II. April 14, 1848. London, England. 10:50 pm.
Tonight, she'll walk the wrong way.
In ten minutes, she'll begin weaving her way through the hallways and dimming the lanterns. Usually she just starts at the end and works her way toward her own quarters, but she took a nap today. It was foolish and selfish of her, not to mention potentially dangerous. She's aware that she is letting her guard down, and she needs to be more careful, more exact in her internal alarm system. She daren't sleep tonight.
Mrs. Lovett's name sounds familiar. Where has she heard it before?
She starts her trek from her quarters tonight, methodically wishing everyone goodnight. Every so often she gets a grunt in return, but for the most part they are silent. Not many of them sleep, and the ones who do sleep toss and turn and scream. Their nightmares must be vivid. She wonders if they see her in their nightmares. Is she the one who makes them scream?
When she reaches the end of the corridor, she realizes she has to walk back to her quarters in the dark. Only a few inmates insist on keeping the lanterns on, and it is not nearly enough to light her way. Oh, but she's not afraid. A little tense and uncomfortable, maybe, but not afraid.
The conversations come out at night.
"Libera me, Domine, de morta aeterna, en die illa tremenda: Quando caeli movendi sunt…"
"What the 'ell is the bugger over there saying?"
"Praying, I bet."
"What we got to pray for?"
"Dunno. It sounds like Greek."
"Sounds like 'orse shit."
She walks faster.
"I cannot sleep for dreaming nor dream for sleeping. I cannot… moon? I think of you and I think of lullabies. I can sing lullabies and no one sings them back…"
"Sleep, love."
"Sing to me."
"You sing enough for the both of us."
"Why are you here?"
"Disturbed the peace. A judge didn't like me, and I'm here. Days now, years. I'm going mad."
"We're all mad here. Sing to me?"
"In the morning, maybe. You'll wake up and they'll be rejoicing. Dream of that."
"Rejoicing. Sorrow or something like it?"
"Sleep, love."
Steps against steel. Don't think, don't even breathe too loudly. Walk.
"Mrs. Lovett says she always likes waking up before sunrise…"
She stops. He hasn't spoken in weeks, not since March.
"And she always…"
"I 'eard yeh the first time."
"Sorry. Night."
"Night."
"Sometimes I miss her…"
"Would yeh shut up already?"
"Sorry. Night."
"Night."
"But I'm there often, you know, Mrs. Lovett's pie shop and she laughs about how…"
The women in the adjacent room spits. It echoes off the walls and rumbles like a low moan. Tobias whimpers, and she can almost see the other woman snarling.
"Nellie Lovett was a rotten whore," she mutters.
"Sorry?"
"NELLIE LOVETT WAS A GREEDY DEVILISH PIG AND A FILTHY ROTTEN WHORE!"
The muttering stops, and the word "whore" mocks the asylum by lingering longer than its welcome. She fumbles for her keys, grabs a gag, and makes a mental note to transfer #103 to solitary first thing tomorrow morning.
But for now, she walks. Walks and listens.
"I think I misplaced my wife. I had a family or some people like and one day they were there and the next… gone. Evicted, maybe. There were kids and they had names just I don't remember. It's been some time really. I know they were stupid little buggers and they probably grew up to be stupid little buggers. Not like I would know, mind you. You know why I'm here?"
He won't get an answer. The woman in the room beside him spends all of her time pretending to knit in a complacent silence.
"I attacked a man. I don't remember him either except he died three days later. Fat, pompous bugger. Thought he could buy out the world and I showed him, I did. Knife in the stomach, slashed the groin, too. Good times."
She would throw up on the floor. She would, but she can't.
"I believed in dignity, and that got me in the arse later. Ha. Not much else to consider, eh? Dignity and madness. All that's left is the crazy chap in the asylum with nothing possibly to lose or gain or love. I think I'll get out and find them. Yes, that's what I'll do."
He'll never get out. Security and maintenance here are above par. He'll talk to walls for the rest of his life.
She reaches the end of the hallway. Really, she should demand more money, hire a personal assistant, do something more than just listen to them day in and day out. They've stolen all of her good dreams. They keep them in a little box under all of their beds and look at them when they get bored.
No. Sleep is superfluous, a waste of her time and ability. There is work to be done, so much work to be done.
She reaches her quarters and starts with progress reports on a few of the inmates. The phrases bleed into each other, almost lulling her to sleep. But it's their voices that triumph in the end.
The girl ("sorrow or something like it?") begins to sing:
"Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright."
And one voice, stark and sinister, breaks the darkness:
"You'll never believe what I found under my sink today…"