George's Memoirs - A Tale Of Gotham

Owen Allaway

Urban myth? No way. I saw the guy within six months of moving here. And I've never told anyone before. Didn't want to be treated like some kinda freak. Frank from marketing, he said he'd seen him on a roof one night and he was sitting on his own in the canteen for months. Still doesn't get invited to parties by anyone but the most desperate individuals from accounts. You know the kind. The ones with no friends but other sad cases they meet on the Internet. No way I was gonna end up like that. So I kept my mouth shut, 'til now. I figure it don't matter any more, what with my condition. Write it down and have it put away somewhere so it can be opened after I'm gone. It's strange, but I can't die with it still all bottled up in here, you know? Some stories, they can't just die with you, they've got to be told. But I'm rambling already and I've hardly started. So on with the story, just like it happened. No bull. If I don't make it real it won't meant nothing.

I moved to Gotham three years ago. This was way before the plague and the quake and all the rest of that stuff. It wasn't so bad back then, not like it is now. I mean, they're even talking of knocking the whole place down and abandoning it, or something. Good riddance I say. I hope I live to see it. Hell, I'd do it myself if I had the strength. I moved here from Metropolis to get away from my ex-wife. She wanted money and I don't have any to spare, not with the price of tickets to games these days. So I put in for a transfer to anywhere, which means Gotham. No one wants to move here so my request was granted immediately and some lucky guy got to leave. When the day of reckoning comes, I'll be let into paradise just for that, I guess. The company even gave me a moving bonus. Bought myself a brand new F-150 with it. Not a great choice for the big city, maybe, but I'd wanted one since they first came out.

Anyway, the company, on top of that bonus I was telling you about, set me up in a new apartment. A bit fancier than I was used to, but I wasn't complaining. Trouble was, there were no good bars anywhere close. The only places were full of suits and served beer I'd never heard of. You know, brown stuff that tastes like what a dog does on the sidewalk. Full of these suits talking about their portfolios. Yeah, I wear a suit to the office too, but these guys look like they live in them. Probably had double-breasted diapers when they were kids. Upshot of all this is, I had to find myself a place to drink. I tell you, I must have tried every place within a five-mile radius before I found somewhere. Don's Bar, it was called. Had suits there too, but different suits, if you know what I mean. Probably liked the name of the place. But they kept themselves to themselves and as long as you didn't try to get served before them they were all right. So Don's became my regular drinking spot. I'd go home, get changed and then drive down there. I'd have a few beers - not too many, six at most - and then I'd drive home. No problem. I'm a good driver I can handle the truck even after a few. Never had any accidents, never ran no one down. No problem, like I said.

So, this one night I come out of Don's at about eleven and I swear I've only had the four beers. That's all. I'd swear on my ma's grave, but I reckon she's gonna outlast me, way things are going. I walk across the parking lot, past a couple of flash cars that belonged to the suits I mentioned - I give them a wide berth, they've got these hair-trigger alarms that you just do not want to set off - and unlock the truck. Suddenly I hear this voice behind me. 'STOP.' Just that one word. Now, and this is a hard thing for a man to admit, I actually yelp. Like a wounded puppy or something. And I jump about six foot up in the air. When I land I do nothing. Just stand there with my hand on the door handle of my truck. 'TURN AROUND.' I swear, the guy talked in capital letters. Never heard a voice like it and I goddamn swear I hope I never do again.

I turn round and there's no one there. At least not at first. Then I notice one part of the night is darker than the rest. You know those pictures that look like a mess of dots and you stare and stare and then gradually a shape appears? It's like that, only about a thousand times scarier. I am, and this another difficult thing to admit to, but I'm terrified. I've been shot at before and I that was nothing in comparison. This shadow slowly forms into the rough shape of a man. I say rough shape, cos this was like no man I've ever seen. He's, at a guess, seven and half feet tall. Eight with the ears. Some guy wandering around at night wearing a cape and pointy ears should look stupid, but the Bat, he looks like the devil himself. 'YOU ARE NOT GOING TO DRIVE HOME, ARE YOU.' Still in capitals and, now I come to think about it, I think that the 'are you' should maybe be in bold. It's not a question, but I still think some kind of response is called for. So I try to talk, but my throat's closed up and my tongue has decided to go on vacation. I just shake my head instead. I shake it quick and hard until I think I think I'm going to faint. And then I stop and I think I'm going to throw up, but I have the distinct impression that throwing up over the Bat's boots is not something I want to do. I'd rather go back into Don's and tell the suits that I have intimate knowledge of their mothers than do that. I swallow my pride and my dinner and sink to my knees. Not to beg, just because I can't stand up any more. 'GIVE ME THE KEYS.' So I reach up and hand him my keys. I swear, when his hand touches mine, it goes numb. It sounds crazy, but I lose all feeling for a second. He takes my apartment key off of my key ring and drops it in front of me. 'WALK HOME. YOUR KEYS WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU.' When I look up again, a couple of years later, or so it seems, he's gone.

So I walk home. The longest walk of my life, I'm telling you. I don't know if you've been to Gotham, but at night all it is, is shadows. There are lights, but all they do is make more shadows, they don't make it lighter. I'm not explaining myself well, but if you have been out in Gotham after dark you'll know what I'm driving at. And shadows are not want I want to see. I see HIM in every single one of them. I'm surprised I make it home, the amount I'm shaking, but I do. I unlock the door of my apartment and slowly, slowly open it. Then I reach in, flick the light switch and jump back. But there's no one there. And lying the center of the kitchen table what do I find but my keys.

The next morning I hire a cab and get my truck. It's still there, which surprises me some. I drive it around for a few days before I check the glove box. My gun's gone and in its place is a piece of paper with one word written on it. 'REMEMBER.'

I suppose it's sort of funny, looking back. 'REMEMBER.' As if I'd ever forget. Every single night in bed I can't help but be back in that parking lot. I'm there and He's there and I'm on my knees again. As I say, I never breathed a word about this 'til now. I suppose it's not much of a story, compared to some, but it's mine. I've led an average life and I've nothing else to leave the world. My name is George Clark and not many people are going to remember me, and they'll forget me soon enough, but I hope you remember this tale. And if you don't remember the whole thing, remember this. The Batman is real. He's out there. And you do not want to meet him.

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