The Stink of Burning Flesh
The sky was dark. Thick fog was hovering low above the roofs. The building she observed looked strange – somehow, it had a warm, gentle air to it, as if it remembered happier days, yet it also looked foreboding, mysterious, ill-fortunate...
Susanna kept her gaze fixed on the building – Mrs Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium. It was filled to the brim with people feasting on the delicious meat pies – as always. Strange, though; barely four or five weeks ago, nobody would even go near it. A rather funny change...
Susanna, who was wearing a long winter gown, a snug woollen scarf, fingerless gloves, a headscarf pulled down around her face, and wrapped up in a warm coat, stood there, scarcely moving. She held her gaze on the barber's premises. A man climbed the staircase and entered the barbershop. Susanna narrowed her eyes to mere slits. She wondered... Would the man come out again? Or would he vanish – like all the others who had entered the barbershop so far?
Susanna kept a close watch on the shop and didn't even stir when the beggar woman stumbled up to her, panhandling for money. Still watching the door of the barber's intently, she yanked her arm away from the woman when the latter grabbed Susanna's sleeve.
But the beggar woman stayed where she was, not budging from her place for even an inch. Finally, Susanna hissed angrily at her. "I don't have a coin for you! I'm a beggar like you, I don't have any money!" A slight blush crept up Susanna's face at these words, and she kept her gaze fixed on the door of the barber's. It felt wrong to admit this, so wrong.
However, instead of leaving, the woman followed Susanna's gaze, apparently completely unperturbed by her harsh words. "The witch! She does evil, I tell you! Haven't you noticed the smoke? Black as devil's own 'eart! And the demonical smell of it? It's the devil's work, it is!" the woman whispered, grabbing Susanna's arm tightly, a frightened look on her face. "The stink of burning flesh!" And with these words the beggar woman released Susanna's arm and stumbled back into the shadows.
Stink of burning flesh... Stink of burning flesh... These words wouldn't leave Susanna – what if the beggar woman wasn't as mad as everybody thought she was, but instead perceptive and unafraid to speak unbidden and unwanted truths? What if what she said was true? Stink of burning flesh... Witch – she does evil... Evil... Burning flesh... Mrs Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium... Stink of burning flesh... The sudden popularity of the meat pie emporium... Burning flesh... The barber... The men not coming out... The stink of burning flesh...
These thoughts ran through Susanna's mind, chasing each other round and round. She was already fairly certain that the barber Todd killed his customers – none of them ever came out again after all (except this one guy who had gone in with his wife and his little daughter), however long Susanna stayed there watching; and she didn't suppose they were all crammed in that room up there... But this was a thought she had never actually pursued: How did Mr Todd dispose of the dead bodies? He couldn't very well let them moulder away in his parlour.
Susanna puzzled over this. Did Mrs Lovett really work together with Mr Todd? Did she truly burn the dead men? She would have the possibility – after all, she had to have some kind of oven to bake her pies in. Oh, wait... A sudden thought sprang into Susanna's mind – she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Did Mrs Lovett bake the dead men into her pies? Well, it was a rather safe way of disposing of corpses, Susanna guessed. She shrugged. It wasn't all that important to her. Not now, anyway.
The hours passed by. Nothing really happened. Another man went into the barbershop and didn't return, like the first one. Despite the many warm layers of clothing Susanna wore, she began to feel cold. She had barely moved for at least one or two hours, let alone walked. And this, apparently, began to work its effects. Susanna touched her nose with her hand – it was icy cold, she could hardly feel it any more. Her feet hurt. It felt as if a thousand needles were pricking the skin of them. Susanna was sure that if she tried to walk away, she would fall down as her feet couldn't possibly support her weight anymore, she thought.
But despite all this time of standing there, observing and thinking, Susanna still couldn't quite make up her mind. What was she supposed to do? Her gaze drifted off into nothingness – she knew that the two men she had seen entering the barber's wouldn't come out again. They were dead by now, Susanna assumed, and would soon be burned – or baked into meat pies – or whatever it was Todd and Lovett did to dispose of the corpses.
Should she just leave and go home? But where was home? She couldn't return to her family. Not after they had thrown her out. She didn't have a family anymore. Nor a home. And where else was she to go? Nowhere... Yes, she had nowhere to go, nobody to return to, no refuge. No shelter. If she found a place to sleep tonight, that would be quite an achievement already.
Something stirred in Susanna's stomach. She felt as if she was going to be sick. Susanna groaned. Not again. She melted into the shadows. Retreated into a little alleyway. Bent down over the gutter. The contents of her stomach – which were not much by any means – splattered into the gutter, onto the street, the kerbstone. Again and again, Susanna retched, until her stomach was totally empty and she felt she had thrown up nearly all her bile.
Feeling febrile, Susanna straightened up. The world turned around her. She stretched out an arm, stumbling backwards. The heels of her feet collided with the kerbstone and Susanna fell backwards onto the pavement. There she stayed, lying in the dirt of a dark London alleyway. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the vomit on her lips and chin, but Susanna didn't bother to wipe them away.
There had been another time… Months earlier. A very similar street, just as dark, just as dirty. Susanna, lying in the filth, vomit and tears all over her face and her torn dress. The faint laughter in the distance… Susanna could still hear it, as if it was still there, as if it had been just now…
Susanna cringed and placed her hands over her ears, shaking her head vigorously to get the memory out, to get the laughter out. The tears streamed down her face ever faster.
She couldn't bear this anymore! This was what she had arrived at: being sick in little alleyways, collapsing there, lying in the dirt, thinking back… Susanna felt ashamed. Hopeless. There was no way out. Absolutely no way out. Once fallen into this abyss, one had to remain there. No possibility of getting out again. No way of climbing out of this misery. None at all.
Nobody would care for a young woman such as herself, not if she looked that battered, with torn and dirty clothes, vomit and tears on her face, lying in a dark alleyway. Nobody did care. Nor would they ever.
This was the moment in which Susanna finally made her decision. She wouldn't stay in this misery. She would not let herself get drawn further and further into the abyss. Knowing what would await her there, she shrank back from it, unprepared to endure it. Yes, she would most definitely do what she had been rolling over in her mind for weeks. Ever since she had bought a handful of Mrs Lovett's newly delicious meat pies from the very last money of her own and resolved to eat them standing on the opposite side of the street, gazing absent-mindedly at the barbershop. It had been then that she had first realized that the customers of said barber never re-emerged from the parlour.
The scent of freshly roasted coffee floated through the air. Susanna drew it into her lungs – such a delicious scent! She remembered all the mornings she had brewed it herself, for the family. For an instant she just stood there, savouring this moment of inner quietude.
Then the wind bore the sharp smell of the fish stands to Susanna and she straightened up again, looking around her. She would need to get new clothes. And a bath. For that, she needed money. And for that... This would be the most awkward and challenging part of her plan.
She wasn't used to having to beg for money. Her family had never had enough of it; they had always just scraped by, but they had never begged. Susanna's father had used to say: "We will not take alms from people. If we go down the drain, well then, so be it. But as long as there is any other way, I will not hear of it."
Just like her father, Susanna found the idea of having to beg for money abasing. She felt deeply ashamed of what she had to do, self-conscious. During the past few weeks, ever since she had run out of money of her own, she had mostly gone to the churches and parishes that handed out food and clothing and blankets for free.
She had tried to make that food last for as long as she could, but it never seemed enough. About a week ago, she – the hunger, to be honest – had finally overcome the shame and she had begged for the first time, had bothered a group of people so long until they had thrown some coins into the gutter, from where she had picked them up hastily.
Yesterday, she had even stolen a small loaf of bread from a market stall when there was a commotion a little way off in the other direction and no one had payed any notice to her. She still cringed when thinking of it. But yet she couldn't make up her mind which she found more horrible: stealing or begging.
For a while, Susanna stood there, watching the masses sweep by and stroll over the market square, steeling herself for what she had to do. She still had no idea how to address people.
If she sat down – or remained standing – nobody would even notice her. She would blend in with the background, and people wouldn't even see her. Walking around the market place would be better and keep her warmer than sitting around in a corner, hoping against hope that people would give her some money.
Yet if she politely asked passers-by for money, they would ignore her. Just take no notice of her and she'll go away... That is what they would say to one another. That is what they would think.
But what else could she do? If she pestered people too much, they might call to one of the bobbies she could see patrolling yonder. Spending a night in prison would keep her slightly drier and warmer and at least somewhat fed, surely, but it would not get her any nearer to her goal.
Squaring her shoulders one more time, Susanna decided there was nothing else for it but to try. "A coin for a poor lass, Mister!" she called out to the man nearest her. He threw her but a contemptuous glance.
Susanna sighed. In the distance, she could see the beggar woman, the one that had asked her for money earlier. Everybody knew her. Everybody accepted her as a mad old fogey who begged for money but did no harm. She was as much a part of the city as Westminster Abbey. Susanna always wondered how she could live like that. This existence was exactly what she was running away from. She wanted to avoid this way of life. Had no desire to explore it further than she had already had to.
A part of her admired this woman. She had to be really strong to be able to live like this for... How long had she been living like this? Years. Susanna remembered seeing her almost every time she and her mother had gone to the market, since she could think. How many more years had the beggar woman lived like this? Susanna wondered. And for what did she live like this? What was her reason? Most beggars caved in after a few months, several years at the latest – the life they had to lead was too hard and too grievous. But this woman had held out...
A few drops of rain hit the big glass pane. The dull sound of them hitting the glass trembled in the air for a moment. Then silence was back. Dusty, lonely silence.
A ray of sunlight tried to fight its way from beyond the clouds into the room. It wanted to caress the man standing there, who looked so lonely and sad. The ray of sunlight wanted to comfort him but it was too feeble. It didn't even reach the highest industrial chimneys of London.
The man in the room held a photograph in his hand. A single tear was rolling down his cheek. Slowly and gently, his other hand reached up, touched the photo, stroked over the face of the beautiful blond woman.
Indefinite grief was painted into every inch of the man's face. His lower lip trembled slightly. His brows were drawn together. Tears stood behind the man's eyes.
Sweeney Todd (for this was the man's name) only looked up when he heard steps outside the parlour. Calling himself back to order, he abruptly put the photo back into place onto the table, wiped the tear off his cheek and turned around to face the door. A young man stood in front of the door, looking through the pane of glass. He was a bit pale and seemed afraid of entering the shop.
Apparently, he didn't have any beard (not even the slightest hint of one). Sweeney wondered what he was doing at a barber's... He didn't seem to need a haircut, but maybe he wanted something else than a cut or a shave – a makeover to entrance his bonny lass, maybe... Oh well, it didn't matter to Sweeney – as long as he'd come in, he was contented.
He waited for a second or two more, then, strolling over to the door, he opened it and invited the young man inside. "Come in, come in, lad! Come for a shave? A nice hairdo? Soothing skin massage?" he said.
The young guy smiled uncertainly. Boy, was he young! 15 maybe, 16 at the most!
"I... Actually... Well, I –" the lad stuttered with a curiously high voice while warily entering the shop. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet "thud" and he jumped. Sweeney offered him the shaving chair while situating himself slightly to the right of it. With slow, cautious steps, the boy crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the chair.
For a while he just sat there silently, chewing on his lips. Then he opened his mouth, closed it, stole a quick glance at Sweeney and opened his mouth again. He sighed. Sweeney raised his eyebrows – what a funny behaviour!
Finally, the lad started to speak. "I've come ... for – for a shave. A shave of a rather special kind..." He paused.
Sweeney furrowed his brows.
"You see..." The boy glanced nervously at him again! "I know what you are doing. You and Mrs Lovett..."
Sweeney grabbed one of his razors. This boy knew something!
"Or – at least, I suspect that – that you are killing the men who come to you... And Mrs Lovett helps you dispose of the bodies..." The lad's voice trailed away. He gulped heavily.
Sweeney grabbed his razor even more tightly. He flicked it open. "Clever boy!" he hissed and approached the lad slowly, a mad glint in his eyes. This boy would destroy everything! He could not let him escape – he would not!
"Wait!" the lad said with a trembling voice.
Sweeney stopped in his tracks and once again raised his eyebrows. Was this young lad trying to give him orders?
"Wait... Before you kill me – yes, I know that you will kill me and I won't hinder you; no, really, I won't; I approve of you killing me, that's why I've come! – Before you kill me, hear me out. My story – I want you to understand –, and my proposal ... or, rather, wish! Listen to it! Please..." the lad continued.
Sweeney was confused. This boy wanted to be killed? That didn't make much sense – he was still so young! – Or was this all a trap? To capture him, Sweeney? Sweeney's confusion grew even more when the lad reached up and pulled his cap off, revealing long, straight, silken blond hair. Sweeney gasped. The young woman who sat in the chair before him was beautiful! And she looked so sad, so lost, so forlorn... She reminded him of Lucy, what he had always imagined his daughter Johanna to look like.
After a few stunned moments of tense silence, Sweeney shut the razor and put it way. He went over to the door, put a "Closed"-sign on it and drew the curtains. Dragging a stool over to face the chair, he sat on it and looked expectantly at the young woman. "There... I'll hear you out. Fire away..." was all he said.
Another few silent moments later the young woman began to tell Sweeney her story. "My name is Susanna Abercrombie. I'm 17 years old and I used to live with my parents, my four brothers and my three sisters. We lived in one room of a tenement. We never had much money. Always just scraped by. My father died when I was 13. I had been working in a cotton mill ever since, until I got too big to crawl under the machines. My mother works as a seamstress, mainly just amending clothes, but sometimes some merchant wife wants a piece of clothing of individual making. But of course she doesn't earn much money. So us children have to work, too. All of my brothers work in a cotton mill. My youngest sister has to toil in a coal mine. Me and my other two sisters, however, are unemployed. Nobody wants us. My mother has tried to wed us but we're too poor.
"Although half a year ago there was this young man who seemed to be interested in me. He was an elegant young man of a good middle-class family. He asked me to go dancing a few times. But then, one evening, on our way back from dancing, he pushed me into a dark alleyway. Some friends of his were waiting there. I didn't know what to do. Everything just happened so fast. Two of them pinned my arms and legs to the wall behind me, another man kept my mouth shut and..."
Susanna's voice broke. Tears glistened in her eyes. She put her hands to her face and sobbed quietly. Sweeney watched her. He felt numb. If he imagined... This could just as well be his own daughter, his beloved Johanna... If he imagined something had happened to her... Cold shudders ran down his spine. When Susanna had picked up courage, she went on.
"Well... They raped me. When they were done, the young man who had asked me to a few dances laughed at me and told me I had been foolish hoping he would ever be interested in me. I was just some poor young woman of the labouring classes. He said the only thing he had been interested in at all was my looks and my pretty hair. There was nothing else I had to offer to him or any other man."
Susanna paused again. Sniffed. Wiped her tears away. Tried to regain her composure. After a few moments, she felt fit to go on. "I didn't tell anybody about this. I was too ashamed. For days I stayed in bed crying. Until my mother and my older sister got impatient with me. They didn't understand – of course they didn't. They didn't know what had really happened and thought I was crying over the loss of the man's interest. I tried to pull myself together and behave quite normally but I didn't succeed very well.
"About three months later, I realised that I was pregnant. That ... that ... that swine had impregnated me! I decided to tell nobody about this. I thought about going to a midwife but I was afraid. And so I did nothing – stupid me! Another two months or so later, I began to get big. People began to suspect something. My mother and my sisters, too. They confronted me one day. I told them the truth.
"My older sister called me a dunderhead. She said I should have told them about it right away – about the pregnancy, I mean. They could have arranged for a meeting with a midwife without anybody noticing, she said. Now that everybody talked about it, it would be impossible to abort the child. At least not without people suspecting it. And then they would stop bringing their clothes to mother for amending. And we would impoverish and eventually starve.
"So a midwife was out of the question. There was no other way than to throw me out of the house. Mother didn't want to do it. But in the end – she had to. Less and less people brought their clothes to her. We got less and less to eat. My youngest sister became ill. She had to stop working in the coal mine. So we had even less money. My older sister told me to either turn into a strumpet and earn some money for the family that way (now that I was pregnant anyway) or to leave the house. Mother said that would probably be for the best.
"I left. During the following night when everybody was asleep. My youngest sister seemed to be on the verge of death. I don't think she'll make it. Most probably she's dead already."
Susanna looked down at her folded hands in her lap. Her heart beat loudly. The blood rushed in her ears. She was frightened. Yet she was sure she was doing the right thing.
Sweeney Todd got up from his stool and paced the room. He went over to the window, turned, passed the shaving chair, up to the door with the "Closed"-sign. Turned again, past the chair, to the window. Stole a quick glance at the street down there. Turned – and caught the pleading look of the girl. Her eyes bore into his. Desperation – pure desperation. And hopelessness. That was all he could read in them.
Sweeney turned to face the window again. He cleared his throat. "So... Do I understand this rightly? You want me to kill you? Because your family discarded you because you're pregnant. Because you have to live in the streets like a beggar now. You really want me to kill you?"
"Yes," came the feeble answer after a pause.
"Why didn't you commit suicide?" asked Sweeney, turning round again.
Susanna looked down at her hands. Played with her thumbs. Opened her mouth – and started to speak. "I..." A short pause. "I never had the courage to do it. I wanted to do it. Countless times. But... In the last moment – I always drew back." Susanna looked up, into Sweeney's face. "But I don't want to live any more. I can't stand it! I have to die! I want to. I need to! And if – if you do it for me... Well, I can't run away here, I can't escape, can I?"
Sweeney nodded slowly. Yes, she couldn't run away. He couldn't let her. He couldn't risk it. "What about the child?" he suddenly asked – he didn't know why.
"The child?" Susanna looked at him. Her eyes went blank. Pure desperation. "The child?" Susanna let out a humourless laugh. "The child – what about it? If I stayed alive and gave birth to it – it would live in the streets, it would be a beggar. - I say 'live'... But it wouldn't. Not for very long... And if I stayed alive just long enough to give birth to the child and then be killed – the child would grow up in an orphanage. Which is nearly the same as growing up in the streets as a beggar. Either way, the child wouldn't have a life. It's better if it isn't even born."
Sweeney nodded slowly. "It's better..." he muttered. He stared down at the street for a while, unseeing. He was far away. In a different world. In a totally different world.
Then he turned round, suddenly businesslike. He grabbed a razor from the dresser and placed himself opposite Susanna.
Susanna cleared her throat. "There's one thing..."
Sweeney raised his eyebrows.
"Please... Does Mrs Lovett bake the corpses into her pies?" Susanna asked with a faint voice.
Sweeney smiled. "Yes, she does." He could see how Susanna gulped.
"Would it... Could you..." Susanna bit her lip. "Would it be possible – not to ... do that with me? I mean... Couldn't you burn me? Instead of... You know. Please?"
Sweeney surveyed her. Her life had been a living hell. Not worth a penny. Rather like his turned out in the end, come to think of it. Then he nodded curtly. "Mrs Lovett won't be too pleased, I guess, but I'll take care of it." With a slight movement of his wrist, he opened the razor he was holding.
Susanna gulped. There was no way back. No way out now. She leaned her head against the back of the chair. This was it. She took one last breath of air – and closed her eyes.
A/N: I've revised this story - and it was high time, too! The form it had and the mistakes there were (both with regards to grammar/spelling and to content) was atrocious! I cringed at some of the more obvious errors. I should have noticed them before I uploaded this in the first place. Tut-tut!
If you find any grammatical or spelling errors, I would be glad if you told me about them. Also, if there are any inconsistencies or any mistakes in the content, or things you find implausible or that are maybe wrong (historically and culturally, e.g.), or if passages are too long or too short, if you desire anything or if there is anything missing, tell me about your concerns, and I'll see what I think about that and what I can do.
Two questions right away (they concern diction): "to pay someone notice" or "to pay notice to someone" - I'm pretty sure I've read that expression in a book somewhere (it meant something like "to notice so." or "to take notice of so.", except that "pay notice" would be more deliberate than the others), but I can't for the life of me find any references for that expression at my usual sources. You could say I'm stumped. ;) Does that expression actually exist or did I only dream that? Also, "lass" - in my dictionary it says that it's mainly Scottish, but I've used the word here in a London setting - is that forgivable? Or would they definitely not have said that?