The day had brought a miserable drizzling rain that created a forest of little swirls in the thin fog of St. Dunstan's Market. The usual market crowd, at least, was much thinner and, Mrs. Lovett noted gratefully, the din was much weaker than the norm. With her back and limbs aching from the night's work and her eyes dry from too little sleep, Nellie had no need of a headache to trouble her more. "It's a coach and four we're looking for," she mumbled what felt like the hundredth time as she and Mr. Todd prowled the market place. At her elbow, the barber was silent, his dark eyes running over the shoppers with a grim, dangerous look. Neither of them needed the reminder. They had already questioned the drivers of dozens of the blasted rigs.
Another coach edged through the crowded street as she thought. Craning her neck to watch it pass, she searched hopefully for something familiar about the carriage, the horses, the driver. There was nothing. All look the bloody same. Shouldn't they try to stand out, paint a name on the coach or something? Not, of course, that they could have hoped to stop or follow it.
The weather, unfortunately, made everyone else at St. Dunstan's anxious to be home as quickly as possible. And every one that could afford it was looking for coaches, too.
"What about that one?" Starting at his gruff voice, she followed Sweeney's nod towards a coach pausing in the gap Pirelli's gaudy cart had once occupied.
"No. Already tried it."
"The one pulling up beside it?"
She looked again, the driver catching her eye and scowling. She shook her head. "Twice."
The stood in the street for a long moment, searching. At the end of the long bins of grubby produce, a carriage in rather better repair than the others was taking on passengers. The man on the box seat, waving his patrons grandly towards the open door, was not as shabby-looking as his fellows. He was not the kind of driver Mrs. Lovett would expect to find taking predawn fares.
"There!" Sweeney was looking to the side of the market place where the clinging white fog whirled around the hooves and nodding heads of four underfed horses. Their heavy steps provided the rhythm for the dirge of creaking, moldering leather harness. The coach and ragged specter of a coachman in the box seat bore the same traces of poverty and disrepair. It's grave pace slowed even more, and with a groan the coach lurched to a stop at a filthy shop front perhaps fifty feet away.
There was not a thing familiar about it, but Mrs. Lovett felt her heart beat faster as she followed Sweeney through the milling shoppers, hurrying in his wake as he shouldered his way eagerly through the street. This could be it. Straining, she caught a glimpse over the barber's shoulder. There was already a couple climbing up the single rickety step to the carriage's door.
No! She faltered for a moment, letting Mr. Todd move a few strides ahead so that she had to run after him. He must have seen it, too, for he began to shove his way through the crowd, the curses of pushed or fallen Londoners following him.
The door shut. There was ten feet to go. The driver whistled to the horses, shaking the reins. The team gave one weary heave. Five feet. The wheels started turning…
"Wait!" The word felt strange on Sweeney's tongue. It had been years since he had any need to beg a favor from anyone, however small, or could expect any kindness. Except from Mrs. Lovett.
But the carriage paused, the gaunt driver looking down apologetically. "I'm sorry, sir. She's already full. You'll have to catch-"
"No," Nellie panted, leaning with one hand on Mr. Todd's shoulder as she fought to catch her breath. "We're looking for a coach that made a stop at 186 Fleet Street very early this morning. Or late last night, maybe."
"Fleet Street, you say?" The driver frowned, shifting the reins to one hand. "Can't say as I've been that way lately, and there's none too many blokes what'll take passengers at that hour…"
"Please, sir. It's very urgent."
Sweeney smiled coldly at the thin man. "And of course," he added smoothly, reaching slowly into his coat pocket, "We'd be very much obliged if you could tell us anything at all." Even Mrs. Lovett was relieved when he produced only a few coins.
Catching the glint of gold in the barber's palm, the coachman racked his brains. "Well, all I can say is, there's myself out last night, and Joe Baker, he usually is, you see, but he took ill and might've turned in early. You might try Jack Guffie, if you can find him." His dark-ringed eyes darted hopefully between Sweeney's eyes and the money. "Last I seen him, he was going for a drink. Usually goes to the Bald Faced Stag over in Bell Yard. Ain't seen him since." He paused again. "You can say Tom Ashton sent you, if you like. He knows me." Todd's cold eyes searched the driver's hungry ones before he raised his open hand, smiling.
"Thank you." Standing straight, Nellie left her hand reassuringly on her beloved's shoulder. Whether she intended that comfort for him or for herself she wasn't sure. Since she had woken to find herself pressed comfortably against the dozing barber, her hand held tenderly in his, she had felt an awkward sense of uncertainty and awe in Sweeney's presence, as though she had lost the balance that let her dance safely around the dangerous man she loved.
"Thank you, sir." The coachman gathered the reins . "Ma'am," He added with a nod to Mrs. Lovett. With a whistle to his waiting team, he drove on again. "Good luck!"
Mr. Todd stared silently after the lumbering carriage, his face unreadable except for the determination in his eyes. Her fingers still spread across the black leather of his coat, Nellie searched those pale features. Where is he behind that, in his thoughts? Poor thing… "What did I tell you, love? Have her home in a tick." Her voice was soft and hopeful , and as she spoke she ran her fingers lightly down his sleeve to wrap around his own, cold and thin.
Her very heart felt frozen as he turned that icy stare toward her, with none of the tenderness he had shown last night to be seen. For a moment she thought she had made a mistake, crossed some secret boundary. Then he closed his fist around her pale fingers, his grip hard but not angry. We'll do this, said those grim eyes.
The energy that surged through them like a second pulse was not love, but Nellie loved it.
XXXXXX
Sweeney should have objected to her touch. Even after his weak moment last night, he didn't love her. But he was grateful to have her with him. They could do it. Mrs. Lovett had something powerful about her. He felt it now. She made everything work, gave him everything he needed. And she had stayed. No one else would have. No one else could have made his countless victims disappear into the stomachs of their friends and neighbors. No one else could find Johanna.
He gave her a ghostly smile as he released her hand, his eyes fixed on hers. We can do this. Mrs. Lovett understood, he could tell. She fixed him with that wicked look, both keen and dark, a crooked grin crossing her white face. A bloody wonder…
At a single beat, the pair of fiends turned on their heels and marched towards Bell Yard at a determined pace. Nellie's heart beat faster as their strides through the emptying streets occasionally made their shoulders touch. Despite the voice that told her coldly that he only needed her help to find his precious little Johanna, she was almost giddy to be in his attention in any way. But she wanted more, too, feeling such rapture and tearing disappointment at once that her heart leapt and dropped with the rhythm of her quick steps.
Beside her, Mr. Todd's pulse, too, was quickening. His palm was almost itching, longing for the engraved handle of the razor tucked in its holster, and the familiar tension, a bloodthirsty blend of nerves and anticipation, seeped through his veins. Going for Johanna… His mind swam with images of a grimy throat about a coachman's filthy collar, silver in the city's flickering lamplight, and so much blood. And Johanna's sweet face, innocent face, peering out of a corner, safe, accepting, forgiving. It could all be right again. It had to. He walked faster, turning a corner.
Nearly running now to keep up with corner, Mrs. Lovett almost swept past him as he stopped suddenly around a corner. As she came to a flustered halt, she found herself looking out across a wide gray square. Bell Yard was deserted except for a few youths lurking around the doors of little shops. The rain pooling around the filthy cobblestones echoed against the walls of stores and offices, and, in the near corner, those of a seedy-looking inn who grungy windows poured yellow lamplight into the street. A dirty sign proclaimed the out-of-place building "the Bald Faced Stag." Beneath the sign sat a much-abused old carriage, its team of horses dozing in the traces. Looking at her partner, Nellie saw a too familiar light in Sweeney's eyes as he stated down the abandoned coach. "Easy, love." She put her hand cautiously on his arm, which hung too close to the holster that held his beloved friend. "We've got to do this right." Meeting her gaze, he nodded, allowing the baker to lead the way.
Mrs. Lovett edged past the empty coach, guessing from the state of the cobbles beneath the horses' feet that they had been there for some time. We've got him! She felt her excitement growing as she pushed open the creaking door and stepped into the pub. The inside of the bar was as grubby as the outside, smelling heavily of cheap ale and pipe smoke. A fiddle played merrily, if not particularly well, in one corner, scratching over the slurred conversations of the few conscious patrons. She scanned the men, searching their rough and sallow faces for one that might belong to their coachman. Before she found it, she felt a nudge at her elbow as Sweeney, smiling, nodded towards a heavy fellow slumped over the counter. Stepping nearer, Nellie caught a strong whiff of smog and horses from the coarse weave of his coat. "Jack Guffie?"
"N?" The man started, nearly scattering the forest of empty glasses in front of him. His eyes had dark circles under them as though he hadn't slept for weeks.
"We're looking for the coach that made a stop on Fleet Street, number 186, very early this morning. We -" Guffie's jaw hung slack, his eyes staring and bright with fear as much as gin. Nellie paused. "We've been instructed to give the driver a tip, if the passengers made a safe journey."
"Fleet - On Fleet Street?"
"A pie shop," Sweeney added. "There was a - a sailor boy. Young."
"Oh…" Jack's head spun. He had though that maybe in a week or two when the girl never arrived in Devon there might be questions asked. Not now, though, and while he sat drunk in a bar. "I…"
"And another. A grown man, a sailor too." What? Sweeney looked at his partner, his face blank. What is she doing? Mrs. Lovett narrowed her eyes suspiciously, sensing more than alcohol behind Guffie's stammering..
"Oh, yes!" The coachman's eyes darted from baker to barber and back to the counter. "Them. Ah…" Todd's eyes grew wide, catching in to Nellie's trick. "Yes, they arrived safely." Sweeney lurched forward, his fingers closing around the razor.
Behind her back, Mrs. Lovett snatched his arm, squeezing it. "Oh, that's good! Ain't it, Mr. T?" Looking over her shoulder, she gave Sweeney a meaningful look. Stay with me, love. We'll do this. She felt the muscles in his arm relax. "And where exactly were they going?" He tensed again in the long silence that followed, but his clenched fists were empty now. Nellie still smiled coldly.
"Brent." Jack's voice was strangled, his face white. "An address in Brent. Don't remember it exactly, but… But that's where they are, safe as you please." Sweeney felt his fist start to shake of its own accord, his arms twitching likewise as his rage grew. Liar! He wanted to shout, but his throat closed on itself. His throat closed up and he wanted so badly to tear this bloody Guffie's open.
"Good." Mrs. Lovett's voice was almost a growl. "Give the man the tip, Mr. Todd." The tip of my razor! The barber stood frozen. Bastard! "Mr. Todd…" She stepped back, her shoulder touching his chest as she murmured to him. "Breathe, love. We'll have him." Struggling, he cleared his chest and regained control of his limbs. "The tip, if you would, Mr. T." He fished a few more coins out of his coat pocket and pressed them forcefully into the other man's sweating palm. Jack Guffie only whimpered faintly as Nellie guided Sweeney back into the street.
XXXXXXX
Rain dripped endlessly onto the sodden blanket over the head of a lonely little figure. The creature who had tumbled earlier from the carriage's supports was huddled shivering against the wall of an old tavern, trying to rest out of sight in the alley beside it. His back and limbs ached as though he had been beaten. His neck was stiff. His head throbbed. And his heart, worst of all, was broken, betrayed.
For his consolation, he had one bottle of gin he had bought with pennies left lying in the street. It was half empty now, the precious liquid inside mingled with rainwater and his tears. He took another sip, but it didn't help. It only made him think of her.
The inn's old door closed loudly, making the little urchin flinch. Crouching further into the shadows, he waited for the emerging drunk to pass by the little close. Much to his surprise, two very sober figures stormed into the narrow pass, their steps scattering the pooling filth on the ground. He quickly hid himself under the blanket.
"He's lying!" a man snarled.
"I know, dear. Calm down. I saw him head the other way and Johanna was in no state to turn him around." That was a woman's voice, with a flat, almost harsh edge to it, a voice he knew. No. "But we can't prove it without having to admit Anthony never left our shop." It's not her. It can't be.
"But we have to… Johanna…" He felt his stomach twist with fear. He had escaped, through the sewer grate in the street and into the framework of the waiting coach. He thought he would never see them again, they would never come for him. He peered from under the blanket's ragged edge and through the fog saw that the figures matched the voices. Dark, lean and wild, they were beautiful demons. He let out a terrified sob.
"I know, but what -"
"What was that?"
He bit his lip, tears flowing hot down his frozen face. Very softly, footsteps crept nearer. He shook harder, knowing his short life was over.
He wailed as the blanket was torn from his fingers, his eyes squeezed shut, but instead of the hiss of an opening blade, he heard a gasp.
His eyes opened to find her face before him, and he remembered. He remembered pies, kindness, care, a home, a job. He remembered fingers, blood, a locked door, a stolen purse. He remembered this woman's gentle voice calling through the sewer. He remembered longing to go to it, the pain as he heard the second voice, the monster's mixing with hers, and knew she would give him to that beast of a barber.
"Toby!?" Mrs. Lovett's voice was small and disbelieving as her hands settled uncertainly on the boy's trembling shoulders. Toby cried harder, unable to resist as she drew him close. "Tobias Ragg, you gave me such a fright!"
He wanted to scream, to pull away from her filthy, bloody arms and run. Murderer! Witch! But he couldn't. His weak little arms wrapped treacherously around her neck as strangled words began pouring out of his mouth, buried in the wet cloth of her dress.
"Slow down, dear, it's alright."
Toby hated himself for clinging to her tighter. "I know what happened to the girl."
XXXXXXX
Johanna stood at the rain-washed window, her shoulders pressed against the cold glass as her staring eyes raked the shadowed room. The only light was the gray teary glow that filtered through the water on the window. There were candles, but she had put them out, unable to abide the disgusting glow of their rosy glass jars.
There was little in the room she could stand. In its vast grandeur, she confined herself to where the stood. She chose to keep on her sailor's clothes despite all the fine, rich dresses laid out in its massive closet. She refused to touch the immense bed, spread with silk and soft down coverlets and reeking faintly of human filth and sin. She refused the dainty treats left for her on a silver tray, refused the glass of brandy beside it. She refused, as much as possible, even the sickeningly perfumed air, trying to breathe only the cold draft coming in through the window.
She wouldn't sleep. She wouldn't leave that spot.
She knew what this place was. She had heard the beadle, more hideous and less discreet than Judge Turpin, talking about such places. She knew they both visited them when the whores and beggar women of London weren't enough, when they needed to destroy beauty to be satisfied. When the judge wanted more than to leer at her through a peephole.
She could always felt those hungry eyes on her. She never turned to meet them, letting them rest on her back until it made her skin crawl. But that was different. The judge, as revolting as he had always been, had never been more than that, never threatening until the night he had let the beadle haul her away to Fogg's asylum. The stares she felt now were both vile and violent. Johanna was afraid to turn away, knowing that those eyes were waiting to become hands, lips, worse.
So she would watch.
She almost smiled, as she thought how much of her life had revolved around watching. The spying judge was always at her back, and the sailor beneath her window. She had almost fainted when he introduced himself as Anthony Hope, because that's what he was to her. He was her hope, her chance of escape, the light in his eyes showing her the way out of the darkness.
Mr. Sweeney Todd, too, now that she had seen him, was all to easy to imagine lurking and waiting for her. In the shadows of the judge's fine gardens, or perhaps from another window, a dark one, she imagined him watching his daughter.
Tears started to well up in her already red eyes. Johanna had always known her father was a criminal, transported for petty theft, but she had created a romantic little story for her family as a child. She didn't dare believe he was innocent, but insisted he had done it for his family, risking the gallows for her and her beautiful mother. She had always wanted him to be a hero.
Now she didn't even have that much comfort. She had cast aside her sickening security, seen her bright-eyed savior slaughtered and her butcher of a father drenched in his blood.
She wished the judge would find her, take her home and keep her safe where her greatest fear was his eyes and her nightmares never came true.
She wished she could see Anthony again, beneath her window, his constant smile convincing her yet again to trust her love and safety to him.
She wished that Mr. Todd was still only the sailor's peculiar friend, waiting to spirit the pair away from Turpin's horrible eyes, or that the ghost of her unfortunate father was still there to comfort her.
Johanna's red-rimmed eyes, already shadowed by dark circles, swept the corners again. She was alone. But if they could watch and wait, then so could she.
XXXXXXX
Thanks again to everybody who reviewed, and sorry for the delay. This chapter was really slow work for some reason...