Behind the Mask

Written for The Fireplace Writing Challenge, August 2007. The first and last lines were compulsory.

What happens when The Joker has his facepaint forcibly wiped off?

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“I can't believe you thought that was a good idea!” roared Commissioner Gordon.

Susan Birch, the object of his wrath, calmly accepted the onslaught in the corridor, a few doors down from the interview cell -  the scene of the disaster. She had tried to engage with the patient, and suffered a spectacular failure.  She was going to say, “It wasn't my fault...” but thought better of it. No, it was better to weather the storm, then try again with the Joker, who was raving and swearing like a trooper in his cell, when he had calmed down.

She had made the catastrophic mistake of having the white greasepaint, which roughly coated his hideously scarred face, wiped off. It was ridiculous, really, allowing the patient – she couldn't think of him as “the prisoner” – to keep that mask on. If he had been wearing a stocking over his head, would they have allowed that to stay on? Of course not! So she had asked some of the policemen on duty to fetch a cloth and clean up his face.

Conscious that the pale sickly glow of the strip lights above made her look older than her fifty three years, Susan gazed through her half-moon spectacles at the Commissioner. She found it hard to maintain her dignity in the face of his steely glare.

“Would you kindly explain, Dr. Birch, why it was you felt the need to get him into such a state?” he asked in a calmer tone.

“I noticed that you had not had his face cleaned, Commissioner,” she explained. Shame heated her bare cheeks. She never wore make-up. “I thought it was standard procedure to remove any disguises worn by the people you arrest, and because this had not been done, I made the request.”

“My people know how to do their job, Dr. Birch,” he said sternly. “This is how the Joker usually appears to people, so we left his make-up on.”

Taken aback, Susan spluttered, “But what about the mugshots...?”

“My people,” said Commissioner Gordon, his voice becoming louder and deeper, “know how to do their job. If you were as good at yours...”

Ire sparked a glint in Susan's eyes, turned down the corners of her thin lips and pushed her head forward in a confrontational pose. “Excuse me?” she asked, in tones that demanded respect.

“You're excused, Doctor.” He sighed, turned his back, and walked away.

Susan glowered at him, too ashamed to admit he was right, and too proud to admit she was wrong. Dejected, she went to the ladies' room to wash her face at the sink. She repeatedly splashed cold water onto her burning face until her usual pale colour had returned. In her brown twinset and pearls, she looked every inch the professional, but Susan felt more like a naughty schoolgirl than the strict headmistress she usually represented herself to be.

She had to get the evaluation done, but the Joker was incensed and refused to co-operate. What if she went and bought him make-up? Would humouring him work? No, he was showing signs of narcissism, among other things. The more she gave, the more he would demand. She would, however, refrain from attempting to impose her norms on him again. It would also be a good idea to avoid getting into another argument with Commissioner Gordon. If he complained, she would deserve it.

The criminal psychologist stood in front of the mirror and asked herself why it was that she had felt such a crashing need to forget her years of training and experience and simply run – no, stampede with her instincts? She'd just had to get that eerie make-up off. It wasn't even on properly. Susan Birch's sense of order had been violently challenged by the sight of a man with badly-applied greasepaint – he hadn't even powdered it! Rather, he had it slathered haphazardly onto his face. An over-long streak of crimson lipstick exaggerated the horrible keloid-ridged scars on either edge of his mouth.

After some consideration, the answer came to her: she never wore make-up herself because she had never felt a need to conceal anything about herself, particularly her face. As she stared deep into her own brown eyes, her strong hands planted on either side of the sink, Susan came to the conclusion that the reason the Joker always wore make-up was not to hide his true identity, but to reveal it. Without the painted mask, he would only be an ordinary man.

Armed with this insight, Susan composed herself and made her way to the interview cell where the Joker was being held. On the way, she met Commissioner Gordon, who had evidently had the same idea. Apparently, he had calmed down. His demeanour was more relaxed now.

“You look as if you've had a good idea,” he said, in neutral tones.

“I believe I have,” she said coolly, “though it's more of an insight.”

“Do you think you can get through to him?” he asked, his interest evidently piqued.

Susan halted, looked the commissioner in the eye, and asked him, "What do you expect, a miracle?"

The End.