I still don't own Sweeney Todd.
May 4, 1874
Anthony shuffled down the street with his head down and his hands in his pockets. It had been more than two weeks since Johanna was taken away. During that time, he'd noticed two things.
The first was that there was almost no sign of Johanna anywhere. He'd looked all over London, but it appeared that his efforts had been in vain. He wondered what had happened. Had she been taken out of town? Out of the country?
Is she all right?
He'd found himself getting uncharacteristically upset over the whole situation. Normally, he would think it through in a more logical manner and map out his strategy as he'd been taught to do, but as of late, he could barely keep his wits about him. He'd been inconsolable after he'd finally lost sight of the carriage that had taken Johanna away, and he'd collapsed to his knees on the pavement, exhausted and sobbing.
It didn't help that his body had been acting strange as well. For the last three weeks, he'd felt crippling nausea, especially when he first woke up each morning. Even if he emptied the contents of his stomach, the nausea would persist, and he could barely eat. As a result, his clothes were considerably looser and it was sometimes a fight to keep them from falling off.
Along with the nausea came nosebleeds, splitting headaches, back pain, dizziness, pain in his chest, and light cramping in his lower belly. Separately, they were nothing he couldn't ignore, but together, they left him drained and irritable.
Unfortunately, he'd been so preoccupied with Johanna that he didn't pay them any mind until things had gotten to this point. Not even two days ago, he'd walked past an asylum and he'd heard her singing, and sure enough, it was her. He'd wanted to break her out right then and there, but no matter how many times he circled around, he couldn't find anything that would be of any help.
Anthony sat down on a nearby bench and sighed. What was he going to do?
Go. Find Mr Todd. He'll know what to do.
He cradled his aching head in his hands. He really did not want to talk to the barber, especially given how angry he'd been in their last interaction.
What other choice do you have, Hope? If you want to help Johanna, you're going to need help.
Anthony scowled, but lifted his head nonetheless.
Sometimes he really didn't like his inner monologue.
"Mr Todd! Mrs Lovett, ma'am!" Anthony ran into the shop, panting. The barber and the baker were standing behind the chair, and it looked like they'd been in the middle of a conversation.
"What is it, Anthony?" Sweeney asked. He didn't look angry, but he didn't look particularly happy to see the sailor, either.
"He has her locked in a madhouse."
"…Johanna?"
"Fogg's asylum. I've circled the place a dozen times. There's no way in. It's a fortress!" Anthony cringed internally at how desperate and upset he probably looked, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.
"I've got him."
"Mr Todd?"
"We've got her." Sweeney walked up to his friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Where do you suppose all the wigmakers in London go to obtain their hair? Bedlam. They get it from the lunatics at Bedlam."
Where are you going with this, Mr Todd?
"I don't understand."
Sweeney turned to him with a peculiar glint in his eye. Anthony felt his skin crawl.
"For the right price, they'll sell you the hair off any madman's head. We shall set you up as a wigmaker's apprentice. That'll gain you access, and then you take her."
Anthony internally slapped himself. Why hadn't he thought of that?
"We'll write a note to Mr Fogg at the highest price for the exact shade of Johanna's hair. I assume you know which shade I'm referring to."
"Yellow?"
"No. Not specific enough." Sweeney took his hand off Anthony's shoulder and began to pace. "If you're going to be a credible wigmaker by tonight, you'll need to learn the different shades of yellow by their actual names."
Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?
"Let's see, there's tawny, there's golden saffron, there's flaxen, and then there's blonde."
Anthony repeated those to himself.
"For the sake of time, we'll skip the darker shades and just focus on those four."
"Are there really that many shades?"
"Yes. Now pay attention, we're not done yet. You need to know about textures as well."
"Textures?"
"Yes. There's coarse, there's straight, there's fine, and then there's curly."
"Uh..."
"There's also gray, and white as ashes..."
They spent the next hour or so going over the various textures and shades of yellow hair. By the time the hour was up, Anthony's head was spinning, but he had most of the information down.
"So, ash looks fairer, which makes it more rare, but flaxen's rare?"
"No, the flaxen's cheaper. Ash is rare."
"Flaxen's cheaper, not rarer. Okay."
Sweeney looked over at Mrs Lovett and nodded.
"You're ready."
"I am?" Anthony perked up.
"Well, enough to look halfway credible, anyway." Sweeney walked over to the trunk against the wall, reached in, and pulled something out. "Take this with you, just in case." He offered it to the sailor. It was a small pistol.
A gun? What the hell is he doing with a gun?!
"Why do I need this?" Anthony asked.
"Just in case things don't go as planned." The barber placed the firearm in Anthony's hand.
"Are you sure it'll get to that point?" Anthony asked, alarmed.
"No, but if it does, you need to be prepared. Do you know how to use one of these?"
"Yes, but I've never actually fired one before."
"Aim, squeeze the trigger. Don't pull, squeeze. Got it?"
"I think so." Anthony tucked the gun into the inside pocket of his coat.
"Now, remember, once you've got her, bring her back here while you find a ride. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now go, we've got no time to waste. Go. Quickly, go!"
The sailor nodded and took off. He knew what he would do: He would wear his sunday suit and make himself presentable. He was a fairly decent actor, if he didn't say so himself, and now that he was armed with the information he needed, portraying a wigmaker's apprentice shouldn't be too difficult.
We've got this.
To say that Anthony was afraid would be a colossal understatement. Even though he'd cleaned himself up well and worn nice clothes, he still felt like a fraud. What if they saw through the façade?
He placed one hand over his stomach, steadied himself with a hand against the wall, and squeezed his eyes shut. His supper was threatening to make a second appearance, which would not have been opportune at that particular second.
It took a moment for the nausea to subside, and when it finally did, Anthony composed himself and prepared to knock.
All right, Hope. This is your big chance. If this doesn't go as planned, we're finished.
He lifted one hand and knocked on the door. A balding man in a yellowing coat answered after a few seconds.
"Good evening, sir." Anthony greeted politely.
"What do you want?" The man looked at him suspiciously.
"I'm looking for a particular kind of hair. I'm a wigmaker's apprentice, and I've got an order to fill." Anthony's eyebrows rose hopefully.
"Oh. All right, then." The man motioned for him to step inside. "Fogg's the name. May I inquire as to who you are?"
"Eastwood." Anthony replied. "Clint Eastwood."
Not my best attempt, but it'll do.
"Right." Fogg led Anthony through a doorway. "Tell me, Mr Eastwood, what color of hair are you looking for?"
"Flaxen." Anthony replied, and internally cringed. He knew that wasn't the right answer, but it was too late to backtrack. "I think we can come to some arrangement that would benefit everyone."
"Oh, yes, sir, I agree." The two walked down a hallway lit by torches. "It would be to our mutual interest to come to some arrangement in regard to my poor childrens' hair."
Each door they walked past showed a cell crowded with women of varying hair colors.
"Brunettes… Redheads…" Fogg fumbled with a ring of keys once they stopped at a third door. "I keep the blondes in here. It was yellow hair you was lookin' for, sir?"
"Yes." Anthony watched him unlock the door and they stepped inside the cell.
Inside, the women in the cell all cowered in corners, on the beds, or against each other, hoping Fogg wouldn't go near them.
All but one.
She was just sitting there, wearing a straitjacket. Her face was cast downward and her long hair looked to be in sad shape.
Johanna.
Anthony lifted his chin in recognition.
"That one there has the shade I need."
"Right." Fogg turned toward Johanna. "Come, child!" He knelt down next to her. "Smile for the gentleman, and you shall have a sweetie." Johanna looked up at Anthony, but didn't show any sign that she recognized him. "Now, where shall I cut?"
"Not another word, Mr Fogg," Anthony hissed as he pulled a pistol from his pocket. "Or it will be your last." He pulled Johanna to her feet. "Now… I leave you to the mercy of your children!" They turned and ran out the door, leaving the man at the mercy of the inmates.
"So where are we going?" Johanna asked as they walked down the street. After Anthony had gotten her out of that wretched straitjacket, both of them had changed their clothes and were ready to leave London.
"A friend of mine has a shop on Fleet Street." Anthony responded. "He's letting us stay for an hour or two."
"Who is this friend?"
"His name is Sweeney Todd. He's a barber."
"Oh, him. I've heard of him. Red may have mentioned him once or twice."
"Who's Red?"
"The judge. That's his first name."
"Oh."
After some more walking, they arrived at the barbershop. It didn't look like there was anybody there.
"Mr Todd!" Anthony pushed the door open and ran inside with Johanna trailing behind him. The shop was completely empty. "You wait for him here. I'll return with a coach in less than half an hour." He turned to leave, but stopped at the worried expression on Johanna's face. "Don't worry. No one will recognize you. You're safe now." He gave her a reassuring smile and caressed her arm.
"Safe?" She questioned. "So we can run away and all our dreams come true?"
"I hope so."
"I've never had dreams. Only nightmares."
"Johanna…" Anthony touched her cheek gently. "When we're free of this place, all the ghosts will go away."
"No, Anthony. They never go away."
"I'll be right back to you. Half an hour, and we'll be free!" He ran outside and closed the door behind him.
Anthony found himself sprinting through the streets of London. He had no idea how long he'd been running, but he was aware of a single thought running through his mind.
Johanna is in trouble. Get back to her now!
He wasn't entirely sure what had come over him. He'd been trying to procure a ride out of London, but he hadn't had any luck. Eventually, he'd decided to give up and try his luck the next day. Maybe it would be easier.
Before he knew it, he was back on Fleet Street, making his way up the stairs to the barbershop.
"Johanna!" He burst through the door, only to be met with an empty room. The lights were off, but despite the bad visibility, he could see a dark liquid staining the floor and the window. Upon further inspection, he realized it was blood.
Oh God.
He ran down the stairs and into Mrs Lovett's shop. Maybe Johanna was waiting for him with the landlady.
No such luck. The shop was completely abandoned, and looked like it hadn't been touched in years.
Check the bakehouse.
Before Anthony could stop himself, he made his way to a set of double doors that led to a cellar. He opened them and the smell of death and decay hit him like a ton of bricks. Despite the smell, he made his way down the stairs and through the heavy iron door at the bottom. What he saw shocked him.
Sitting on the floor in the corner was a pile of dead bodies. They looked fresh. In the oven, he could make out the silhouette of a person.
That's Mrs Lovett.
Anthony didn't want to look anymore, but his eyes seemed to have other ideas. They shifted to the left, and he could see Mr Todd sitting on the floor, cradling a woman's body in his arms. Both of them were covered in blood, and neither of them were moving.
"Give it a good grind… Comes out there."
A childlike voice caught his attention and he turned his head. He could see a boy of about ten years standing and turning the handle to a large meat grinder.
"Got to put it through twice. That's the key."
The hairs on the back of Anthony's neck stood on end and he backed away silently. The boy turned around, and the sailor could see that his eyes were completely black.
The boy just stared at him.
Get out of there now.
"Come for a shave, have you, lad?"
"Poor thing, poor thing…"
"You gandered at my ward."
"Smoke… Smoke… Sign of the devil…"
"…Pretty little brains all over the pavement…"
Anthony could hear their voices, every last one of them. As the voices continued, the bodies began to stir.
The oven door swung open, and a flaming body made a slow attempt to get out. Mr Todd was now looking up at him, and so was the woman in his arms. From their places on the floor, the judge and beadle stared at him as well. All of them wore blank expressions on their faces.
"Come, sir. Try a pie."
Anthony turned his head, only to see the boy slowly advancing toward him, grinning and holding an open, bloodied razor. As much as he wanted to run away, he found that he couldn't move.
"Sit awhile. Have a sample."
The boy held the razor up and touched Anthony's stomach with his other hand.
"This'll be a good one."
Anthony watched as the boy pressed the blade to his stomach and began to cut it open. He found it odd that he couldn't feel any pain, but that didn't lessen the horror as blood splattered the boy's face.
"Congratulations." The boy reached inside the cut and pulled something out. It was small and covered in blood. It squirmed in the boy's hands. "It's a boy."
Anthony gaped in shock as the object let out a choked cry that sounded like a newborn infant. The grin on the boy's face grew wider and he turned around. Mr Todd and Mrs Lovett were standing there, staring at him with eyes that were completely black.
"What a lovely child." Mrs Lovett's voice was a raspy whisper, as if she'd been chain-smoking cigarettes her whole life. Her face remained blank.
"He looks just like you." Sweeney's voice was a halting, gurgling whisper. His face was also blank.
"Doesn't he, though?"
Before he could react, the boy reached up and slashed his throat.
Anthony awoke with a shout, in a cold sweat. He had no idea where he was; the room was dark, cool, and quiet.
"Anthony?"
He let out a startled cry at the sound of a feminine voice to his left.
"Anthony, it's just me. It's Johanna."
"Oh…" He placed a hand over his heart and let himself exhale. "Johanna. Thank God."
"Are you all right?" She asked. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed that she'd undressed to just a shirt and trousers. "You were moaning in your sleep."
"What happened?"
"You went to find a coach, but there were none available, so we came back here. Kelso let us in through the window there." She pointed to a window across the room. "You laid down on the couch, and you slept for two hours. You kept falling off, so Kelso had to put you on the bed."
"Oh…" Anthony's hand crept up to his throat before moving down to his belly. As far as he could tell, both were unharmed.
"Bad dream?" Johanna asked.
"More strange than bad."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly." He glanced around the room. "You said Kelso let us in?"
"Mm-hmm." Johanna nodded. "You had to explain why you had a girl dressed in your clothes with you, but he let us in without much of a protest."
"Good old Kelso." Anthony chuckled. "Believe it or not, this actually isn't the strangest thing he's put up with."
"You'd better not tell her about that time in India." Kelso's voice could be heard from the doorway. "That was just embarrassing. I'm still recovering from that."
"So am I, Kelso. So am I."
There was a pause as everyone stared awkwardly at each other.
"So, Kelso, you've met Johanna."
"Yes, and she's met me."
"Good."
There was another awkward pause that Anthony felt was way too long.
"So, um…"
"Yeah, it's late." Johanna looked between the two boys and twisted a strand of her hair around her finger.
"We should get some sleep." Kelso nodded. "You know what that means, Hope."
"Yeah I know." Anthony scooted to the edge of the bed and got up. "Johanna, you can have the other bed. I'll sleep on the couch."
"Thank you."
Within a few minutes, the three of them were ready for bed.
"So, goodnight, then."
"Good night."
Did you catch the Back To The Future reference? Kudos to anyone who did!
