Sweeney has never fully appreciated what a long trek Nellie Lovett makes each night down to her bakehouse and up to her shop – more than once, no less.
But he appreciates it now, appreciates it as the muscles in his legs tighten then relax, shifting beneath his skin, and it is only because he is so adept at pacing the length of his barber shop that he does not feel the burn. That must be why she does not complain either of the lengthy, steep-staired journey from the bakehouse to her shop either, for she too is a habitual pacer.
They both are so similar. So perfect for each other – or would be, if she could ever see that. But perhaps they are too perfect – too similar – too alike to ever be forces that create one another rather than destroy. They create one another in a fashion, of course – extolling the best and worst within each other, magnifying traits, manipulating steps, drawing out whispered words too raw to be said anywhere but the dark – but ultimately, they destroy each other.
We give the most of ourselves to the thing that makes and breaks us . . .
As he winds through her shop and starts up the stairs leading to his barber shop, a croaking but soft refrain draws him from his thoughts. He strains his ears to hear the words.
" – he'll be coming soon now to kiss you, my Jo, my Jing –"
The judge?
No – the judge's voice does not sound like that, so feminine and yet so hoarse. It must be some silly girl who's wandered in with a father in need of a shave. He curses under his breath; he does not have time for customers right now.
" – bringing you a moon and a shoe and a wedding ring –"
Jaw clenched, he mounts the remaining steps.
" – he'll be coming here again, home again – AAAHHH!"
The song turns to a shriek as he flings open the door and the girl whirls about to face him, cowering. It's not a girl, he sees now that she's turned to him, gritted teeth tightening, but that mad old beggar woman.
"Who are you?" he snaps. "What're you doing here?"
She raps the tips of her fingers together, hunching over her hands like a miser hoarding gold. She darts strange, sideways glances at him every now and then from a face tucked against her chest. "Evil is here, sir – the stink of evil, from below – "
If Sweeney does not have time for a customer, he most certainly does not have time for this. If the judge sees this beggar in here, then he will remain suspicious of the company Sweeney keeps and turn right around – then the hour he vowed the judge was due will never come – then she will never smile at him because she wants to and not because she feels she must –
"Out of here, woman," he snarls, striding to the window.
"She's the Devil's wife," the beggar rants, spinning lopsidedly on her heels to face him in a movement that absurdly reminds him of Nellie moments before, when she nearly lost her balance on the slick stones of the sewers. But he does not reach out to catch this woman as he did Nellie, so the beggar is forced to catch herself, stumbling a step before recovering. "She really is, sir. She with no pity in her heart . . ."
Fury kindles in his veins and explodes in spots of red before his eyes. How could she, how dare she – Nellie is ten million times the woman this decrepit hag is – and she has the nerve to stand there and spout such falsities –
For God's sake, Todd – you're going to let the words of a mad woman who doesn't even comprehend what she's saying get you riled?
Not as though her words about Nellie really are falsities, anyway, spits up a nasty little voice in the back of his mind.
"Out," shouts Sweeney, yearning to silence both the beggar and himself, "out, I say!"
The woman takes two footsteps towards him, quickly, eagerly. Her chin lifts from its huddle against her chest to thrust her head outward and cast her face into the moonlight shining through the window: the eyeballs too large for their wrinkled sockets, the dirt and warts caked around the skin, the thinning hair sagging around the face.
Instinctively he recoils from her, head knocking against the panes of his window.
"Hey," she says, leering, looking faintly confused, "don't I know you, mister?"
"Mr. Todd!"
Turpin.
His razor snaps open in his hand and slices into her throat.
It's over in less than an instant: his hand moving for his friend, the blade sliding forth, the cut bisecting her neck. Her life extinguishing.
He did not have any intention to kill her when he first saw her in his shop, despite the ease with which he could have done so. It was not out of any moral code or guilt that he had thought this. It was merely that Nellie did not require the sacrifices of innocents – and while this beggar woman certainly could not be called innocent (if her garbled, lusty nursery songs had any fact behind them), she could hardly be considered a part of the group who deserved death. Wrongs had been done to her in she becoming insane; she herself was not the culprit. Thus, Nellie would not care. Sweeney had no scruples one way or the other about killing men by the dozens, if it would satiate her – but what would be the point to a sacrifice that none required?
But when her presence threatened everything he and Nellie had worked for, he reacted.
Another instinctual move. An animal reaction. Preservation.
He stomps on the foot pedal and watches her plummet into the bakehouse. The trapdoor swings shut just as his shop door swings open.
Sweeney sheaths his dripping razor.
"Where is she?" Turpin demands. "Where is the girl?"
Sweeney eases a smile onto his face and strolls towards the judge, ensuring to step with his heels first as he treads over the trapdoor, creating three successive sounds, boom boom boom, trusting Nellie to hear his metronome and set herself to beat in sync. The beggar woman is forgotten.
"Down below, your honor," says Sweeney. "With my neighbor. Thank heavens the sailor did not molest her . . ."
He continues talking, voice flowing as easily as the Thames, wrapping Turpin in a soothing melody of false syllables as he draws him from the doorway and settles him into the barber chair. His uneasiness begins to rise as the minutes tick by and Nellie still does not appear. Comfortable as he has become within his façade, he will not be able to stall the judge forever . . .
"Pretty women . . ." Sweeney drawls, continuing to stir the lather as though he has all the time in the world, even as he notices Turpin drumming his fingers upon the arms of the barber chair.
"You're in a merry mood today again, barber," Turpin remarks, sounding torn between appraisal and irritation.
A merry mood? Yes, he should be merry, shouldn't he? This is the moment that he has waited, anticipated, needed for half a lifetime, and so what if Nellie is a little late? She will be here soon – and when she is here – with him – 'both, us, we, together, you and me,' she whispers in the dark as she trails hot fingers along his spine –
Focus, Todd.
"How seldom it is one meets a fellow spirit," Turpin murmurs, fully at his ease now, legs stretched out on the floor, shoulders slumping against the chair back, head lolling backwards, eyes closed, neck exposed . . .
Shit, Nellie. Where are you?
Sweeney swallows a rising knot of anxiety. "With fellow tastes – in women, at least."
"What's that?" Turpin half-mumbles and half-snorts, eyes opening, drawn from the fringes of slumber and consciousness: he is fully aware of reality now.
Sweeney freezes. So trained to keep his mouth frothing with syllables, he had disconnected his mind from his mouth practically since Turpin's arrival and begun to say whatever sprung into his mind, of sailors, of shaving, of women, of everywhere and nowhere and dammit why, of all the habits to acquire from her, has he acquired the one most likely to plunge him into hot water? And where is she, the master chef, to pluck him out of the boiling pot – or, even better, turn off the heat?
"P-pretty women," says Sweeney with halting conviction, "you and I both . . . appreciate . . ."
Turpin raises an eyebrow at him. "Hmm – yes – so you've said . . ." He lingers over the words, eyes raking over Sweeney's face – then he seems to give up hunting whatever he hoped to discover in the barber's expression and closes his eyes again. "Well – how about you get on with that shave?"
"Yes," says Sweeney, "yes – of course."
He takes out one of his razors from his holster – and nearly drops it within the next instant: his hands are syrupy with sweat. Fumbling, pressing his blade between both palms, he shoots a glance at Turpin to see if he noticed: mercifully, the judge's eyes remain shut.
"But how about a pomade first, sir?" suggests Sweeney, rolling his friend between his palms, searching for the comfort and guidance she usually provides. She, however, is just as barren of ideas and consolation as he. "Your friend, the esteemed Beadle Bamford – he stopped by earlier this evening and quite enjoyed a nice pomade of the head before his shave – "
"No, no," Turpin dismisses, "a shave is all I need, thank you. Johanna will be here any minute, as you say. I can't waste time with frivolities."
"Surely a pomade is not at all a frivolity on a head as deserving of the finest – "
"Come now, barber," says Turpin, throwing open one eye. "Let's not waste my time again – get on with the shave."
His legs feel crafted of steel as he drags himself from his bureau back to the barber chair and the reposing Turpin. Thoughts dive through his mind, flickering in and out so fast he can barely catch them before they've fled again:
not here she's still not here can't risk going to find her and Turpin leaving why isn't she here perhaps kill him myself lesser of two evils is to let Turpin die by my hand or let him walk free again maybe she found Toby maybe they're both with the police to turn me in no no she needs this just as much as I do but what should
He shifts his grip on his blade so she rests solely in his right hand. She quivers like fire in his palm and slides around like water in his sweat.
He raises his arm into the air and lowers it towards Turpin and makes one long, smooth stroke along the judge's left cheek, swathing a clean patch of skin.
"About time," Turpin mutters, and closes his eyes.
The door flies open.
Never has the ersatz jangle of his shop bell sounded so beautiful – or so defiantly real.
"Do you mind, Mrs. Lovett?" Turpin sneers at the woman standing in the doorway. "Mr. Todd and I are rather busy at the moment."
Nellie's lips grow into a smile, eyes scintillating. Her dead eyes are alive. "I know, love. I won't be but a moment."
She strides into the room, her hand falling from the door to let it bang back into its frame, her massive skirts and petticoats crackling like smoke as they swoop across the floorboards. She does not cease her walk until she stands across from Sweeney, in front of the barber chair rather than behind – but she does not see him.
Turpin, though careful to conceal his disdain for the barber, makes no effort to do so in Nellie's presence. "I am again going to request that you leave, Mrs. Lovett."
"Still Mrs. Lovett, is it?" Nellie whispers, but not as though she is actually hearing his words, or her own. "I've attended your dinners, accepted your little trinket gifts, sprawled on your mattress – what's a woman got to do before she's on a first name basis with you, your honor?"
Sweeney recoils as fast and hard as he did under the sting of the whip in the colony. He never knew that Nellie had resorted to bedding Turpin to try and get her revenge, never realized how many and how extreme the methods of vengeance she had exhausted were, and – and he hates to admit it but this sting is the worst – he never imagined she had slept with another man since her husband. What else had she tried in those interim years? What else of her did he remain ignorant of?
And why are you surprised that you didn't know, Todd? You never knew her.
No. He knew her – he knows her – better than anyone. That's why she's so close to breaking. That's why she's so close to being whole.
"Manners, Mrs. Lovett," Turpin drawls. "And it's hardly proper for a woman to observe a shave."
Nellie's grin widens, hollowing her cheeks. "Who said anything about observing, love?"
The disdain in the curl of Turpin's lip and the shine of his eyes mingles with something else: suspicion. He straightens himself in the barber chair. "I'm afraid I don't – "
"Of course, you're quite fond of letting others observe, ain't you?" says Nellie, her anger waxing. She leans towards him. "Letting 'em observe – making 'em observe – while you dominate over 'em – "
Turpin makes to rise. "I don't need to listen to this – "
Her hands shoot out like two simultaneous gunshots and pin his shoulders back into the chair. Perhaps Turpin is too stunned by this abrupt, aggressive behavior to react, or perhaps the force of Nellie's fury has endowed upon her unparalleled strength, because Sweeney is certain that any other day Turpin would far outmatch her in physical prowess and she would already be flung into the far corner of the room.
"That's what you did to her, isn't it?" Nellie snarls into his face. "Making her observe your grand manor and your hoity-toity guests and your fancy costumes and your overwhelming power, making her observe while you pinned her down and grinned and took – "
Either recovering from his shock or gaining his own rage to draw strength from, Turpin shoves himself to his feet. Nellie's hands remain at his shoulders, shoving and slapping, but she might as well have feathers for fingers for all that her efforts contribute.
"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," Turpin informs the tornado of anger that persists in pushing against him. "But you, my dear, have once again crossed the line."
Turpin steps towards the door, thrusting Nellie to one side and sending her slamming against the floor – and Sweeney ignites.
With a growl, he seizes Turpin from where he stands behind the barber seat and thrusts him back into the chair. He locks his fingers around Turpin's biceps as Turpin thrashes about, demanding for release, snarling names and threats that Sweeney pays no attention to. His heart roars in his ears. The razor, still clutched in his hand, now presses into both Turpin and Sweeney's flesh as they wrestle for control, the silk of the former's shirt and the sweat of the latter's skin making the metal even more slippery than ever before.
Nellie recovers, springing to her feet and bending towards Turpin. Her ashen cheeks glow with burgundy fire; her dark pupils dance with white fire. She looks sick with fever, zealous with religion, animated with food of a taste beyond anything ever prepared for human pallets. She looks alive – and Sweeney almost wishes she didn't.
"Don't have any idea what I'm on about, d'you, your honor?" she inquires in a soft voice. "Let me clue you in. The years no doubt have changed her since that night – but then again, the face of a commoner – the face of just another woman you had to claim for your own – is not particularly memorable – "
Turpin's flailings end. His neck twists around to look at Sweeney. A light of horrible comprehension dawns in his eyes.
"Benj – "
The name dies unfinished on his lips and he whips his head back around to Nellie.
"Lu – all this is about – with you all these years and – then – all this has always been about – Bark – "
"Say her name," Nellie hisses, the veins in her neck pulsing, undulating like snakes. "Say her name."
"Lucy Barker – "
"Lucy Barker!" Nellie screams, and then the razor crushed between Turpin's silk and Sweeney's skin is in her palm instead, and the blade reveals itself with a snnnick, and her arm raises into the air –
And the razor bites into Turpin's throat.
The sinews rip open. Blood splatters over Turpin's front and down Nellie's hand. Turpin's head falls backwards and smacks against the rim of the chair.
It's an inexperienced cut, Sweeney can tell that even from his angle standing behind Turpin: a diagonal, choppy slice that makes more of a show of splitting flesh than letting blood.
But it's still working. He's still bleeding, gasping. Dying.
Turpin wheezes a breath through both nostrils and the void at his throat. His eyes loll backwards into his skull then out again, a final struggle for domination. He cannot win, and he knows he cannot win, but still he struggles, still he refuses to accept defeat – and Sweeney's heart plunges into his feet with the wildly absurd and yet wildly logical thought that perhaps Nellie and Turpin aren't as dissimilar as Sweeney would like to think.
The feel of wetness splattering over his face yanks him from these thoughts. He glances up: Nellie's made a second slash with the razor, no less awkward than the first, but deeper. As he watches, her hand descends into the ripped flesh a third time – then again – and again, with a thirst that refuses to be slaked by any amount of liquid rubies –
There's no need to hold fast Turpin's body to the chair anymore, no chance he could possibly escape, yet Sweeney remains clinging to the judge's arms, must remain clinging. His friend dashes in and out of the air under the guidance of Nellie's hand, more reckless than she behaves under the guidance of his own palm, ripping jagged cuts that fan blots of blood wildly in every direction. Her face is covered in the blots, and he imagines from the dampness on his skin that his is too. Still her hand shows no signs of resting, of its thirst being quenched . . .
Just when he thinks she will never stop, she does.
Nellie stumbles a step backwards, almost too exhausted to any longer muster the energy required to stand; she gazes at Turpin with wide eyes, almost unable to believe that limp, tattered excuse of a man is really the vulturine judge, or that she created those tatters.
Her arm and his razor fall slack at her side, her feet stagger several paces to the side, her heel slams against the foot pedal – and Sweeney's trapdoor is utilized for the final time as Judge Turpin tumbles into the bakehouse and disappears from view.
A/N: Reviews are love.