Chapter One

Maniacal laughter echoed down the hallway as I got out of the lift. I paused, glancing left towards the door at the end and wondering who lived in the apartment behind it. I'd never seen him or her, only heard them from time to time, like now.

Another screech of hysteria reached my ears, then a rhythmic thumping noise like someone punching or knocking on something. Frowning, I turned right and made my way to the other end of the corridor and my own apartment. As I passed the other doors, one opened and a young woman stepped out, holding the hand of a small girl.

"Hey, Sophie." I stopped again to pass the time of day. She was the only other resident on the floor I'd spoken with since I moved in a month ago.

"Hello, Robert." A bright smile lit her face. "Finished for the day?"

"Yeah, long shift." I suppressed a yawn. "How's things with you?"

"Good, thank you. We're on our way out to see my mother."

The banging at the other end of the corridor continued. Sophie's smile slid into a frown, and she turned her head towards the closed door. "That freak down there's off again."

"Who is it?"

"You haven't met him, then?"

I shook my head.

"He introduced himself once. Name's Arthur. He lives in there with his sick mother. Complete psycho."

"Arthur or the mother?" I queried.

"Him. Laughing at all hours of the day and night. Crazy." She rolled her eyes. "Scary, too. He followed me once, all the way back from the station. Never said a word, just walked after me, and if I stopped and looked around, he stopped and stared up at the sky." She shuddered and her daughter made a face. "I'd steer clear if I were you."

I shrugged. "Well, I've never seen him, so…" Another shrug. "If you get any trouble, let me know."

"Thanks, Robert."

"Rob," I corrected.

She smiled again. "Rob. I'll see you."

I watched as they went to get in the lift, then continued to my door. The apartment at the other end of the corridor was silent again.

I saw him that weekend. It was Saturday afternoon and I'd finished my six-hour half shift, giving me the rest of the day and Sunday off to rest. I went out to buy groceries, and when I returned, he was waiting for the lift. He punched the button repeatedly, muttering under his breath and also clutching a bag of groceries. I didn't know if was him, of course. Not at that moment.

"It'll turn up in a minute," I said pleasantly.

He turned to look at me and stopped pressing the button. "Stupid thing gets slower every day. Everything in this block needs work."

"I know."

"You're new here," he stated. "Moved in last month?"

"Yes. I'm Rob Meecham." I shifted the grocery bags to my other hand and offered mine to him to shake.

He stared at my hand, unblinking, as if he thought it might bite him. Then, gingerly, he reached out, touched my fingertips, and snatched his hand back. "Arthur." He cleared his throat and looked up at my face again. "Arthur Fleck. I live on the same floor as you. At the other end."

I nodded. So this was the man Sophie called "psycho" and "freak." He seemed fairly ordinary to me, if a little nervous. He was an inch or so shorter than my six foot one, and so thin his clothes hung on him the way they would on a coat-hanger. Brown collar length hair waved gently around his face, and green eyes were framed by long dark lashes. I estimated him to be somewhere in his mid-thirties, like me.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked to make conversation as we waited for the lift, now rumbling above as it descended.

"Four years, three months, one week, and two days," he said precisely, then glanced at a cheap plastic wristwatch and added, "and three hours." He raised one eyebrow and sneered. "It's a shithole."

"Yes, I know. Needs must, I suppose." I certainly wasn't delighted with my new home, but it was all I could manage after the past couple of years. The divorce had given my bank-account a battering and she'd taken me to court for more. I suppose I couldn't blame her after what I did.

"One day," Arthur said, turning away to stare at the lift door. His voice pulled me out of my thoughts. "One day if I make it I can move somewhere better. One day."

"What do you do?" I asked.

"I'm a clown." The door slid open. He went to stand in the far corner and stared at his feet. I didn't know how to respond to his last statement, and merely stood beside him, punched the button to our floor, and waited as the lift lumbered back up. Arthur didn't speak again either, and when we reached our floor, he charged out into the corridor and almost ran to his door without looking back. Before I'd reached my door, he'd unlocked his, disappeared inside, and slammed it after him with a resounding crash.

I didn't see him or hear him again for a week. His apartment remained silent. I saw Sophie a couple of times and as usual, I got the impression she was hoping I might ask her out. That was never going to happen, but I wasn't forward enough to come out and tell her why in case I was wrong about her. Then I'd look like a fool. So she half flirted when we talked, and I ignored it.

I kept thinking about Arthur and wondering about him. Was he really crazy like Sophie said? What was the hysterical laughter about? Perhaps part of his act if he was a clown. He might be a totally normal guy. But I could hardly go and knock on his door for a chat to try to learn more. We'd only met once.

Friday, I finished work at eight and got on the underground. The carriage I chose was unusually quiet, with only six other occupants, three of these laughing and joking, clearly having had a few drinks. Two of the others got off after a couple of stops, and one other person got on—a clown. At least it was a person in a clown outfit, with a made-up face, wig with a bald white scalp and green hair, and enormous rubber shoes. His frame was extremely thin and I wondered if it was Arthur. He didn't seem to notice me, and sat in a corner at the other end of the carriage, hands pressed together between his knees.

The three tipsy guys began to make fun of a lady sitting opposite, making lewd comments and laughing. She cringed and shrank back in her seat. I blew out a breath and got ready to go to her aid. I was too much of a Good Samaritan sometimes. Then, much to my disbelief, the clown revealed he was indeed Arthur, by beginning to laugh hysterically at the woman's plight. My jaw dropped and I stared, shocked, as he laughed and screeched, rocking back and forth in his seat.

The laughter had the effect of drawing the three guys' attention away from the woman, and they all got up. The train stopped, the woman got off, and the doors closed. I hesitated as the trio approached Arthur, demanding what was so funny as he sat there, still laughing in that crazed way of his. Shit.

What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion. One of the guys grabbed Arthur's wig and snatched it from his head. Another got hold of his arm and dragged him from his seat, and the third one kicked him in the stomach. The other two immediately joined in, kicking and laughing, as he curled into a ball on the floor, now silent, not even crying out in pain as they laid into him.

I leaped up and charged down the carriage. "Leave him alone!" I bellowed, and yanked the nearest guy away from the huddled figure on the floor.

"Fuck off! The clown's insane. He deserves everything he gets," one of the others responded.

I swung my fist and hit him in the face. The third guy delivered a final kick to Arthur's back, then moved to the door as the train slowed for its next stop. All three left, laughing in a similar fashion to Arthur. Then the doors closed, leaving only him and me in the carriage. I crouched down and touched his shoulder.

"Arthur? It's me, Rob. Can you get up?" I moved my hand to his arm to help him, but he pulled free and wrapped it around himself, panting and letting out bizarre little cackles of laughter. "Arthur, come on. It's our stop next."

Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself up, ignoring my offer of help and leaning on the nearby seat as he struggled to his feet. I got up and caught him as the train lurched and he almost fell. He crashed against my chest and rested there for a brief second, then jerked free with a giggle. I didn't know what to do. If he raged, or cried, or moaned in pain, I'd know how to respond. But the laughter was disconcerting. Maybe Sophie was right after all. He was crazy. The way he'd laughed at the poor woman a few minutes ago was indication enough.

I tried one more time and rested my hand on his arm. "Arthur, let me help you."

He turned sad eyes on me, innocuous in his white painted face with its blue diamond eyes and huge bright red smile, and nodded slowly. "Okay." His knees buckled and when I caught him again, he let me hold onto him. I wrapped an arm around him, tucking my hand in his armpit to keep him on his feet as I led him off the train onto the platform.

"Do you want me to find us a cab?" I suggested.

"No." He shook his head. "I can walk." Slowly, he pulled away from me again, took two steps, and collapsed on the platform.

"Arthur!" I dropped to my knees at his side, and rested a hand on his shoulder as he curled up on his side. "Jesus, you'd better let me take a look at you."

"No."

"I'm a nurse, Arthur. I know what I'm doing. You're hurt."

"Nurses are girls." He laughed. And laughed, verging on hysteria again, until eventually it came to an end and he fell silent, gasping.

"Not all of them," I said quietly. "You could have broken ribs. Internal bleeding. Anything. Where does it hurt?"

He didn't answer, but pulled a laminated card out of his jacket pocket and passed it to me. It explained he suffered from a condition that caused uncontrollable laughter or tears. I didn't know very much about mental health—I worked in ER—but I'd talked to colleagues and I had heard of these symptoms. I gave him the card back. It certainly explained why he'd laughed on the train. It hadn't been amusement at that woman's plight—only horror or fear that his condition caused him to express inappropriately.

"Arthur, tell me where it hurts."

"My back."

"Can I look?"

"Yes." He closed his eyes and lay still.

I glanced around. The platform was deserted. "You need to sit up. Carefully." I helped him rise, and he sat with knees drawn up, eyes still closed. I slid his jacket off his shoulders and down his arms. He pulled his hands free and without waiting for me to ask, began unbuttoning his shirt. When it was off, I bit back a gasp of horror.

I'd known he was thin, but with his shirt off, his skeletal appearance appalled me. He appeared severely malnourished, skin stretched tight over a protruding rib-cage, stomach concave, every knob on his spine visible, and shoulder blades jutting out. I examined his back, noting the beginnings of two large bruises, one behind his right shoulder and the other lower on his left side.

"I need to check your ribs. Okay?"

"Just a minute." He opened his eyes and fumbled with his jacket, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one and took a long drag, blowing the smoke out of his nose. Then he nodded.

Carefully, I felt my way over his ribs, causing him to flinch and jump at every touch. "It's all right," I said. "You're all right."

"Am I?" He snorted more smoke from his nose.

"Physically, it's just bruising. You'll be stiff and sore, but nothing's broken." I helped him put his shirt back on. He finished his cigarette, fastened the shirt, and picked up his jacket. He wouldn't allow me to help him get to his feet, but he leaned on me heavily and smoked another cigarette as we walked the three blocks to the apartments. When we got in the lift, he rested against the wall and closed his eyes.

I wanted to do something more to help, but I didn't know what, or how. He had problems I couldn't even begin to guess at, but his thinness worried me. I'd only ever seen one person that thin before. My sister had been anorexic, and she died of heart failure aged just forty. I didn't know if Arthur had the same problem, but something made him look half starved. I wanted to ask him out just so I could see him eat.

The lift stopped at our floor and the door opened. I stepped out and waited for Arthur to join me. He took one step in the direction of his apartment, then stopped abruptly. "I can't go home like this. My mother will be upset."

"Come to my place," I offered. "You can get cleaned up, have a drink and something to eat if you want."

"You don't have to do that. You've already done too much."

"I'm your neighbour. I could be your friend, Arthur, if you let me," I said. "We don't know each other, but it doesn't mean we can't get to know each other. If you want to."

"I don't have any friends." He pulled out his cigarettes and lit another as we stood in the corridor.

"Nor do I, really."

"You talk to Sophie." He glanced at her closed door. "She likes you."

"We pass the time of day when we run into each other. I've never seen you around, though, when I've spoken to her."

Arthur grinned suddenly, weirdly creepy with his painted face and smeared red smile. It would have almost been a normal grin if not for the makeup. "I see a lot. Sometimes I'm around and no one notices. Do you like her?"

"Not like that."

"Oh." His brow wrinkled. "Why not?"

"She's, um, not my type. Are you coming?" I gestured down the corridor towards my door, and he nodded.

"Do you mind if I smoke? I mean, in there?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

He nodded, dropped the partly smoked cigarette on the floor, and crushed it under a large red rubber shoe. "Sorry. They calm me down."

We walked slowly to my door and I unlocked it. I led the way inside, but Arthur halted on the threshold. "Why isn't Sophie your type?"

I glanced past him, hoping the object of our conversation hadn't appeared and started to listen. "Arthur, it's not really something I want to talk about right now."

He stared at me. "Don't you think she's pretty?"

"Do you?" I frowned, wanting to get away from the subject. I didn't know if I should talk to him like I would anyone else, or whether I had to tread on eggshells for fear of upsetting him or bringing on a fit of laughter. I certainly didn't want to get into why I didn't find Sophie attractive.

"I suppose. I don't really notice."

"Well, nor do I."

"All right." He nodded. "I should go home."

"You said you didn't want to, because your mother would be upset," I reminded him.

The effect of my words was like flipping a switch. His face crumpled, but rather than explode into hysterical laughter, he burst into tears and sobbed loudly, covering his face with both hands.

"Arthur, I'm sorry. Shit, come inside." I drew him into the apartment, closed the door, and steered him into the living room. I guided him to the couch and he sat down slowly, lowered his hands from his face, and wrapped his arms around himself. The white paint on his face had run and merged into blue and red, then purple rivulets had soaked into his collar. His tears continued to spill over, further merging the colours down his neck.

"Sorry," he snuffled. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about. Let's get this paint off you." I hurried to fetch a wet cloth and a towel from the bathroom. When I offered them to him, he just stared at me and repeated "Sorry," over and over.

I wiped the face paint off, gradually revealing his skin underneath until every smear was gone. When I finished by rubbing the fluffy towel over his wet skin, he grabbed it in both hands and buried his face in it.

"Arthur? You want some coffee? Tea?" I offered. "I've been at work for twelve hours. I'm going to have some. Food, too. Are you hungry?"

"No." His voice was muffled by the towel.

"You're not hungry?"

"No." He lowered the towel.

"When did you last eat?"

"I can't remember. Maybe yesterday."

"Will you have something with me? A snack or something?" I suggested.

"I'm not a child," he snapped suddenly. "I take care of my mother."

"I know that, but do you have anyone taking care of you when you need it?"

"I take care of myself. I have a social worker, although I might as well not have. She asks me the same damn questions every week. Did I have any negative thoughts today? All I have are negative thoughts!"

I sensed I was dealing with someone in much greater need of help than I'd first thought, and I doubted I could do anything of any use, but I still tried. I called out for pizza so I wouldn't have to leave him and spend time in the kitchen cooking. I made some coffees, and loaded his with sugar when he asked. Then I talked, about anything I could think of that might engage him. I started with my work, amusing stories about some of the patients I'd treated that week, and a couple of disasters that had occurred. At first, he barely responded, only sipped his coffee and stared at me. Gradually, something I said about a patient throwing up on a student doctor's shoes made him laugh—not a wild hysterical laugh, but a normal laugh of amusement.

The pizza arrived thirty minutes later. I'd ordered a large, half margarita, one-quarter meat feast, and one-quarter vegetarian to make sure there was something he would like. I offered the box to him, and he stared at me.

"Which would you like?" I prompted.

"This one." He picked up a slice of margarita.

"Okay, good." I sat down next to him. "Do you eat meat?"

"Sometimes."

I took a slice of vegetarian, then followed it with a meaty slice, leaving some of each in the box. He nibbled slowly on the single slice of margarita, barely getting through half of it as I ate my two pieces.

"Don't you like it?" I asked.

"I never had pizza before."

"Never? Not even as a kid?"

His lips trembled, and he dropped the remains of the slice back in the box. "No. Not even then." He giggled and again, I knew I'd said something wrong, but what? I caught a glimpse of his eyes, wild and scared, and the continuing laugh verged on hysteria.

"Arthur, it's all right." I put the pizza box on the table out of the way and touched his arm. "Whatever I said, I'm sorry."

The laughing got louder and more screechy. He lifted his hands to the sides of his face, and rocked back and forth, losing himself in whatever negative thoughts assailed him. After a moment, I pulled his hand away from his face and held it in both of mine, rubbing my thumbs over his knuckles. "Arthur, take it easy. You're okay."

He ignored me and laughed until it seemed exhaustion made him stop. He pulled his hand free and rose slowly to his feet. "I need to go. I'm sorry to bother you with my shit." Without waiting for a reply, he limped slowly out of the apartment, left the door open, and made his way down the corridor to his own. I watched until he disappeared inside, then closed my door with a sigh.

"How can I help you?" I asked my empty apartment. "There must be something I can do."