Life must go on; I forget just why. – Edna Saint Vincent Millay
xxx
"What d'you mean there's no cows here?"
Barsid massaged his temples. "I'm sorry, but it isn't my job to help people adjust to their lives on Is. If you need to talk to someone about getting settled here, there are plenty of people with whom such a job lies – "
"You came to ask me how I was doing – I didn't come to you," Nellie reminded him, leaning against the doorframe of her shop.
"To ask how you were doing," Barsid reiterated. "Not to hear a list of complaints."
"Who's complaining?" Nellie asked, throwing up her hands. "I'm not complaining. I'm just wondering how I'm s'posed to cook anything without any cows here to give milk! Are you all out of goats too?"
"There are no animals on Is, only humans."
"You mean to tell me I've spent the past God knows how many days – "
"Circles."
"'S'cuse me?"
"We call them circles here – one rotation of the Is clock, by the way – not days."
Nellie slammed a palm against the doorframe. "Days, circles – do you think I give a damn? My point is that ever since I got here I've been slaving away making a nice little shop for myself – I put together and painted that – " she pointed above their heads at the sign above the door announcing Mrs.Lovett'sEmporium" – and – " she grabbed his sleeve and yanked him inside " – look at all this! It was a right shambles when I first got here, but I tidied it up, swept and dusted and the lot, and even bought a counter and a few chairs from a nice bloke a few doors down that'll I pay for once I've got this place up and running – and now you're telling me you don't have any bloody milk? How'm I s'posed to make anything without milk? It's used in just about every recipe that exists! And – sweet Jesus – if you don't have any animals – does that mean you don't haveeggs either?"
"Eleanor – "
"That's Mrs.Lovettto you!"
"Mrs. Lovett. Please. Milk does not only come from cows and goats. You can also make milk using rice or soy beans."
"Alright, fine, if you're so clever – what about eggs? What'm I going to do for them?"
Barsid gave her a smile. "You're a baker, aren't you? I'm sure you can come up with a creative alternative."
"But why is it," Nellie persisted, "that things can still grow here – all sorts of crops like wheat and fruits and whatnot – and animals can't be here too? If everything here is dead, does that mean the farmers that are here on Is are growing crops that someone on Earth failed to grow, for whatever reason?"
"That is what we theorize, yes, though we have no way of confirming."
"Then why can't the dead animals come up here for us to eat?"
Barsid spread his hands. "My dear, it is what it is. Now – " he bowed his head " – I really must be going. Please, if you have any further trouble adjusting, I suggest you find one of our helpers – they have several business spots throughout Is, you shouldn't have trouble getting to one. Take care, Mrs. Lovett." He waved at her as he stepped through the wall and vanished.
Nellie groaned and slumped against the counter. It wasn't even jade yet, and she was already fatigued.
She gave herself a shake. Not even jade yet? She'd been dead for less than a week (well, according to her internal Earth clock, at least), and she was already thinking like someone who had been around Is for a very long time. That wasn't a good sign.
She'd been spending most of her time here thus far preparing her shop. Once she had a few more furniture pieces, along with cooking utensils and cooking supplies, she'd be ready to open Mrs.Lovett'sEmporium.
She wondered – not for the first time – what had become of Mrs.Lovett'sMeatPieEmporium. If anything had become of it. Surely someone would have noticed the stench by now, what with three bodies lying around and she not able to dispose of them properly.
Shaking her head, she consulted several lists resting on her counter: one of farmers, one of furniture craftsmen, and one of people selling kitchen utensils. Her goal was to be set to open shop in three days. Circles. Whatever the hell they were called. In any case, sitting around here wasn't going to help accomplish her goal.
Nellie scanned over her list of furniture makers. ChadleyD.Burns. That was a nice name. She'd visit him first. She stepped up to the wall, bracing herself. Despite being on Is for several 'circles,' she had yet to use the walking-through-walls method of transportation personally (with the exception of from her room to her shop), and had instead opted for wandering only the corridor she was in for what she needed. But she had been to all of them now, and there was still much she needed. There was no choice but to confront her silly fear.
Taking a breath, she stepped through the wall . . .
And ended up right outside Chadley's shop.
She smiled. Well. That hadn't been bad at all.
Easy as pie, in fact.
xxx
"Stop being stupid, Nellie. Everything's going to be just fine."
Her own words of encouragement, however, did nothing to budge her hand, which remained stationary upon the sign hanging from inside of her shop door. Facing through the tiny window she'd had installed into the door were the words 'closed'; facing her, 'open.' And she could not will herself to twist the sign the other way for the first time.
"You've got everything you need. Tables, chairs, kitchen supplies, drink, and food. Everything's in place. Now all you need is the customers."
Which, since the 'open' sign had not yet been flipped, she was severely lacking at present.
"C'mon, you've run a shop before. This'll be no different. It'll be better, in fact. Once you get your feet wet and've got some money in your pocket, you'll be able to pay back all them nice folk who've given you the food and furniture and suchlike. And you'll be able to make more food, try all sorts of recipes that your budget on Earth never really allowed . . ."
Her budget had allowed it on Earth, for a time, at least. Although, by then, she was too ensnared in the pie business to branch out much. Concealing human flesh in a pudding or canapé didn't exactly work.
"What're you so bloody worried about?" she asked herself angrily.
It was a question she truly didn't have an answer to. At least, not directly. But every time she made to flip the sign, she would see herself doing the very same thing a million times over on Earth at a million different angles: cheerful and singing; grumpy and half-asleep; so drunk she could hardly stand; furiously slamming the sign; tears gathering in her eyes; laughter bubbling in her throat; expressionless, careless, as though it did not matter how she performed this simple gesture, for there would be another time, and another time, and another time.
Back when she thought she had time.
Nobody ever really expects to die, she supposed. It's something that everyone knows will happen to them, one day. Spare it too much thought, though, dwell on the inevitable for too long, and no one would ever bother getting up the next day, or taking another step, or flipping another sign over.
"It's just a sign, Eleanor," she yelled, and she didn't realize she was crying until she felt a tear run down her cheek. "Just a bloody sign. All you have to do is turn it over – "
And then Toby was there.
Well, he wasn't really. She was imagining him, her mind transporting her back to a time on Earth, back to a time when she had been – if not happy – at least content. She knew it was all in her mind. But that didn't stop her breath from hitching in her throat.
"Are you going to try and teach me how to roll the pie crust again today, mum?" he asks as he hops down the stairs, hair still rumpled and eyes still bleary from sleep, a smile gracing his features regardless of both these factors.
"I'm so sorry, Toby," she whispered, even though the memory of him could not hear her apology. Far too little. Entirely too late. And no one to blame but herself.
"Here, let me help with that," he offers, taking the breakfast plates out of her grasp, his hands surprisingly strong and callused as they brush against hers, too strong and callused for someone so young.
A deep, shuddering breath coursed through her.
He grins up at her. "You work too hard, mum."
"And I'm going to keep working," she vowed, somehow gaining strength from her weakness, vigor from her loss. Anger at herself, guilt at what she had done to Toby, anguish that her life was over – nothing would come of her feeling this way. Wallowing in sorrow wouldn't heal the pain, and nor would it allow for progression.
She was taking the anger, the guilt, the anguish, and turning it into something productive, spinning gold from wool thread.
She flipped the sign to 'open.'
xxx
Nellie Lovett had grown accustomed to having a booming business. Though initially the concept had been very unfamiliar to her, she'd rapidly learned to adjust back on Earth. For reasons that she did not completely understand (for she had always flat-out refused to eat one of her own pies), human meat was very popular, meaning her shop was rarely ever empty – full to bursting during meal times, in fact.
It wasn't until she was dead, however, that she learned what a 'full to bursting' shop actually looked like.
She'd been skeptical at first, but Barsid had been right: the people of Is loved to eat. She wasn't sure why they adored food so much. Had most of them been undernourished while on Earth? Or maybe they were taking advantage of the fact that you couldn't gain any weight here?
(Then again, maybe you could still gain weight. She hadn't asked. Did souls even have weight? She supposed this would be another question to ask when assaulting the Is workers about the whole 'illusion' concept.)
Whatever the reason, Mrs.Lovett'sEmporium was always packed with bodies – well, souls – from the moment she opened shop each circle right up until she flipped the 'closed' sign over her door.
She'd started off making what was familiar to her – pies. She hadn't wanted to be in debt again, so had decided to start off with selling only one menu iteming and branching off from there as the money started to trickle in. The money, however, didn't just trickle. It flooded.
(Of course, money wasn't called money here. The Is currency went by the name of talent. Why, she had no bloody idea.)
The influx of wealth gave Nellie freedoms she'd only ever dreamed of: expanding her menu ten-fold, buying more (and higher quality) furniture, even indulging in some fancy new kitchen supplies. With the increase of talent, however, came the increase in work. Despite knowing that her muscles and bones couldn't really ache anymore – seeing as she didn't have any – that didn't stop her body from kvetching each morning as she pulled herself out of bed for yet another day/circle of running around like mad.
Each throb from her sore knees, her stiff neck, her creaking back, was a stabbing reminder of Toby. He'd been such a help around the shop. He hadn't quite grasped how to cook yet, but he had done just about every other bloody thing. More than the aid he'd provided, she missed his crooked-teeth smile. His laugh. The way his voice cracked on certain words. How he threw suds at her while washing the dishes. The way his expression would scrunch in mild irritation when she rumpled his hair.
Don'tthinkabouthim,there'snothingtobedoneaboutitnow,he'sbetteroffwithoutyou,don'tthinkabouthim. These thoughts became a motif that ran through her bloodstream, pounding with each of her hallucinated heart-beats.
Still, business was booming, and the people of Is (Isians? Isish? Islers? Yet another thing to ask someone about) adored her food.
She avoided Sweeney like the plague, and he, thank God, extended her the same courtesy. On occasion, she thought about him; she frequented the halls of Is often, and never once caught so much as a glimpse of the man. Where was he?
"How're you liking that custard, dear?" Nellie questioned a middle-aged female who had become a regular of hers.
The woman looked up at her with bright eyes. "Why, must you even ask, Mrs. Lovett? It's delicious!"
"Glad you think so too," Nellie said with a wink as she swept over to the next table, for the man sitting there clearly needed his ale topped off. She poured a generous portion into his cup as she questioned, "And how about you? Is the treacle tart all you hoped it'd be?"
She realized only after she'd asked the question that the man did not speak English – he was, judging by his appearance, from China back when he was alive. But he beamed at her and gave a vigorous nod of approval.
That was the beautiful thing about food: it was a universal language.
"D'you need anything else?" Nellie asked, pointing at the kitchen counter to make her point clear.
The man patted his stomach and shook his head.
"Well, you just let me know if you change your mind, love," said Nellie as she made to turn around, "I'll just be – oh!"
When she had turned around, she'd come nearly nose-to-nose with Barsid Sajemgi. Gasping, she put a hand over her chest. "Why – when did you get here, Mister? Gave me a fright, y'did!"
"I'm sorry," Barsid offered, "I didn't intend to, I assure you. My, business is booming!" He grinned. "Didn't I tell you our people love to eat?"
"As much as I'd love to idly chit-chat with you, I've really got to – "
"Actually, I'm here on business, Mrs. Lovett." Barsid smoothed down the front of his robes before saying, "It's about Mr. Barker."
"What about him?" Nellie returned, eyes narrowing.
"Well, you see, several dozen circles have gone by since his death, and Mr. Barker still has not done anything to establish himself a life here on Is. He has not opened a shop, participated in any activities – I haven't even seen him in the halls. Now, it's hardly unusual for people who have just arrived here to have trouble adjusting, and shut themselves away initially – but Mr. Barker has spent an inordinate amount of time avoiding everything and everyone here."
You might find, Barsid dear, that 'Mr. Barker' is inordinate in nearly every way.
"So let the man stay in his room, if that's what he wants," said Nellie, giving a negligent wave of her hand, the ale bottle clutched in her fist sloshing its contents against the glass with the movement.
"Mr. Barker clearly does not know what he wants," said Barsid. "He's confused and depressed. It's normal to feel this way in the afterlife for a certain period of time, but if he never even tries to move on and accept his death – "
"He's not really one for acceptance." Nellie moved for the counter, put the ale bottle on the counter, and replaced it in her hand with a dish rag, which she proceeded to wipe up a spot of flour with. "But if it really bothers you that much that he's not up and around, why don't you go talk to him instead of me?"
"We've tried. Multiple times. We've gone over and knocked on his door, talking to him through the crack – it hasn't done any good. That's why I've come to you."
The dish rag, in the middle of clearing away cookie crumbs, froze. "Oh, don't tell me – "
Barsid hurried closer until he stood on the opposite side of the counter as her, leaning forward, his zeal shinning in his face. "I and all those who work in similar departments on Is have been unsuccessful in bringing Mr. Barker out of his room. But since you seem to know him on a more personal level, I thought that, perhaps, you might be more effective in persuading him to – "
"You're bloody serious, aren't you?"
"Quite serious, my dear."
Nellie started to laugh, realized there was nothing funny, then stopped. "I don't know if you noticed, Mister – well, clearly you didn't notice – but Mr. Todd and I – that is to say, Mr. Barker and I – we don't have the greatest of relationships."
And she never wanted to see another hair on his head, nevermind actually go speak to him.
"But the two of you knew each other when you were alive," Barsid persisted. "Perhaps just a familiar voice – "
"Trust me, nothing I say would make any difference."
"I'm not just asking you as a friend, Mrs. Lovett." She repressed a snort; she hadn't been aware that she and Barsid were friends. "I'm asking you as a voice of authority. I would like you to at least try and talk him into joining the Is community."
Nellie put a hand on her hip. "Voice of authority, huh? So if I don't do this, there's going to be trouble for me, is that what you're trying to say?"
"I am not an advocate of violence, my dear, nor is our government. But there are other methods of receiving the desired outcome."
"Oh? Other methods, indeed? Pray, enlighten me."
"If you do not comply and try speaking to Barker," said Barsid stoically, "we will take away your shop premises."
Her stomach lurched. Her shop premises. Her ability to bake, to experiment with new foods; her single purpose and reason for still getting out of bed come each 'circle'. Her only pretense that she still had something to exist for. These people knew how to go for the jugular just as well as Sweeney Todd did.
"I don't know if that'd be avoiding violence, love," said Nellie, pursing her lips but keeping her expression impassive, refusing to show how much his threat alarmed her. "I'd never give this place up out of my own choice. You'd have to drag me out kicking and screaming, at the very least . . ."
Barsid did not react to these words. Her mouth twisted into a frown: perhaps she wasn't as good as masking her true reaction to his threat as she thought she was, how much the thought of losing the only thing she still cared about scared her.
She had wanted to spend the rest of her afterlife avoiding Sweeney at all possible costs. True, it wasn't as though he would open the door to his room for her, so she probably wouldn't have to actually see him – but just the idea of having to speak to him, even through a door, was repulsive.
Then again, if she got over dealing with him now, it would make for a much easier time here. They did live right across the corridor from each other, after all. She couldn't expect to avoid him completely for the rest of . . . well, forever.
"Fine, fine," said Nellie, flapping her hands at Barsid in a shooing gesture, "I'll give it a shot."
Barsid caught her flying fingers in his own and looked at her closely. "Do you promise that you will put your full effort into this? That you will not just brush it off after a feeble attempt?"
She was staggered by his intensity, his sudden solemnity. "'S'cuse me for being a bit nosy, but – why does this matter to you so much? What's it to you if one spirit spends all his time shut away in his room?"
Barsid was quiet for a moment. He examined their entwined hands, but not as though he was seeing them. "There are many people who spend their entire lives 'shut away in their rooms,' Mrs. Lovett – sometimes literally, sometimes not."
She bit her lip.
"Now, I told you when you first arrived here that Is isn't paradise, and that's true. But look around you. There's hardly any conflict. Our police force rarely needs to be called upon. People of all different races and backgrounds mingle together as though it's the most natural thing in the world – and here, it is. They co-exist. They feel no need to commit crimes, have fights, nothing. And they're happy. They do not all speak the same languages, but they're happy, doing everything they've always loved, everything they never could – everything they never allowed themselves, for whatever reason. Mr. Barker deserves to be among them."
She swallowed. His words were everything she had lived by her whole life, everything that she had fruitlessly tried to convince Sweeney Todd of. It was all she believed in, though framed in the context of death rather than life . . . and in a much more succinct form than she usually managed to achieve in her babble. Yet for some reason, what he said stirred an unsettling emotion within her. Discomfort. Anxiety. Worry. She couldn't identify exactly what she felt, which made it all the more disquieting.
Perhaps sensing her unease, Barsid dropped her fingers as the usual grin stole over his features. "I shall see you later, I'm sure. And some circle, when I'm not so busy, I'll definitely have to come around for a pastry or two."
"Please do," said Nellie. "I'm never opposed to more customers."
He flashed his perfectly white teeth at her again, then strolled easily through the wall and out of sight, leaving her to curse him in silence as she bustled away to top off the ale of another customer.
xxx
There was nothing to live for.
No Lucy to seek vengeance for. No Johanna to welcome back to his home. No Turpin to kill.
There was nothing to do. Nothing to spend his time on. Nothing to occupy his mind with. Nothing, nothing, absolutely fucking nothing to live for.
But he was not alive anymore anyway. So it shouldn't really matter.
Yet he was still around. He could still move, speak, think – but there was nothing to move for, no one to speak to, nothing to think about.
If Sweeney Todd had sometimes wondered if he had gone mad before, there was no more wondering about it now: he had, most assuredly, gone mad.
Time – or whatever it was here – passed by without any sort of direction or pattern. He'd turned the clock in his room over, its face against the floor. Watching the needles tick by at their impossibly slow rate only made each hour that much more excruciating. No, it was easier to let time go by without any method of tracking how fast or far it had gone. This way, he could merely sit and stare, his mind wheeling in loops of blank nothings, of white spaces and empty corners and dead ends.
Every now and then, when the urges became too great for him to bear, he would be forced to get to his feet and use a bathroom, or search for some food. Much to his surprise, Is had a form of currency, but since he did not have a job, he had no money of his own. So he had returned to Eloise Gardner (whom he'd dare say had been far more delighted than any person, alive or dead, had ever been to see him) for help.
She'd gaily shown him another oddity of the hereafter: the farming district. Within a room far larger than any he'd yet seen on Is, a room both taller and wider than one could discern with a naked eye, foods from all over the world sprouted, vegetated, and bloomed. One of the farmers had taken pity on him, so now, every time he showed up, she would always procure a stray piece of corn, or an apple that no one would miss.
Beyond that, Sweeney did nothing. Could do nothing except to sit and stare, trapped in the dusty, desolate corners of his mind. But every now and then, from the fog, would appear the petite form of a woman, her yellow hair catching the wind, her eyes stabbing his skin like a thousand razors . . .
Sweeney would have given anything to have his spirit dissolve into nothing. He did not want to exist any longer, not on Earth and not on Is. Not if she was not in either.
He missed her. God, did he miss her. He had missed her for sixteen years, missed her so consistently and achingly and so damn much that he had thought it could not be any worse.
He had been wrong.
He still searched for her. Each time he left his room for the lavatory or food, he would first close his eyes and step through the wall, LucindaRoselynBarker pounding a steady metronome in his mind. He knew she wasn't here, but he could not cease looking. She might show up, after all; that man had mentioned that souls did occasionally come and go from Is. Or she might not simply be ready to be found – but when she was ready, he would be there.
Thinking of her was painful, so when his thoughts did wander in that direction, he would usually try to steer them back to the vacant voids of his mind. Then he would feel guilty for not wanting to think of her, for wanting to spare himself pain. How could he be so selfish? He should think of her, should think of her with each and every thought. He deserved to dwell in misery; after all, it was his fault –
No. It was her fault. The she-devil's fault. He had not known, could not have known –
Couldn't have known? You couldn't have recognized your own wife?
And thus continued the spirals, the dead-ends, the endless cycles of his misery-drunk mind.
What had ever happened to the afterlife being a place for the soul to rest?
A/N: Reviews are love.