A/N: Augh, and now I'm thinking that it's going to be this tangential for the remainder of the story. A bit like thoughts, really, or memories. Not always in order. That's my excuse anyway. x.x


:CHAPTER II:
Metal & Gavel


He wished he could feel her, staring out the bars of the carriage. The pulled cage. He'd never thought, never even questioned whether or not she could feel him…if their minds were truly connected in the way that he had always envisioned. The road became jagged as they went on, the chains at each man's wrists clashed together. They'd been riding for hours now, and he wondered if a day had not passed already. God only knew if the sun would ever shine again, to indicate the severance of night to day. London was far gone by now, he assumed, from what limited view he had of the countryside. They were travelling some obscure path. To a ship which would take them away to that far distant place at the end of the world.

Barker knew only that it was vast and mainly uncharted, where Europeans stuck their convicts, hiding them away from the world, like trash, in a dusty attic, or a long forgotten waste receptacle.

Sleep would not come. Try as he might, Barker could concentrate only on the rumbling of wheels, the clomping of hooves, and the ever-present shucking of chains. Shuck, shuck, shuck. Now and again he would here a mumble or two, a whisper. But nothing from which words could be discerned. Perhaps the whole world would be impossible to translate now. Perhaps, from now on, human speech would be unrecognizable. That might save him from a bit of pain.

Perhaps he'd never speak again.

The day this had all happened was queer. He found himself forgetting details already, however desperately he wanted to remember. There had been two angels' faces, pain, a repugnant pair of people descending on them, a whirl of tugs, and, finally, metal bars screeching to net his vision. From garden and courtyard to holding cell and officer, burly policemen on a fine and charming afternoon. Juxtaposing them was torturous.

Waiting in that cell was rather like waiting for death, but a death that was rather impossible to manifest, except perhaps by anticipation, by fear, by abashment. Could one die of nerves? Of ignorance? There was never a clear explanation. Rather like his ears would tune out, only to open up again to hear the last part of the explaining sentence.

"I've done nothing!" He'd yelled through the small slat to the lawmen, panting and clutching his bludgeoned back. They'd hurled him into a carriage and trundled off faster than he would have thought possible. He'd not even been read any of his rights.

The sun poked through at last. The prisoners were greeted with bright and vertical pillars of light, illuminating strips of skin and folds of mussed fabric sprawled against the back and front walls. They'd not been given prison garb, but they all assumed that would come once they'd gotten on the boat. Benjamin began wishing for it, in all his desperation and claustrophobia: to get out of this cramped place and feel a sea breeze. If only it would not lead further to their final destination; the final resting place. He wasn't quite claustrophobic…but he did not enjoy this close proximity between sweaty, convicted men. Some looked as resolutely desolate as he, while others were mere boys, gobsmacked and wild-eyed, frozen in the same position as when they'd been handed a verdict in court. Guilty.

Were they all dealt the same wronged blow? Were they all innocent, just like him? Or was he some sort of special case? Perhaps none of their wives could compete. Not with Lucy. Lucy was too good. Even for him, Barker. She was too good, too pure, and too beautiful. Beautiful. Perhaps judges only sought the best in innocent, young, married women.

It was a shock to everyone, naturally. He was the very last person anyone would ever have expected to be carted off like that. The neighbours reckoned it must be some petty crime, he'd evaded taxes, or perhaps merely been incarcerated by mistake. A mix-up, as McAndrew's wife had said. But who could mistake such a well-spoken and introverted young man as any sort of criminal?

"Looks c'n be deceivin', tha's whot I wan'ed 'a tell 'er." Said Mrs. McAndrew to her husband on the evening she'd heard the news. "But Mrs. Lovett, ya know 'ow she's like about Benjamin…"

Mr. McAndrew did not know, actually, but letting his wife get this all off her chest was the easiest thing to do, the thing that would cause less pain. For she was. A pain, that is.

"I mean…'oo 'sa say they ain' been knockin' boots eva since 'e an' tha' flighty wife 'o 'is moved up there, ay Norry?"

Norbert McAndrew was, quite frankly, more interested in the fact that there'd been such an abrupt bringing in. From what he could discern from his wife's retelling, Mr. Barker had been apprehended in front of his own wife and child, with no formal announcement of his misdeeds, nor a proper procedure of arrest, just a whack on the back and a dragging off without a word. And that Judge Turpin had the audacity to walk Mr. Barker's own wife home after the ordeal. Weren't quite right, he thought.

He'd been a bit anti-social, this Benjamin Barker, true…but that was no cause for arrest, was it? He seemed to be quite enraptured with his wife and daughter, and would rarely talk to anyone besides he, Norbert, Mrs. McAndrew, and Barker's landlady, Mrs. Lovett. Though perhaps criminals were like that. Secretive and mild-mannered to company, then deceitful and conniving behind closed doors.

The inhabitants of Fleet Street could only venture a guess.

A second "I've done nothing!" before the holding cell was wrenched closed, and the red-nosed bobby disappeared from view. Benjamin felt the cold rush in, seeping through the small slatted window and onto his flushed skin. It became, in time, so unbearably quiet; he heard only the beat of his own heart and the raggedness of his own breath. There wasn't even a candle to illuminate what he could only assume was a bare cell, with naught but the advancing moonlight for the reassurance of solidity. The darkness fizzled before his eyes, and he was unsure of whether to panic or lie down and assume a foetal position until the entire world disappeared. Doing both was quite possible, he realized. But the floor was very hard against his shoes, and he instead found himself floating towards the cell door, curling sweaty fingers around the bars, and pressing his face to them to strain for a sight. But there was merely a dark wall in front of him, and the halls leading left and right were completely black. He was to stay here all night.

Horace Turpin was a brutal judge. It was rare that any of his cases ended positively. If he didn't hang a prisoner, he'd send him off to either an asylum or a foreign locale. But such cannot be solely pinned on the man himself. He was a hanging judge, and hanging judges hanged people (indirectly of coarse). Perhaps however, the severity, and general foreboding surrounding his aura, grew from the fleetness of his verdicts. He came to his conclusions within matters of weeks, and less even, if the crime were sinful enough, at times. His apparitor, Beadle Bamford, spoke oft of Judge Turpin's trials in great detail. At times, his recounts would differ ever so slightly from those of the presiding members of the jury, but the basic gist of the event remained the same. That was what everyone felt most comfortable in assuming. Turpin was a lavish dresser outside of the Old Bailey, though failed to maintain the poise and proper pomp of most other men of his wealth. His lechery was barely a secret. Least most to his beadle. His library was an ill-smelling chamber, with tomes of crudely drawn eroticism lining the walls, wallpaper of nudes, nudes which teetered precariously on the edge of gratuitous.

His pursuit of Lucy Barker started earlier than most knew it. He met the Barkers at chapel; the new couple from across the Thames. They'd arrived with a newborn and rosy faces, and she with a cascade of yellow hair and noble features. Mr. Barker was a stammering whelp with no trace of wit or competence.

Their marriage must surely be of her father's wishes, the judge thought incredulously, sitting to the far right of the couple one Sunday. Perhaps he was wealthy. He did not look wealthy. Perhaps she was so good and fair, that she let him into her bed with charitable intentions alone. Such a martyr. God, deliver me!

Mr. Barker was no fool. No one in his right mind could ever pass off those looks the judge gave his wife as anything short of perverted. He often chose to sat between Turpin's direct view of Lucy, sermons growing dull and throbbing in his ears, numbed down with the clenching of his fists. Lucy did not seem to notice, though. Thank God. The last thing he wanted was for her to see something like that. To see someone seeing her like that. She could barely look at her own husband whilst making love, Barker would hate to imagine how something like this would make her feel.

How Johanna had come into the world, Benjamin was never entirely certain. He was no great lover, assuredly, but he was not quite as strait-laced as his wife. Both literally and figuratively, come to think of it. She would refuse to be stripped naked, naturally. always with a nuptial blanket, too. At times, he questioned this, if it was a sign of a lesser love given than received. But she assured him constantly of the opposite. She viewed their love as too pure to be violated by such vulgarity. He complied. He had to. And Johanna had been conceived, hadn't she? That was all that mattered, he supposed. He forced himself to accept. To respect her. For he loved her.

The trial commenced two days later. Mr. Barker was confined to a holding cell for the duration, frazzled and scatter-brained from the isolation. Guards rarely passed by, and lesser still did he see life outside the small slotted window. The station was backed by a dark alley. He found himself gazing out, even so, and trying to discern one brick from the opposing wall from the next. Perhaps if he could count them all, God would let him free. Perhaps if he just waited one more hour, God would let him go.

He was awakened on this day, squinting in the harsh forgiveness of a new sun. He lay on the floor, for there was no such cot or shelf to lie upon, and peered through a web of untidy hair at the officer approaching.

"Up ya get. Off ta th'Old Bailey wif ye." And he yanked Benjamin by the collar and hauled him out, quicker than he could say 'I've done nothing' for the forty-thousandth time.

"Presiding, the Honourable Judge Horace Turpin."

There was no attorney, there was nothing but a judge, a beadle, a jury, and a Barker stationed before them all.

"I cannot begin to express the atrocities found in your records, Mr. Barker." Said the judge, drooping eyes boring damp and uncomfortable holes into the accused.

"If I were to have known of such, then perhaps I could prove a defendant of my own case...your Honour." Said Barker, trying to be loud, but failing, he shook so.

"A man who commits such crimes has worn out all chances of explaining himself. Before both the Court of England and the Lord himself."

"How may I be of service, Madam?"

"Benjamin Barker." Said Mrs. Lovett. "'e's 'ere, ain't he?" It was a statement rather than a question.

The policeman nodded gravely. "Yes, he has been incarcerated until further notice."

"I wanna see 'im."

He stared at her. "S-sorry Madam, 'fraid that's not possible."

"Why not?"

"Judge Turpin requested isolation for Mr. Barker."

"Did 'e? And what exactly 'as Mr. Barker done, then?"

"…sorry?"

"What's 'e done. What's 'is crime?"

The policeman hesitated, donning a pair of spectacles and fishing through a stack of logs in front of him. "Barker, Barker…ah. 'Ere it says that Mister Barker's been arrested for certain illicit activities found in his records. Among them tax evasion and…" He paused, squinted at the last word.

Mrs. Lovett folded her arms and believed not a word.

"Ah, and general unlawfulness."

"General unlawfulness." She repeated back stonily, with incredulity lessened by contained anger. She tilting her head subtly, taking a step back to peer round the corner, where she assumed the cells were.

"'s'right, ma'am..." And he returned to the small ledger he'd been studying before her arrival.

She said nothing after that, merely stood scrutinizing the path, blocked only by a solitary policeman at a desk. If he were to look away for only a moment... But that was reckless, and she wouldn't chance it. Instead, she bid him a muttered farewell, and pushed the door open to receive the crisp evening air.

It was nearly half past ten now, she reckoned, and Albert would be wondering. But she did not retake the path home. She backed away from the station slowly, eyeing the policeman through the window in the door.

"Well. I'll be the first to say the law's done its job." Was quietly muttered, half out loud and half in her head, as she backed up further, eyes scanning the building, and becoming seized with an idea. A hope. "…and the last to say it's been done right."

Round the corner, she saw the small barred windows at last, setting her heart in steadfast palpitation. She counted six windows, all at the base and far left corner. They were all unlit, and low to the ground, but she'd crawl in mud just to see him.

And she did crawl, though on cold grass, still damp from this afternoon's rain, trying to allow the moonlight to drift through the bars and illuminate the little rooms, reveal an entity trapped within.

Three cells were empty. The first three. The fourth held a dark shape in the a far corner. She squinted, pushing her nose between the bars, though carefully. That must be him. But something was wrong. The figure was hunched and rocking slowly, and soon a chilling little laugh erupted to sail out the window and hit her between the eyes, chilling her down from the ears down the length of her arms. No, that couldn't be. It wasn't him. There were still two cells left. No one laughed like that…

Biting her lip, feeling a wave of fright encase her at last, as that strange, almost inhuman chuckle prickled through her, like the grass on her palms, she crawled on all fours in a heavy dress to the next window. No one there. One left! The last one. It had to be him. She knew it. Indeed, she settled herself to sit quite comfortably before she even looked inside properly, sitting back on her knees and wrapping her damp fingers around the bars.

But it, too, was empty.

That caused panic, at last. He was here. He was here. He had to be. That bloody useless man at the desk had even said so! Then why wasn't he in a cell? Where could they have put him? Her heart beat hastening to pump terrific energy into each limb, she could not hold back a small sob, quiet enough to be missed, but loud enough to make her convulse a bit, and clutch her chest in defeat. She'd come all the way here, snuck out of the house while Albert was in the bake house, all for nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And then she heard it. A horrible sound. A throat-tearing cough, resounding somewhere to the far right. Good God, what was that? She lost balance in surprise, backside hitting the ground, hand pressed still to her chest, clawing at the fabric of her overcoat. Another one, another cough again. She assumed, at first, it was an unfortunate passing by in the streets beyond, but it was so close, and yet the place of origin was impossible to determine. There was no one there. Slowly she rose, legs shaking slightly, but feeling more level-headed than she'd anticipated, and bent her head slightly to listen. Silence. But she'd known it had come from the right. Could it be…?

Straightening up after a moment of surveying the ground in concentration, she turned full around, and at last caught sight of the building adjacent, walls of grimy brick and…yes! Another little window.

She bent before it, but heard no further noise. Sweating furiously beneath the warm muslin and wool, Mrs. Lovett once more curled fingers over metal, and peered through.

It was him. At last. She'd recognize him anywhere. He sat on the floor with his head between his knees, wearing the same clothes she'd last seen him leave his flat in, though the back was stained with water, his hair mercilessly dishevelled. She couldn't see his face, but she knew he was most likely quite ill. That cough was the demon howl of something one might hear in the inner womb of the slums. Had he contracted it so quickly? Clutching her hand to her chest, she was afraid to be seen. For reasons most unknown. She crouched at the corner of the window, and watched him.