There was something uniquely fulfilling about his latest victory. Sweeney found himself humming a monotone tune of pleasure each time he brought down his hatchet and sank it into the still squishy flesh of the man lying on the filthy floor of the bakehouse. He used the occasional rag to wipe up the insistent red puddle around the corpse's severed limbs and grinned maliciously at the flabby features of the face that had once inspired repulsion and dread in many a man.
It had been entirely too easy to lure the vulgar oaf back to Fleet Street, to convince him that Mrs. Lovett would see him again and would appreciate him visiting Sweeney's shop beforehand. He supposed he had been careless—he had been seen with the beadle in the street; however, if he had noticed anything during his brief time back in London, it was that people in this town rarely paid any attention to matters not concerning their own precious selves.
After the beadle had slumped into the barber chair, Sweeney had taken his time, trying to conjure up even a vague image of his lost wife for whom he was about to take his revenge. His razor and teeth bared, Sweeney had growled against his ear, "This is for Lucy Barker," and thought the beadle had flinched before his blade had sliced open the lout's fat neck. "And for Mrs. Lovett," echoed dimly in the very farthest reaches of the barber's consciousness, where Sweeney could not yet detect its profound meaning.
It was early in the evening when Sweeney returned to Mrs. Lovett's bedroom, carrying her supper tray and being followed by Tobias's brooding glare. He knew the boy had never liked him, and he couldn't really blame him, for he knew he was not exactly the nicest of people, and it was natural of the boy to feel a certain amount of contempt towards his rival for Mrs. Lovett's affection. However, he had taken care of the woman when Sweeney had been out, so he supposed the boy was useful to some extent.
Before entering the room, Sweeney halted at the ajar door, hearing Mrs. Lovett's quiet grumpy voice carry to him. "There you go, Nellie," she was saying, "you silly old girl! This is what you get for leadin' your boys on like that. No wonder they take you for nothin' more than a common whore."
Sweeney gave a single knock on the door, pushed it open without so much as waiting for a permission, and stepped inside. Mrs. Lovett was sitting in her bed, nearly in the same place where Sweeney had left her.
"Mr. T," she greeted him with a tiny smile, and Sweeney noticed that some of her so uniquely characteristic boundless enthusiasm had returned to her eyes and courage to her countenance. Her eyes caught the tray in Sweeney's hands, and she raised her hands to retrieve it as well as to invite the man to step forward. "Oh, thank you, dear," she said warmly. "You've both been so kind to me all day, Toby an' you. I feel so embarrassed that you 'ad to see me the way you did earlier."
"Don't," Sweeney cut in carefully, hovering next to the bed and watching Mrs. Lovett stick her fork into a juicy slice of meat he'd—he was rather proud to admit—prepared for her himself.
From the way Mrs. Lovett looked up at him, he realized he must have sounded much less harsh than he'd intended to. "Sit down, dear." Mrs. Lovett gestured towards the miserable wooden chair Sweeney had used earlier in the day and, in all honesty, he was rather relieved to rest his legs for a while. "I did like you told me to," Mrs. Lovett continued after a little while and after she'd taken a couple of bites from her supper. "I stayed 'ere nearly all day."
Sweeney watched with vast contentment as Mrs. Lovett's countenance changed in accordance with the thrill she got out of his masterfully cooked meal. "Good girl," he mumbled, his eyes hungrily following the fork from the plate up to his landlady's lips and down again.
For a couple of minutes or so he observed her in perfect silence, a sly smirk making its way to his lips. "I wonder," he spoke suddenly, making Mrs. Lovett look up at him with avid curiosity, "would you like to know who you're eating?"
Mrs. Lovett's eyes grew wide with horror and repulsion as terrible realization dawned on her. Instantly she dropped the fork back onto the tray with an unmelodious clatter and her hands moved blindly to push it farther away from her across the bed. She swallowed arduously and started shaking her head in frantic denial, her eyes reading from Sweeney's face only grim confirmation. "No," she breathed and her body shook with disgust. "No, I wouldn't."
For a little while Sweeney watched her reaction with sinister satisfaction and eerie calm, then picked up the tray, took it to a nearby dresser, and returned to the bedside and to the appalled woman on it. He hadn't really meant to frighten Mrs. Lovett. He'd have thought she would be pleased and not repelled. After all, it wasn't as if they didn't do it all the time—human flesh was hardly a rarity in their diet nowadays. But as Mrs. Lovett continued to stare at him with an expression of frenzied alarm, he decided to attempt a small smile to reassure her of his lasting sanity.
It took them little time to establish an enjoyable conversation and the fact that Mrs. Lovett had not felt disgusted exactly by Sweeney's method of vengeance, but merely astounded. Soon she even found it in herself to laugh about it. There was also no mistaking her relief and obscure gratitude.
At one point, just when Mrs. Lovett had made another suggestion to take some more furniture up to the barber's sombre room, Sweeney asked, "Why do you keep that monster of a bed around? Isn't it a tad inappropriate?"
"I like the look of the room with it," Mrs. Lovett justified her interior design, smoothing the covers over her lap, "an' the space."
Sweeney nodded in understanding. "Well, I suppose it's wise of you," something in him urged him to say. "You never know when it might come in handy."
Mrs. Lovett let out a sudden burst of laughter, one that did not exactly sound very gleeful to Sweeney. "Oh, who'd want me now?" she said in a lugubrious tone, the melancholic self-pity so dreadfully uncharacteristic to her.
And all of a sudden Sweeney was reminded of the fleeting feeling he'd had when he had taken Mrs. Lovett's face in his hands that afternoon—of the strong desire to feel the warmth and silkiness of her skin against his. Without even truly acknowledging the line he was about to cross, he reached over and brought Mrs. Lovett's chin up with his finger; leaned in close and pressed his thin lips against her luscious ones. An exhilarating thrill went through him, an intense excitement he had last felt such a long time ago that it both surprised him and brought with it many pleasurable memories.
Mrs. Lovett didn't respond in any way, and Sweeney pulled back just as abruptly as he'd come on to her, staying close enough to study her face, to still enjoy the unique aromatic scent radiating from her flushed skin. After everything she had told him since his return to London and after her numerous attempts to catch his eye, he was rather bewildered by her lack of enthusiasm. In truth, Sweeney couldn't read her face at all: there was no delight nor disgust, no fear or resentment, no thrill or joy, but mere blank shock.
His breathing had become heavy without him noticing it. He couldn't have known how menacing he looked as he took in every inch of Mrs. Lovett's face, her neck and her heaving chest, like a predator watching its prey. He sat still for a moment, his mind reeling, contemplating what something primal in him was telling him to do and if he should succumb to the urge. His hand fell onto the hot bare side of Mrs. Lovett's neck.
A hand lashed out and struck him sharply across the left cheek with sudden and fiery rage.
Sweeney was shocked out of his strange trance and he instantly bolted up from his chair, headed for the door and slammed it shut behind him. From the kitchen, two squinted eyes watched him. Sweeney walked straight out of the parlour, through the kitchen, passed the boy and the chair upon which he'd hung his coat, and marched out into the street.
Icy wind sliced through his body; rain lashed at his face, washing away the suffocating feeling of Mrs. Lovett's resentment along with his unbridled and shameful lust. The image of Mrs. Lovett's hurt expression flashed through his mind when he closed his eyes against the raindrops. His left cheek was burning from Mrs. Lovett's offended touch and from the short-lived fire in her raging eyes.
Something awfully strange had happened the moment her hand had slapped him across the face. It was not that he had merely been surprised—he had felt as if he had been awoken from some sort of a ghastly hibernation. His mind was completely clear—that is to say, he felt perfectly and unusually down to earth and conscientious. He looked around himself and he saw the puddles on the shoulder, the withered sad petunias in a window box across the street, the serious, grouchy people hunched over under their raincoats rushing across the street, and everything else he hadn't noticed before. It was as if he'd been wandering around in his own world of dark, vengeful thoughts and grief up to this day and only now saw the real world around him. It was invigorating.
Without really knowing why himself, his face broke into a blithe grin and he turned his face up towards the clouded sky. It was marvellous to feel the dampness in his old shoes as his uncloaked body became soaked, to notice the slight pain in his left wrist and not mind it. All of a sudden he felt so alive, standing in the street amongst people who didn't notice anyone around themselves, all of whom were marching in a world of their own. He felt free from everything that had been drawing his brows into a frown and making him hang his head in public. He felt like staying there for a while and perhaps treading into a couple of puddles with a spry little skip in his step.
His blissful joy was shortly threatened by two hands clasping at his sleeve. "Alms! Alms," a squeaky voice chanted and then in a trembling tone it added, "Sir, sir, beware of her! Here's a witch lives here. The devil's wife she is!"
Sweeney recognized the woman at his sleeve as the annoying old beggar woman that had often come pestering Mrs. Lovett, and turned to face her abruptly and with a particularly displeased expression. "Off with you, woman!" he ordered brusquely.
The hag raised her head and looked up at the barber from behind her filthy, mussed hair and tattered shawl. "'Tis you, sir!" she declared elatedly. "Don't I know you? Know you… know..."
"Off, I said!" Sweeney roared, irritated by the beggar's continuous insolence. He yanked himself free from her frigid grip and shoved her away from him, forcing the woman into the busy street. He watched without the slightest sensation of regret as she started twirling about in confusion.
Sweeney turned back towards Mrs. Lovett's house with a euphoric lightness in his chest, and headed for the stairs that led up to his room, paying no mind to the gathering crowd down on Fleet Street—a brougham had stopped in the middle of the road, the horse was agitated and people were starting to bow over a small unmoving figure in the mud.