Chapter 32: Misery Loves Company 

Did Grant not have a class? What had happened to Joey, the boxer he had been beating earlier?

Mattheus looked around and spotted the young man sitting beside the ring with an ice pack pressed to his ribs, watching him with a sympathetic expression, and he glared at him. Joey looked away after giving him an apologetic smile. 

Coward.

Mattheus’s planned one-hour workout became ninety minutes and then two hours.

Grant made him run, lift weights, do squats, hold a plank until his arms collapsed and drag a weighted sled from one side of the gym to the other.

Every muscle in Mattheus’s body burned: his lungs hurt, his legs trembled, and sweat had soaked through his hoodie to the point that he could have wrung water from it.

Yet every time he considered stopping, Grant gave him that same look.

That's all you got, kid? 

Mattheus refused to let him win, but his body could not keep up with his stubbornness, and after he completed another set of burpees, he took one step and collapsed onto his back.

The ceiling lights blurred above him.

People claimed exercise was good for the body; now Mattheus realized those people were either liars or masochists. This pain could most definitely not be good for his poor, poor body.

“I think I can see God,” he whispered.

Grant stood over him and snorted.

“I talked to that girl,” Grant said.

It took Mattheus several seconds to remember who he meant.

“Andy?”

“Told her following Batman around is a good way to end up dead.”

“Did she listen?”

“No.”

Mattheus sighed. 

Stubborn woman.

“But she agreed to stop going alone,” Grant said. “I know a photographer who’s followed capes before. I’ll put them in touch. He can explain how to do it without getting herself shot.”

One less thing to worry about.

“Thanks.”

Grant stepped over him.

“See you tomorrow. Same time.”

Mattheus opened one eye.

“What?”

Grant walked away.

“You heard me.”

“I don’t want a personal trainer!”

The old man raised a hand without looking back.

***

Mattheus barely made it back to Crossroads.

His legs were practically jelly, and every step sent a fresh wave of pain through his thighs. The journey that had taken him eleven minutes a couple of hours earlier took almost half an hour. 

Mattheus stopped several times along the way, and on four separate occasions, he considered sitting on the pavement, but rejected the idea because he knew he would not be able to stand up again for at least a couple of minutes (possibly ever).

When Crossroads finally came into sight, it might as well have been the gates of Heaven.

Mattheus unlocked the door, stumbled inside, and collapsed against it.

“I’m dying.”

With trembling fingers, he took his phone and opened the Store.

A couple of seconds later, a small bottle appeared in his hand. Mattheus pulled out the cork and drank the stamina potion. The effect spread fast: his heartbeat steadied, his breathing returned to normal, and the crushing exhaustion disappeared.

The potion restored his energy without repairing any of the damage Grant had inflicted upon his body so his body still hurt like hell, but at least now he had the energy to complain how much it hurt.  

Mattheus pushed himself away from the door and headed upstairs to shower before opening the pub.

By noon, pride had lost its battle against pain, and Mattheus bought a healing potion.

The soreness disappeared within seconds.

Best purchase of his life.

After the lunch rush ended and Mattheus finished cleaning the mess left behind, he changed the TV channel to some cartoons, made himself an espresso, and sat at one of the tables.

He took his first sip and released a satisfied breath.

Mattheus enjoyed a few minutes of peace before two customers entered the pub.

“I’m on my break,” Mattheus told them.

Both men looked toward the TV, shrugged and chose a table. One settled in to watch the cartoons, while the other picked up the newspaper Mattheus kept on the counter and began reading.

His regulars knew how this worked.

Mattheus opened Crossroads every day and spent fourteen hours cooking, cleaning, serving drinks and listening to people complain about their jobs, marriages, neighbours and Gotham’s continued failure to go a full week without some kind of catastrophe.

Every few hours, he took five or ten minutes to drink a coffee or tea and recharge, and unless someone was bleeding, on fire, or dying, they could wait.

Another customer entered before Mattheus finished his espresso.

Mattheus had never seen the man before. He wore a brown suit that was slightly too tight around the stomach and had a snobbish air about him. 

The man approached the counter, turned to Mattheus, who was taking a sip of coffee, and gave him a pointed look.

“Excuse me,” the man called.

Mattheus lowered his cup. 

“I’m on my break. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

The man stared at him.

“Your break?”

“Yes.”

“You have customers.” The man’s expression tightened. “I don’t have time to stand around waiting.”

One of his regulars, a construction worker named Sam, lowered the newspaper.

“Then fuck off.”

The stranger turned toward him.

“What did you say?” He frowned.

“You heard me.” The regular folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. “The kid works fourteen hours a day, every fucking day. You can wait five minutes or you can fuck off.”

The other customer nodded without taking his eyes off the TV.

“Those are your options.”

The stranger looked between them before turning toward Mattheus, his chest puffed out as though he expected him to apologize or reprimand the two men.

Mattheus shrugged and took another sip of his espresso.

The man’s face reddened.

“Unbelievable.”

He turned and marched toward the entrance.

The door opened before he reached it, and Holly stepped inside. She moved aside to let him pass, watching as he disappeared down the street.

“What crawled up his ass?”

“No idea.”

Holly closed the door and walked toward him.

She looked terrible.

Her hair was tied into a messy ponytail, sweat darkened the collar of her shirt, and she moved with stiff, slow steps as if every step hurt.

Mattheus recognized that look: he had seen it in the mirror just a couple of hours earlier.

“Did you just come from the gym?”

Holly dropped into the chair opposite him.

“Yeah.” She leaned back and released a pained groan. “Grant’s a sadistic asshole.”

Mattheus lowered his espresso.

“What did he do to you?”

“Boxing drills. He said my footwork was sloppy and made me repeat the same combination until my legs stopped working.” Holly rubbed one shoulder. “I swear he enjoys it.”

Mattheus nodded in sympathy.

Holly looked at him, and there was a moment of mutual understanding between two victims of the same old man, then her eyes narrowed.

“Hang on. How do you know?” Holly’s eyes widened. “No way. You joined the gym?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I warned you he was a hardass,” Holly said. “Is that why you were closed this morning?” 

“Yeah. I went there to use the treadmill and a few machines.” Mattheus complained. “I had a plan, you see: half an hour of cardio, half an hour of weights, a few stretches, and then home.”

Mattheus sighed. 

“He turned it into two hours of torture.”

A smile began pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“He trained you?”

“I did not ask him to.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Repeatedly.”

“And he ignored you?”

“Repeatedly.”

Holly covered her mouth, but a laugh escaped anyway.

Mattheus glared at her.

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

Mattheus leaned back in his chair.

“Does everyone get this treatment, or am I special?” 

“I don’t know.” Holly shrugged. “I don’t know Grant that well.”

“You’ve been training there for a while.”

“I take a couple of boxing classes a week. It’s not like we sit down and talk about our feelings afterward.”

Mattheus looked down at his espresso and shrugged.

“Maybe he does it to everyone.”

“Maybe.”

Holly did not sound convinced, and neither was Mattheus.

He finished his coffee and stood. 

Holly watched him walk toward the kitchen, then frowned.

“You look fine.”

“I recover quickly.”

Holly narrowed her eyes.

Mattheus placed his empty cup beside the espresso machine in the kitchen before returning behind the counter.

“Do you want anything?”

She continued staring at him for several seconds before deciding she was too tired to interrogate him.

“Coffee. And food.”

“What kind of food?”

“Anything with enough calories to restore my will to live.”

Mattheus glanced at her with a small smile. 

“Burger and fries?”

“Perfect.”

He asked his other customers if they wanted anything to eat, and they ordered some wings and fries. 

On his way to the kitchen, Mattheus glanced toward Holly again and found her slumped over the table.

His smile widened: at least he wasn’t the only person Ted Grant was trying to murder.

That made him feel better.

Misery loved company, after all.