the cameras. You get to know where they are."

"Huh, well, I'm not much into touching and getting up in people's space." I edged away a couple of inches, which was as much as the arm of the seat would allow.

"Really? Most people are desperate for it in places like this. Unless they're rape victims. You're not, are you?"

"Hell, no. I'm gay," I blurted. I wasn't, I liked both, but despite my desperation for human contact, I didn't like pushy, gushy women. Even after five years alone, I'd still rather have to chase them.

"Oh!" She giggled. "Oh dear. I suppose you must be immune to my charms then. What a shame. You're so cute, too."

"I'm not cute," I grunted, embarrassed.

She giggled more. "You were talking to that weird Arthur before, weren't you? You need to watch your back around him."

"Why?"

"He killed his mother. You know, a man who can kill his own mother could kill anyone. He might kill you."

"I doubt that." I frowned. Arthur killed his mother? He said he'd killed "people." Apparently, this was something he told anyone he talked to. "Besides, we have something in common."

"You killed your mother too?" Stephanie's eyes widened, and she backed off a little.

"No." I laughed. "Just some scum that were hurting a little girl."

"Oh, that's all right then. If you did that, why are you in here? Surely you did a good thing."

"Her father thought so. The powers that be didn't."

"There's no justice these days." She shook her head and frowned. "You should have got a medal."

A bell rang, and I remembered I'd been told by one of the staff when I arrived that a bell would signify meals, or bedtime.

"That's for dinner." Stephanie stood up. "I'll see you later, Travis." She walked off towards the building.

I stayed where I was, thinking. Why would Arthur kill his mother? Why would anyone kill their mother? I could never have imagined hurting mine.

The bell rang again, and I hauled myself up. I wasn't hungry, but I supposed it would be a chance to meet a few other people.

The dining room was all white, just like everything else. It was a kind of canteen-like set-up. I grabbed a tray and joined the line of people waiting to get their meals. There was no choice in what you had—it was sausage, mashed potatoes, and peas. There were vegetarian sausages available, but other than that, you had to take it or leave it. I took a plate along with a carton of orange juice and looked around for somewhere to sit. Each table seated four people, and several were full. Alone at one table in the corner, Arthur sat, staring at a sausage he had speared with his fork. I walked over.

"Hey, Arthur. You mind if I sit here?"

He jerked his head up and dropped his fork on the plate, startled. He stared up at me, a rabbit caught in the headlights. I was about to tell him not to worry and walk away, when he rubbed a hand over his face, then nodded. "You really want to sit with me?"

"Sure." I sat. "Don't you ever have company?"

"No. The others here think I'm weird."

"You seem pretty ordinary to me. Maybe it's them that's weird."

Arthur's thin lips twitched a little but didn't manage to stretch into a smile. I dug my fork into the mashed potatoes and tasted them—not too bad. Stephanie walked past, accompanied by the woman she'd been sitting with earlier, and shot me a smile. The pair sat down at another table.

"She likes you," Arthur said.

"Maybe."

"She likes everyone. Men, I mean. Except me." He shrugged. "I'm used to that—people not liking me. Why did you want to sit with me, Travis?"

"Well, I might like you if I got to know you. You want to give it a shot?"

He nodded solemnly. "It'd be nice, having someone to talk to."