To tell you the truth, I didn't care about the Fleet Street murders. The police wanted me to get as much information as I could out of the boy who was brought in. I assured them I would pass on anything I found, but told them not to expect much. It would be useless to try to describe to them how unreliable the patients were. They would knock on the door again in a week, I knew. I would tell them again, and they would come again and get nothing until they gave up.
Walking past his room, I knew we would never get anything out of him. I stopped and paused at his door, listening to his voice drift out. "Smoothly, smoothly, smoothly, smoothly..." It was all he ever said, and he never stopped. He spoke so softly, but the words would follow me down the hall, working their way into my head, my steps, my breath. His mantra. He wasn't loud enough to justify a gag. Pity.
The day after he arrived, I had to assess him, to figure out what was wrong, why he was here, and check for any physical damage. I came armed with bandages, a bucket of water, tranquilizers - you never know what you might need. When I entered his room, he was still repeating, "Smoothly, smoothly," an almost musical underscoring of everything I did. I sighed, and knelt down beside him. He was still in the straightjacket, until I could determine whether or not he was dangerous. He stared, vacantly, at the ground, seemingly unaware that I was there. He probably was unaware.
I started to undo the straightjacket, and, with a start, he looked at me. Eyes wide, he stared for a second, before whispering with urgent energy, "Three times! That's the secret! Three times through to make 'em tender and juicy, three times through the grinder, smoothly, though... smoothly..." The words brought him back to his calm, oblivious state. Completely helpless, I thought. The police could pester me all they wanted, but there would be nothing to show for it.
I slipped the straightjacket off his body, and he let his arms drop, out of his control. It looked like I wouldn't need the tranquilizers; the boy seemed almost catatonic as it was. I removed his pajama shirt to check for bruises or cuts. My eyes were immediately drawn to several cuts along his wrists. They looked self inflicted. He would remain in the straightjacket longer, I decided, to protect himself. I inspected them closer. Dirt had slipped its way in them as they started to scab. I brought the bucket of water closer, and dipped a piece of cloth in it, so I could clean the wounds. The moment I placed the cloth on his wrist, however, the boy jerked into awareness, trying to scramble away from me.
"Calm down," I said, calmly, trying to lead by example. He did nothing of the sort. I grabbed his arm, and he cried out. Perhaps I would get to gag him, after all. He thrashed against my grip. "Tobias!" I barked.
He stopped. Everything. He froze right there, looking at me with a stunned fear. He was the kind of child who showed everything he felt on his face.
"Please, don' call me that, mum..." he said quietly, tears welling up in his eyes. I was slightly taken aback at this form of address. No one had ever called me that, before. Coming from a child who had barely seen me before, it was... unnerving.
"Please, mum," he said again, "that's not my name. No one's ever called me that. Mrs. Lovett didn', she called me Toby... or love. Only... only 'e did. Only Mister T--" he stopped, as if interrupted. His eyes focused towards something only he could see, and he gasped.
I needed to get him out.
I snapped my fingers in his face. "Toby," I called. I did not like giving my patients nicknames, but in this case, I knew that nothing would get done if he had an episode whenever I said "Tobias". I would have to break him of this, eventually, but for now...
He looked at me again, back, but still scared. "I'm just going to clean you up. The water is a little cold, but you'll hurt more later if I don't do this now. Do you understand?" He nodded, but his eyes still showed confusion. The boy couldn't hide anything.
I went back to work at his wrists. He shivered away from the cloth at first, but then seemed to calm down. I looked at him - he was slipping away again.
"Mrs. Lovett wouldn' like this place. It's too plain. She loved to make things pretty. She'd put flowers everywhere, said it made people like it more..." His voice was distant, floating around the room. I started on the other wrist. "But... the flowers made 'er sick, made 'er sneeze... but then she'd put more in, she said people wouldn' see her bein' sick if they saw her flowers, they wouldn' see how bad things was if they saw the good parts instead..."
I started to wrap bandages around his wrists, trying to tune out the nonsense.
"An' she wanted everythin' perfect, that's why she wouldn' let me 'elp with the pies for so long, see, but then she finally said I could, she let me 'elp make 'em and bake 'em and three times through the grinder, that's what made them perfect, she said, three times, but smoothly... smoothly... smoothly..." And the boy was gone again. I quickly checked the rest of him for any other injuries, but the cuts were the only things of note. I eased him back into the straightjacket. He didn't put up any resistance; again, it was like I was not even there. After securing him, I gathered my things and left.
His mantra was ringing in my ears, like an annoying song.