She wasn't dying. She was spitting out more blood. Sweeney deemed this impossible, since little remained of her tongue. But her gashes were sealing, much like his.
She shook with rage, pounding her fists on the couch. She rebounded and roughly grabbed his shirt. Her labored breathing was scalding against his face.
"Stupid, stupid crazy fuck," She cursed, tinted saliva trailing down her chin, "You've made such a foolish mistake."
"The only mistake love," Sweeney began, razor firmly clutched, "was threatenin' me."
"A threat!?" Emma Balm exploded, bloody spittle showering his face, "I hardly consider a desire for carnal knowledge a threat. It would be a favor, after all. It would be such a relieved burden, after fifteen years—"
"An' what 'bout 'nother fifteen?" Sweeney interjected.
"What?" She questioned; a confused frown tugged her pretty painted mouth.
"Schizoid, that's me ain't it? An' from what I recall, me desires for carnal knowledge are few. An' that includes knowledge of you, Miss Balm." He caustically bit the words; his nostrils flared slightly.
His words, for once, made a desirable impact. Emma Balm sniveled, choking back impending tears. She turned away and briskly stood. Her posture was rigid.
"I will never forgive you," Her voice was arctic yet composed, "And neither will the court. But as my profession dictates, I wish you the, well, very best."
Her retreating, stomping shoes were deafened by the Oriental carpet. She pulled the door open as Mortis entered. He brushed past her, not even glancing at her diminishing shadow. His eyes darted over the multiaxial form; he blew lightly on the semi-glossy ink.
"Well, then. Here you are, Mr. Todd," He declared while taking long strides.
The single piece of paper was presented to Sweeney Todd. His entire life was reduced to a thin white sheet. It was remarkable, actually, in its simplicity.
And more remarkable yet was Dr. Richard Mortis and his dismissive, oblivious manner. Sweeney felt, that little harpy, Emma's blood cascading his cheekbones, slithering into his ears. He was positively drenched. And all Mortis suggested was a quick stop to the washroom. Yes, he certainly needed a good scrubbing, looked absurdly filthy.
He smiled, teeth like polished pink pearls. He marveled at the good doctor's ignorance. He grasped the form with both hands and read:
Multiaxial Evaluation Report Form
Client name: Benjamin Barker, alias Sweeney Todd
Physician name: Richard Mortis, MD
Axis I: Clinical Disorders, Other Conditions That May Be a Focus of Clinical Attention
307.47 Nightmare Disorder (formerly Dream Anxiety Disorder)
Axis II: Personality Disorders, Mental Retardation
301.20 Schizoid Personality Disorder
Axis III: General Medical Conditions
None
Axis IV: Psychosocial and Environmental Problems
Check:
[x Problems with primary support group: Death of parents; history of alcoholism and abandoned client during childhood (1). Disruption of family by removal from the home; exiled to Australia under false charges.
[x Problems related to the social environment: Inadequate social support; only social support from accomplice Nellie Lovett[ Educational problems: None
[x Occupational problems: Incongruent work schedule; clientele do not leave after services provided by client.
[x Housing problems: Discord with neighbor (Nellie Lovett).
[ Economic problems: None
[ Problems with access to health care services: Not applicable
[x Problems related to interaction with the legal system/crime: Arrest, incarceration, exile to Australia, murder.
[x Other psychosocial and environmental problems: Discord with caregivers of Fortune City.
Axis V: Global Assessment of Functioning Scale
Score: 15
Sweeney scowled. His flaws, written in scrolling cursive, were considerably accurate. And although the form was difficult to review, he decided it would be advantageous for a peaceful afterlife.
The threats and promises were empty now. He had the key to salvation between his curled fingers; he hoped it would be enough.
Mrs. Lovett was startled awake. The slamming door reverberated against her eardrums. She blankly stared at the ceiling, a massive swirling gray cloud. It reminded her of the dreary London sky. Or dust collecting on her previously sordid pies. And those pies certainly were disgusting, greasy, gritty, molting … oh, the descriptions were endless. But Mrs. Lovett always considered her cooking above average; lack of fresh ingredients was the problem. Of course Mr. Todd helped with …
Her face soured; her eyebrows furrowed. It was the first time his name produced more than passing irritation.
"Just had to bloody well say Lucy," She huffed, rising to her bare feet. She patted down imaginary soot from her semi-translucent nightgown.
She trudged to the door, fumbled the key into the lock, and proceeded to stomp around the house. She entered the kitchen, noticing a masculine outline on the floured counter.
Mrs. Lovett triumphantly smirked. It was an uncomfortable place to doze on, certainly. She remembered the busier, bustling days. Her eyes would drift languidly; her body wracked with exhaustion. She would prop her elbows on the counter, newly painted face cradled in her cupped palms. She would drift. Her thoughts wandered. Sometimes she was walking along the shore, skipping as sea kissed sand. And her beloved was being playful, trying to catch her. And precious Toby was trailing slightly behind. Sometimes he clasped her hand, but more frequently he claimed her waist. His mouth would tenderly brush her prickled neck. But something always disrupted her fantasies: The pungent smell of sweat and blood, Toby hollering at the old beggar woman, or an unjustified poke in the ribs from her dearest.
Dearest, yes her dearest would spend a few more sleepless nights on that counter. It was a reasonable punishment. And certainly more reasonable than any punishment the court might decide.
A faint yet audible click was heard. Mrs. Lovett gazed at the side door; then, her mouth went lax. The door made a haunting whine while opening. However, no friendly hand held the knob; it opened without force.
A folded, affixed note was visible. She cautiously strode toward the perplexing wonder and opened the sealed paper. The words were in stylistic red calligraphy:
Dear Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett,
After some negotiation the court has allowed a privilege. The outside dining space and barber shop are permissible areas. However, the visual majesty of Fortune City is not. I will commence further negotiation with court officials.
Yours,
G. Reaping, attorney ad mortem
Mrs. Lovett poked her head outside the open door. She glanced right. The deadly stairway loomed back. Her wide eyes traced every step. A tinkling bell was heard. And much like the kitchen door, the barber shop door opened without human touch.
Her eyes clasped to curious, narrow slits. The apprehension had faded. She bounded up the staircase, three steps at once, and skid to a halt at the entrance. Her slender fingers curled the doorway in anticipation. She peered inside and gasped.
The room was illuminated by some hidden, artificial daylight since the large window revealed more darkness. That was peculiar indeed, but certainly nothing to elicit an astonished gasp.
But the bespattered blood certainly was. It was seeping into the floorboards. It was a dribbling waterfall on the chair. It was splotchy and smeared across the window.
Mrs. Lovett twitched and unconsciously picked absent lint from her nightgown. She needed it clean. She wildly scanned the room, eyes darting, and hands aching for proper materials. The pail and mop beckoned in a secluded corner; she dashed to them. A feverish surge propelled her body. She frantically mopped the floor. The murky water was instantly tainted with one mop plunge. But she still scrubbed furiously.
Her outlandish behavior caused an accidental bump against his work station. She caught the tipping dual photo frame with one hand. For a moment, she examined the woman and child. Lucy had such a serene beauty. Her hair was flowing, like windswept fields of wheat. Her eyes were brighter than sapphires; a perfect slender nose separating the twinkling orbs. She was flushed with a motherly glow. And the child was chubbier than most, but adorable nonetheless. And she rarely cried or fussed, such a good baby.
While Lucy was comparable to a flawless diamond, Nellie lacked her luster. She had an ethereal appearance. Her face was worn and hollow; her eyes dark and shadowed with years upon years of suffering. Her tangled twin buns were a rustic burnt umber.
Mrs. Lovett tossed the photo frame into the mop bucket. It made a loud plunk and splashed grimy water onto the floor. It was pleasantly symphonic to her ears.
The blood dried, unfortunately, and left permanent stains on the floor and chair. But Mrs. Lovett made considerable advancement with the window. She had pushed the trunk, that once-a contained da body of da king of da barbers, and stood on it. She gained more access to the highest splatter. A bar of soap was plopped into the blood-tinged bucket; she dipped a towel into the concoction and resumed scrubbing.
"Clean, clean, must be clean," Mrs. Lovett repeated the mantra.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOIN' IN 'ERE?"
Mrs. Lovett stumbled, balance gone, and crashed to the floor. She looked to the source of the vicious outburst; she found an advancing, irate Sweeney Todd.
"You certainly put fear of the devil into me, Mr. Todd," She breathed, "An' I was only tidyin' the place up a bit. Think I was a stranger or somethin' with the way you was shoutin'."
He roughed grabbed her shoulders, yanking her body, "This is me shop, your place is in the bakehouse. Preferably in the oven."
She was standing, his fingers seizing her collarbones. But he hesitated there.
Won't get too far by chokin' me, will you love? She wondered before speaking, "Oh, very humorous. I'll be out a 'ere soon enough. Answer me this though, you kill anybody?"
She inspected his stern features. Moist blood was etched into his chiseled face. She heavily sighed. If he keeps this up, she thought, there's no hope in savin' either of our sorry souls.
"I tried to anyway," He confessed, rather quickly much to her shock, "She was Mortis' assistant. She was threatenin' me. Tryin' to have knowledge of me in the office, in exchange for entrance to providence, or some such nonsense. So I cut her."
Mrs. Lovett frowned. Oh, certainly she was still cross with him. But certainly could not remain angry forever. He was a flawed man, and she wasn't exactly perfect either. However, the thought of a buxom seductress playing with him—it instantly transferred her annoyance.
"Well," She began, shoulders shrugged, "I'm sure the little hussy deserved it."
Sweeney blinked twice; his stony grip relaxed. She thought his eyes softened too.
"She did," He growled before adding a strained, "Thank you."
"No worries, love," She chirped, making an exit, "Now I best be out a your way. Have me own appointment with Thomas at three—"
She was yanked again, thunderously flopped into the barber chair.
"Mr. T?" She questioned, the anxiety rose to her throat. It was laboriously beating against her teeth and tongue. She saw glinting silver and began to sweat. He would slice her open yet again, and with a flick of a concealed lever her body would tumble below. An' then, an' then, an' then, she frantically though, he'll grind me into a pie! An' I really will be finished!
But he was not holding a razor. It was a silver curler.
"Mr. T?" She questioned a second time, thoroughly confused.
"You 'ave an appointment soon, yes?" He questioned, his voice flat and monotone, "Your hair, is a step 'bove a rat's nest, it's a rat's den." He rubbed a strand of hair between his thumb and middle finger. It made a sickly, scratching noise.
"Ah, thank you love," Mrs. Lovett sarcastically replied, slouching into the chair, "Your compliments is like angel wings they are, feathery and soft."
"An' I will guarantee your hair will be feathery an' soft, Mrs. Lovett," He purred, gently caressing her stray tendrils. His head was now near her shoulder. His mouth wavering near her exposed ear, "Now love, let me pamper you."
Her body exploded with goose bumps; her cheeks burning hot. She turned to her shoulder and with hooded eyes explored his expression.
He smiled, a genuine one this time she was certain! Oh, what did it matter that he was a murderer? So what if he tried to murder her? So what if he thought of Lucy? It was an innocent slip, something she should have dismissed. And his unpredictability was intriguing. And the now caked blood was murderously delicious, and so was Sweeney Todd. She was rationalizing his every flaw.
He cupped her face with the free hand. His thumb stroked her waxen cheekbone. Oh, nothing mattered now! She hardly cared if some assistant hussy blood was smeared there, or anywhere.
"An' how can I pamper you, love?" She submissively whispered.
Sweeney chuckled, his hand dipping underneath her chin. She trembled, waiting but with little patience, for his coarse lips. She closed her eyes.
A jangling bell, and then the door swung open. Thomas Bertram Stone entered the barber shop bursting into smiles. Sweeney straightened and leapt from the chair. Mrs. Lovett was still entranced, face over her shoulder, eyes shut.
"Um, pardon the intrusion, Mr. Todd. But Mrs. Lovett has an appointment, as it is three o'clock." Thomas stammered, noticing he had interrupted something.
Mrs. Lovett popped one eye open, grumbled and briefly told Thomas she needed to be properly dressed, and left.
"Mr. Stone," Sweeney exhaled, a touch of annoyance creeping his tone, "You must descend from either Anthony Hope or Tobias Ragg."
Author's Note: Slightly longer chapter, hope you enjoy again as always. And for the life of me I can't remember in the movie if Sweeny Todd pulled on a hidden lever in the chair or pressed down on the foot rest to 'polish off' his victims. Also don't know if anyone will understand the little joke Mr. Todd makes at the end, but if you do kudos. You have my sense of humor. :D
(1) Retrieved that little tid-bit from crimelibrary. com! And will continue to do so as the trail process unfolds.
Until next time, faithful ones.