AN: Now, I must confess...I wrote this story for a lot of reasons, but to be truthful...
One of those reasons was so I could write this chapter. So, naturally, it's going to be some intense fun.
I also apologize profusely for not updating in so long! I feel awful. Homework and tests caught up to me, and I had an awful week wading through the maze of math and English homework...So, this chapter is extra-long to compensate.
Enjoy as always!
And, I totally forgot this for all the chapters before this...I do not own Sweeney Todd, or its affiliates. I wish I did, I really, really do.
"Back in the kingdom we were kings and queens and oh so strong, that God himself could not contain us. We never thoughts we'd be the shorter end of sword and gun, now He himself could never save us."
--- One Last Song by Josiah Leming
"And don't stop, if I fall, and don't look back. Oh baby, don't stop, bury me, and fade to black..."
--- Hang 'Em High by My Chemical Romance
Part X: Showdown At The House of Blue Leaves
The Venice city was divided into many quarters and sections, and the state of these streets and houses ranged from extravagantly wealthy to depressingly filthy.
Normally, given his appearance and impression of being a disgusting man who associated with disgusting people, Mrs. Lovett would assume Beadle Bamford would be located in one of the poorer areas, standing there in faux furs and leather coats (hand tailored, she's sure), looking like a king who has decided to grace the lower masses with his presence.
Normally, she would have been right.
But after hours of searching, her quest to locate him in one of his lucrative opium dens, or brothels has turned up nothing, and she is heading back to the hotel, dejected and frustrated, before she decides to pay the Casa del Lametta another visit to pick up a strong drink before resuming her hunt.
The daylight hours no doubt are a cause of the restaurant's empty tables, not that Nellie minds. In fact, the hollowness of the large room is somewhat comforting to her, after the cramped darkness of the well in the vineyard.
Indeed, the only occupants of the entire building are a man and a woman at the bar, sitting side by side. Several empty glasses sit in front of them, evidence of how long they've been here, feet touching under their bar-stools, the woman's pale legs ending in bare feet, her shoes below them, on the floor. The man's dark hair is tangled by hands that continuously run through it, a desperate motion, as if he's attempting to pull himself up and out of his chair by the hairs on his head. Stumbling up to them, she clears her throat loudly.
The woman revolves 'round in her seat first, and Nellie recognizes her as the singer from a few nights previous. Dark, charcoal lined eyes widen at the sight of their guest, and her hair flutters about her head as she shakes it in disbelief.
Dr. Alan Singer turns about as well, gaze falling on her, a chocked groan escaping his lips. He returns to his drink, again repeating his motion of running hands nervously through his dark hair, whispering curses under his breath.
Marla Singer whistles, aghast.
"You want a drink," she murmurs, "I should think? Hah, that rhymes. You're the woman in love, aren't you? The one who made a scene."
"I s'pose that's me, yes," Nellie replies stiffly, sitting down on Dr. Singer's opposite side. "The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated."
"What'll it be?" Marla asks as she stands up on her chair, hopping up onto the counter, toes bare, then jumping down with a nimbleness that is rather youthful.
"Anything strong, if you please...Actually, the strongest you 'ave."
The two them, Alan and Nellie, sit side by side in silence as Marla bustles behind the bar, humming an odd tune, pouring several different things into a large glass.
"I killed Anthony Hope," he finally blurts out, looking at her with a face of panic and dread. "I poisoned him, when I went to deliver the money for the Bead-- I mean, when I heard you had been murdered by him..."
He winces at his slip of the tongue; he had never meant her to know of this association.
"I knew Bamford was behind this somehow," Mrs. Lovett quips lightly as she takes the drink from Marla, sipping quickly. "'E was so scared of me, last I saw 'im...I figured 'e'd be up to somethin', interferin' in my business, which is his business too, 'course, since 'e is payin' me for me services..."
She stops, hand over her mouth and Alan stares in shock. So he's not the only one being employed by the man in charge of London's underworld. He hadn't realized or considered this woman, whom he had thought to be fairly delicate, could hold such liquor, or perform any sort of business for Beadle Bamford, at least, nothing concerning the killing of human beings. But...if Marla had told him the truth, she must truly know Sweeney Todd, and if she truly knew that man, then...She must have done all the things she was rumored to have done, chopping bodies into tiny squares, grinding them in through a butcher's grinder, cooking them into pies...And without batting an eye, no less.
He's afraid of her now, himself.
"I mean...Er..." She sighs. "Well, I'm quite done lying, it's brought me nothing but trouble so far, so...Yes, I'm being paid by the Beadle to kill Mr. Todd. Or, well, I'm payin' him back for footin' my hospital bills, that is. But I am 'ere to kill Mr. Todd, payment or no. Before I do that, though, I need to settle something with Bamford himself. Y'know where 'e is, Doctor?"
"Y-yes, I do. I'll take you to him, if you'd like. He's at The House of Blue Leaves," Alan replies, feeling extremely weary.
At this information, his companion downs the rest of her beverage in one large gulp, smacking her lips and giving a small shiver at the bitterness of the drink in such a volume, so suddenly. Then, hopping off the stool, she puts hands on her hips, eying him expectantly like a small, excited young girl. Alan is reminded of his daughter when she was younger, urging him to hurry and play with her. Smiling at this thought, he nods a goodbye to his wife, who's pouring herself another drink absentmindedly, blowing him a kiss and mouthing the words "be careful".
The House of Blue Leaves, or "La Casa di Foglie Blu" in native Italian, was once the pinnacle of Italy's reputation as being a center of artfully done architecture: it's wide, cream colored stones were placed and smoothed as if each one had been placed so in such a loving way, like a mother bidding her child goodbye. There, on the roof, as was the fashion for Venetian buildings, were stone sculpted angels, holding in their arms baskets of plants, and flowers, gazing upwards to the heavens, caught and frozen in stone during their leap through the air. Over its entrance, a marble woman spread her arms, leaves woven into her long, delicate hair, eyes gazing downwards as guests streamed into the restaurant and hotel below her archway.
The inside archways were intricately laden in gold paint, with a gorgeous ceiling painting of swaying trees in a large meadow, with a clearing that contained a pond and small shrubs, and (most famously) several twisting and gnarled trees whose bold blue leaves tumbled eternally towards the forest ground. Below this was a foyer full of small chairs and tables for having drinks and discussing light things while waiting for a table, and to every side of this large, circular room were grand hallways leading into private dining areas, each themed after various landscapes in Italy and Europe.
This was, of course, years previous.
Since its passing of hands from the family owners who had so lovingly tended to its interior and exterior, the new proprietors of The House of Blue Leaves were wealthy criminals who had had a notion to buy such a restaurant. They had allowed the whole thing to fall into a sad state of disrepair, and the place was now used only as a dining destination for wealthy businessmen who cared not for the employers and the owners, but enjoyed the idea of eating in such a lavish place, and of course, any sort of leader in the underworld.
Making the garish place the ideal meeting area for Beadle Bamford, who, in his ignorance, had completely lost the thought that this restaurant was not as it seemed. However, his reputation guaranteed him the best treatment, and he let the small, nagging feeling of dread escape his tiny mind, and laid back to watch as people fed his ego.
Outside, the angels and the lady guardian were worn by wind and rain, looking rather beaten, and Mrs. Lovett and Alan Singer stood at the place's entrance, looking up rather forlornly at this building, which clearly was once so wonderful to behold.
"This is where 'e is? You are quite certain?"
Alan nods, still looking up with curious sadness at the woman in the archway.
"Yes, Mrs. Lovett," he reassures her, "I am very, very certain. I met him here before, to discuss my duty. He's staying here for the remainder of his visit, which is to end tomorrow, for today is the meeting between himself and the two lords of the Italian and Parisian underworlds. Then, he is returning to London, I think."
"Ah," she mutters, obviously distracted. Giving a curt look of respect to the arching goddess, whose leaf-spattered hair had been so dulled that she appeared to have only knots in it, she strides to the doorstep and enters into the rundown foyer, Dr. Singer reluctantly following.
They sit in two moth-eaten chairs, and Alan leans forward, glancing suspiciously at everyone about them.
"Mrs. Lovett, I would like very much to go with you," he stammers. "I do not want you to be killed, and perhaps, if things go wrong, I can negotiate with him..."
"No," she snaps, stiffening, and he can see her whole body and soul is being coated in stone, hardening her for this act she must do. "You are welcome to follow, Doctor, but do not help me. I need no help."
Then, watching carefully, the two of them see a group of well-dressed men stride down the north hallway into the largest dining room, the Versailles room, decorated after the famous French palace.
Mrs. Lovett rises quickly, ducking behind their group of large, muscular guards, obscured from sight, and Alan follows rather behind, heart hammering in his chest. He watches as his companion pulls a knife, gleaming and silver, from her coat and grips it tightly, as if to reassure herself.
They make it into the room and manage to stand behind several tall, ominous looking men who are dressed in crisp black suits and sharp, gleaming obsidian shoes. At the long, polished table, they see Beadle Bamford, feasting rather disgustingly upon lobster, crab, pork and other fine dishes, a Frenchman, dressed finest of the three, in gold and light blue, nibbling at his meal with his heavily jeweled right hand as he brandishes a large pistol in his other hand, menacing, and a thin, brooding Italian, with dark, slicked back hair, who is eating nothing at all.
"So, gentleman," the Italian says, and his voice is as cool as the ice in his drink, "We have come here to meet and discuss business. Shall we dine, first, and then proceed, or would you rather do the opposite?"
His English is perfect, but his accent remains.
The Frenchman waves about his fork, and point to the Italian.
"You are ze new leader, are you not? This, ah, this...Michael Corleone, is it? Why do you come, instead of your father, Vito, mm? 'E is ze man I like, ze man I respect. Not this boy. Why so serious, mmn?"
Mr. Corleone's face flickers red for an instant, and then, tilting his head, he smiles.
"Monsieur Pendule, I would very much appreciate it," and at this, he pauses, to pull out a large hatchet, "If your remarks were aimed towards being productive at this time. My father is dead. He died a day ago, and I am the Don now. I have been instructed that we, the Italians, are holding this on our ground, and we are to be treated with...respect."
At this final word, he flings the hatchet into the table, setting it deep into the wood. Mr. Pendule pales, and his eyes widen, fork frozen, and he slowly nods his understanding. The room is silent, save the crunching and slurping noises coming from the Beadle's constantly churning mouth.
Folding his hands delicately, Corleone nods as well.
"It shall be dining first, I think."
He snaps calm orders to a line of waiters at the table's side, who immediately vanish, off into the vast kitchens. Mrs. Lovett shifts, and squirms through to be concealed behind a large potted plant, and Alan stands at the plant in the corner yards away, whimpering.
Suddenly, Nellie starts, and points to Alan, pantomiming choking on something. Frowning, Alan shakes his head, not understanding, and then...she mouths 'Anthony', and he almost cries out in amazement at her brilliance. He mouths back 'I'll take care of it', accompanied by several odd motions she doesn't seem to grasp, but she gestures with her hands for him to carry on, and so he slips in through the kitchen door in to his right, in the corner, and is not seen. His last view of Mrs. Lovett is of her face, lips pursed in concentration, eyes flashing with wildfire anger.
The kitchen is a cacophony of noise, metal things clanging about, birds squawking somewhere distant, men yelling in Italian to one another, and he watches as they point rather frantically to certain dishes, repeating the name Corleone. From this, he can surmise that these particular meals are for the part of three, and he slips his hand rather quickly into his coat pocket and produces the vial of cyanide, a smirk sliding to his features at this cleverness.
Grabbing a large pan from the counter, he ducks into a corner between two barrels, near the doorway into the Versailles room, and when a young waiter about his size reaches over to snatch two potatoes, he slams the metal thing down and drags the young man over to a corner, tucking a bottle of wine into his hand, as evidence, which would ensure his own innocence in this crime. Then, they trade clothes, and he slicks back his own dark hair and slides out into the dining hall, carrying a tray of soups, setting it down and mumbling to conceal his poor Italian that their soup is served.
Corleone eyes him, suspicion aroused momentarily, but Alan sets his jaw and bows low before returning to his place, behind the large shrub. Mrs. Lovett beams at him, and gives him a thumbs up.
The men surrounding the table's perimeter look on as Corleone and Pendule ladle spoons into the bowls. Looking up, Michael asks:
"I apologize, Mr. Bamford. Did you care for some of this...?"
The Beadle shakes his head, mouth full of lasagna. "I'm quite fine, thanks."
Shrugging, the two other men take large gulps of the liquid, and nod their acceptance of it, when suddenly...
Mr. Corleone spits the soup out rather forcefully, coughing violently, yelling loudly in Italian. His bodyguards race forward, one handing the man a small bottle which he gulps down faster than anything, and the others producing weapons and proceeding to open fire throughout the room, obviously being commanded to eliminate these men who betrayed the trust.
Pendule chokes on his own, already-swallowed mouthful, sudden realization dawning on his face in horror. He manages to choke out a command to his own men, and Beadle Bamford ducks under the table, yelling at his soldiers, who also pull out weapons. The room is chaos.
At last, when the smoke clears, Corleone is bleeding and still-coughing, Pendule is dead, and almost all the henchman are wounded or deceased. The remaining henchman of the Italian group lift their leader upon their shoulders and run out of the room, calling for a carriage to take them to the hospital. The Frenchmen flee as well, leaving Bamford to rise from below, eyes wide, to glance about at his final three men.
At this point, Mrs. Lovett stands up.
"Hello, Beadle," she says flatly. "You enjoy our little gift? The poison's quite handy, actually."
Alan scrambles to his feet, still dressed as a waiter, and Bamford seems to snap.
The stress of the day was already too much; to add onto it the burden of this woman, returning from the dead, and the reappearance of Mr. Singer, which confirms his suspicions as to who did the killing of Mr. Hope, Beadle Bamford begins to chuckle.
The small laughter turns into a roar, maddening and frightful, and he turns over the great table with an inhuman strength, as if possessed, advancing towards them, gripping his own pistol.
"You can't win," he screeches, eyes widening like saucers, spit coming from his quick-moving mouth. "You can't you can't you can't I won't let you win, you see, I can't let you."
He continues the mumbling, like a mantra, circling now underneath the great golden, crystal glass chandelier.
The ceiling of the room is full of bullet holes, and the chandelier sways slowly...
Mrs. Lovett gazes intently at Bamford, then to the chandelier. Then back again.
It sways, and cracks develop around it...
Beadle Bamford yells, pointing at her:
"You! You! You are the wife of the devil. Who would kill me in my sleep, and leave my body for you, to strip clean and cook in the flames of Hell! You! You! I can't let you win, you see? I can't I can't I can't..."
Mrs. Lovett bends down, picking up a gun off the floor, discarded but loaded still, and aims for the ceiling surrounding the chandelier while simultaneously stepping backwards quickly while pulling Alan with her.
There is a tremendous cracking noise, the sound of crumbling plaster, and the Beadle's face is initially pulled into a look of triumph. He thinks she's missed him, and wrongly assumes her target was his own body.
His expression quickly changes when he hears the snapping of a chain, the great heaving of something very heavy being propelled downwards, and he screams in horror once, and then is no more as a great, amazing crash rings about the room, cracking the floor and sending dust flying, bodies shifting and the whole room to heave violently. The men flee in the commotion, and all that remains as evidence that Beadle Bamford was ever a powerful man is his unharmed hand, which bears several real golden rings.
Mrs. Lovett and Alan Singer stand in silence, and finally, he laughs, shaking his head.
"He did die rather extravagantly, which is fitting, I think."
"Mmm," Nellie replies, fingering the trigger of the gun before pocketing this and her unused knife.
"I think...I think we should leave now," Alan says, and he pulls her through the kitchen, in which the waiters and chefs still stand, frozen on the spot in fear, clutching their kitchen utensils as their food burns, ruined. They escape out a back way, into the sunlight, and collapse onto a bench near a canal's edge.
"Dr. Singer..." Nellie begins, then stops. "Alan."
"Yes?"
"Thank you, for everything you've done for me. I...I don't blame you for working for 'im."
"Thank you, for forgiving me, and for always listening to all my silly stories," he says, touching her shoulder briefly.
She smiles weakly, seeming weary from being so serious and grave.
"They aren't silly," she tells him rather sternly. "Don't forget them, Alan. Don't ever forget them."
"What will you do now?" He watches as she looks onto the green waters in front of them, as if asking herself the same thing. In her eyes, he sees a million pains and aches, a million nightmares and longings. He sees, as Marla saw before him, that she is in love, but he also sees, as Marla did not, that she is not aware of it.
"I am going," she says, rising slowly, "To the sea...to kill the man who killed me."
She kisses his cheek, and then leaves, and he watches her back as she leaves, striding with purpose.
True to her vow to the Mooneys, and her promises to herself, she doesn't look back.
Sitting on his porch, in a wicker chaise lounge, Sweeney Todd is drinking wine as he watches a small figure make its way over the dunes towards the solitary home by the ocean's crashing waves and windy sands. As if comes closer, he stands.
"Johanna," he breathes, almost in song as he thinks of his lovely daughter.
When she finally comes up the stairs, winded and hair mussed, he has poured her wine which she drinks gratefully, and then, smiles sweetly.
"Hello," she begins, then, her face darkens. "...Father."
He winces. So she's been told.
"Don't call me that," he protests, pouring himself more wine. "I am not deserving of any such title as that. I'm unfit to be anyone's father."
"You're Toby's," she snaps, and it's clear she's irritated, though not with this truth she's discovered. No, she seems more irritated at his behavior.
"I never chose to be," he says, smirking and looking out to the sands. "The boy thinks of me as such, I do nothing to encourage it."
"And yet, you do not stifle it as you do my own view of you as a parent."
"This is because I don't see any point in stifling his thoughts; he is a boy, and he is not my son. But you are my daughter. Not necessarily in affection, but by blood. I am nothing but your maker; I hold no responsibility for your upbringing. In fact, though it pains me to say it, if anyone is to be credited, it is Judge Turpin who raised you."
She slaps him, tears forming in her eyes.
"No! I never thought of him as anything but my jailer. Why must you steep yourself in self-pity, Mr. Todd? It is pathetic. I want you as my father, even if you aren't the man you once were. I will not back down, until you consent."
Shrugging, he merely drinks, then, silence. The wind and the waves echo, but no voices can be heard.
Finally, Johanna sighs.
"I came here," she says slowly, "To inform you that Mrs. Lovett is still alive. And she is coming to kill you. I thought that you would want to know, and prepare?"
"Hmm."
"Answer me, please," she begs, worried for him.
"My dear daughter," he says slowly, and looking at her, she sees he's close to tears, "I have thought of you for so long; but I am not going to fool you, and say I am changed enough to care for you. I let go of any hopes I had of ever seeing you again; I cannot salvage these hopes and emotions. As for Mrs. Lovett...Let her come."
Johanna begins to cry now as well, setting down her glass, and picking up her hat to make to leave.
"I beg you," she tells him shakily, "Please...please reconsider your precautions. She's going to kill you; I have no doubt of it. She may have loved you, but she holds it no longer."
Sweeney Todd shakes his head.
"Forgive me for saying so, but what do you know about love? You are young...Life has been different for you...But you will learn. I say let her come; I am not afraid, and I am ready for her. Let her come, and we'll see what happens, mm?"
His daughter can do nothing more, for he is stubborn. Instead, she shakes her head and makes her way down the long, arduous path towards town, away from the sea, until she's nothing but a speck on the horizon.
AN: Well, here's some fun tidbits from this chapter:
Michael Corleone and his family, the Italian mob in this chapter are the main characters of the Godfather series, a terrific movie and book. I felt it only fitting they make an apperance, seeing as we are set in Italy.
Mr. Pendule's name is a French word for clock.
When Mrs. Lovett says "The rumours of my death are greatly exaggerated", she is quoting Mark Twain, a celebrated American writer.
Looking back, the kitchen scene reminds of the movie The Witches...remember that movie:D
Thanks for reading! Reviews are loved and cherished!
Next chapter: Part XI: Abscence Makes The Heart...
And
Final Chapter: Part XII: Lovely Wounds
Note: the last two chapters, and the end credits chapter (bonus information, thank-you's, the actual end credits, movie style) will all be submitted in the same go, so you're all going to have a bit of reading to do. I hope you won't mind.