"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."
"Mr. Todd?" Thomas inquired, imaginary question marks clouding his pupils.
"Oh, nevermind," He replied, waving his hand in a dismissive manner.
The ever exuberant Thomas Bertram Stone ignored the gesture. He glanced over the barber shop with glistening eyes. He whistled once, hands firmly inserted in his pockets. He spoke, as always, with unnecessary enthusiasm, "You must be happy to have access to the shop again, right Mr. Todd?"
"Happy?" Sweeney Todd guffawed, almost choking on the question, "Mr. Stone, nothin' happy ever happened in 'ere."
"But surely Lucy—" Thomas clasped a hand over his open mouth. It was evident his disclosure was not intended.
"My wife," He whispered, but his thoughts were muddled. He could remember almost everything about Lucy. She smelt of fresh lilacs; her voice was sugary. His senses were so acute and attuned; he visually painted pictures of her body. But something was missing. He reviewed the dreadful sequence. Mrs. Lovett lied, so he hurled the deceitful woman into the bake oven. Then Tobias, distrustful little imp, slit his throat with his razor. He remembered kneeling on the pavement, his knees soaked from bloody torrents. He was holding something, or maybe someone? Sweeney struggled with the words, "Lucy, is she … is she dead?"
Thomas made a garbled combination of the words I, um, and ahum. He drummed his fingertips against an ashen cheek.
Sweeney frowned. This hesitation was bothersome; his infantile stuttering was even more infuriating. He seriously contemplated asking if Thomas would like a shave, and maybe that silver curler would cauterize the gashing wound. Then he could carve again. Carve. Cauterize. Carve. Cauterize. What a harmonious alliteration!
But, oh the agony, another interruption. Mrs. Lovett was calling; her voice surprisingly light and airy. She was ready, albeit quickly. And Thomas was mumbling an apology, excuse me please Mr. Todd blah-something-whine-someone-blah. He was already droning out his obnoxious voice; the closing door was barely an audible click.
Sweeney pressed the tip of his nose against the door window. He huffed; a foggy trail from his nostrils coated the pane. Mrs. Lovett, in a striking green gown, and Thomas walked amongst the endless darkness. The pair resembled leaping flames. She stopped, turned toward his shop and brightly waved.
He smirked. She certainly was a baffling wonder. He could harm that woman for all eternity; she would still crawl back, belly gathering dirt, grime, rat shit or any other foul substance. And yet, at certain times, he felt so little control even when she was submissive!
Her nonchalant acceptance of his murder attempt was astounding. She expediently dismissed the manner, calling Miss Emma Balm a hussy. But more importantly, a hussy who deserved every papilla scrape. And suddenly Sweeney Todd felt calm. It was a rare tranquility, but nevertheless produced a sporadic bout of kindness. And her hair certainly felt like stiff corn husks. And resembled a rat den.
But Dr. Richard Mortis barley noticed his shadow. He would hardly notice her hair. Sweeney still felt strangely generous, maybe he would offer her a thorough scrub later.
And more disturbing yet, his thoughts of darling Lucy ebbed away.
"I never really much cared for silence, Mr. Stone," Mrs. Lovett commented, glancing around for any flicker of color besides black, "Always made me so jittery. Are we headin' for that building there? Can't see anythin' but that."
"That building is the psychiatric office. Dr. Richard Mortis and his assistant Miss Emma Balm reside there. As for your visual deficits, Mr. Reaping will rectify the problem. At the very least, you will at least see some of Fortune City before a final verdict." Thomas replied, deftly walking ahead. He pointed to imaginary buildings, waved to absent people.
"What is it like, Mr. Stone? Fortune City, I mean," She implored, grasping for any exquisite detail.
"Oh, its indescribable, truly," He childishly sighed, eyes twinkling.
"Oh, I'm sure dear," Mrs. Lovett grumbled, kicking perhaps a nonexistent stone, can, or some such street rubbish with her heel. "Can I ask you somethin'?" She questioned.
"Of course, Mrs. Lovett," Thomas answered, brightly smiling into the inky terrain.
"Maybe its none of me business, but how is it you got 'ere? You must be dead too, Mr. Stone. But why is it that you are 'ere?" Those questions were burning, tauntingly dancing around her skull for days. And Thomas was a nice lad, gullible, and would always answer with a joyous smile and sparkling teeth.
Thomas made an abrupt stop; she nearly slammed into his back. He turned slowly, cautiously. His features were suddenly murky. He looked so pitifully small. He unclasped his cufflinks, pushing the sleeves to his elbows. Then, he presented his bare forearms.
It was brutal. Large, vertical scars like roots grew from his wrists. They were precisely traced over his veins.
"Oh, no. Mr. Stone you didn't," She raised a shaking hand to her trembling lips.
"July 17, 1983. Around nine-thirty in the morning. It was shortly after an appointment, Harvard Law. And my father; he wanted nothing more than a continuation. Stone men, always attorneys. But I had nothing special about me. That's what the dean said. I had perfect marks, was captain of the rugby team, and all that community service! I was lacking, had nothing worth remembering. Such a drab similarity to thousands of applicants! But he would rather tell me personally, since the Stone clan has, well had, been attending Harvard for generations. He thought it a nice gesture, rather than a letter. It seems like dad wanted the diploma, the proof, more than me. That's what I kept telling myself anyway, in the bathtub. With the little razor," Quite unexpectedly, Thomas was hysterical. His laughter produced streaming tears from wide, open eyes, "Oh, GOD that's funny! Razors! My first case, the murder weapon a razor! The suicide instrument a razor!"
Mrs. Lovett lost her ability to form words. What could she say? An empathetic, 'I'm sorry,' would be utterly pathetic. And 'I understand, love,' would be blatantly false. And a hearty laugh would be entirely inappropriate. Fortunately, Thomas continued, attempting to regain composure and professionalism.
"But, your question! Of course, I rambled on so much. Sorry about that, um well! Suicides are destined for servitude, neither above nor below but here. We thought to escape but only receive more of the same, that's our punishment," Thomas stumbled through his words; he spoke rapidly, "But it isn't all so terrible! Fortune City is so beautiful and with enough case work here I can be an attorney. Just like Mr. Reaping," His voice was faraway, distant and dreaming.
"You'll make a fine attorney one day, Mr. Stone," Mrs. Lovett carefully commented.
"That's all I can hope for," He replied, a faint smirk fluttering across his mouth.
Dr. Richard Mortis was behind his desk; forms and papers evenly spread on the oak surface. He inspected each one, running two slender fingers over the words. And Miss Emma Balm was perched behind him. Her fuchsia acrylic nails made a striking contrast against his leather armchair. Her talons tightly gripped the fabric; her eyes were tiny, angry slits.
Mrs. Lovett was reclined on a, now blood-stained, couch. She gave a sinister smile to Emma; then she loudly, triumphantly clacked her heels together.
"Another impatient client, it would seem," Mortis exhaled, leafing through a folder marked 'Nellie Lovett.'
"Would you rather be somewhere else, Mrs. Lovett?" Emma questioned, her tone was colored an icy blue.
"Tell the truth dear," Mrs. Lovett began, "Mr. T promised me a proper wash," She ruffled her hair for emphasis, and added "Can hardly wait to have his hands in me hair again."
Emma Balm puckered her lips; it resembled a tight balloon knot.
"Well enough, Mrs. Lovett. I will be quick, more clients after you obviously. Now, what brings you to my office?" He asked; he completely missed the private altercation between the two women.
"Mr. Stone said this would be good for me case, but I was mortified. Well, until Mr. T said he would do it too. Then, suppose it wouldn't be so awful," Mrs. Lovett replied.
"Would that rectify your embarrassment, if Mr. Todd decides first?" Mortis clarified; he scribbled furiously into an open notepad. He did not even glance at her.
"Yes, gives me some relief it does," Mrs. Lovett replied.
"Would you say decisions are difficult to make, without assistance that is?"
"Always did have some trouble, but I never had an opportunity to have a choice. Only got to the sea once, when I was a lil' girl, with me rich Auntie. Never went back. I asked me dear Albert 'bout it once. 'Foolish,' he said, disregarded the idea as foolish! An' at least Mr. T would appear to listen. An' tell you the truth, that's all I really needed." Mrs. Lovett pouted. That seaside wedding was so promising then. She relished in his words: Of course[I want to hear 'bout your dreams love!, Yes I do[treasure every word you say, me dear!, and Anythin' you say [will remain in me heart fo'ever!. Maybe she exaggerated his monotone affirmations a little, but it was nevertheless comforting.
"Did you ever question why Albert thought the idea was foolish?"
Mrs. Lovett clasped a hand over her chest. She expected a fluttering heartbeat against her fingertips. But then she realized the unique circumstances of Fortune City. She produced a shocked exclamation regardless, "Oh mercy no! I would never do anythin' like that."
"Would you question any idea from Sweeney Todd?" Emma Balm spat. Her spiked, bleach blonde hair was demonic. It accentuated her venom-infused question.
"No, I would never do such a thing," Mrs. Lovett smoothly stated, but her eyes danced with fiery passion.
"And why is that, Mrs. Lovett?" Emma continued.
"I wouldn't want to upset—" She was abruptly cut off by an expedient interjection.
"Making Mr. Todd upset has little to do with it, Mrs. Lovett. He is quite an angry individual without your boisterous commentary. You were afraid to disagree. If you did, he would leave." Emma licked her painted lips with satisfaction.
"Oh, undoubtedly," Mortis responded, nodding his head once, "But, a bit too pushy Miss Balm. We are psychiatrists, not persecutors! Now then, Mrs. Lovett. Would you agree with this statement: I would do anything for Mr. Todd?"
"Yes, yes. I would do anythin' for him," Mrs. Lovett agreed.
"Ah, very well. And would you agree with this statement: I would do anything for Mr. Todd, regardless of the process or consequences?"
Mrs. Lovett was fidgeting. Her hands were scurrying, clearing away invisible dust. She picked imaginary lint between her fingers. She patted away absent flour clouds. Her dress was quickly inspected and prodded.
Miss Emma Balm made a disgusted face before speaking, "What are you doing?"
Dr. Richard Mortis raised his eyes to observe her behavior.
"Oh, just cleanin' off me dress. So filthy, damn thing. Gets awful filthy from that bakehouse." She feverishly responded, now thumping her clothing with open palms.
Emma raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.
Mortis coughed slightly and continued, "How long have you had this repetitive behavior, Mrs. Lovett?"
"Ah, ever since the shop re-opened. Since Mr. T became a barber again, I suppose. Oh but it was much worse! When I was alive, oh my, would pat down me dress hundreds of times a day. There now, spotless!" She smiled, glancing over her perfection.
"Does this repetition relieve any anxiety you may have?" He asked.
"Oh, yes. Just can hardly stand the thought of a ruined garment. What with all those customers! An' what would Mr. T think? He buys me such grand ones. We run a respectable business. What would anyone think, me all bloody," She emphasized, brushing more soot off her sleeves.
"Do you believe these thoughts and actions are excessive, Mrs. Lovett?" Mortis questioned. He was still focused on her.
"No, no. They aren't so bad like I said. When I was alive, ooh, would spend hours scrubbin', washin', an' pluckin'." She cooed, smoothing over the velvety fabric.
"Of course," He commented, furiously scribbling again.
"I would like to continue our previous conversation, if you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Lovett," Emma Balm sweetly encouraged; her teeth were tightly clenched.
"Whatever your pleasure, dear," Mrs. Lovett sighed. She could almost predict Mr. Todd would be introduced into the questioning too.
"Do you enjoy being alone, Mrs. Lovett?"
"No, I hate it. It was so hard when me poor Albert passed. Almost as hard as—" She longingly rubbed her stomach in small circles. Then, she shook her head, removing imaginary cobwebs and continued, "But then, Mr. T came. An' I thought we could get by reasonably enough. It wouldn't be much, but it would be somethin'."
"So you were very lonely when Albert passed?" Emma confirmed; a wicked twinge tugged at her closed lips.
"Yes, very," Mrs. Lovett repeated.
"And then Sweeney Todd came to your shop?" Emma restated.
"Yes, shortly after me Albert passed. 'Bout three months. But I don't see how—" She was intercepted again.
"Sweeney Todd was your replacement." Emma Balm hissed. Her tongue eagerly flicked like a venomous snake, "Albert Lovett was your source of care and support. I am certain times were rough in London, in 18-whatever. But not so hard you couldn't get by reasonably alone. You weren't a horrible baker, so why were your pies so awful? You were terrified, Mrs. Lovett. You were imprisoned in your fear, your shop, your pies. And you thought Mr. Todd would set you free."
Mrs. Lovett choked on a sob. She would have furiously wept, but Dr. Richard Mortis stood. He lightly held a piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger.
"Alright, Miss Balm that is sufficient. Does make me ponder though, perhaps you should have chose a different profession? Well, no matter. Your contract is here, in my office. Mrs. Lovett, this is your multiaxial evaluation report form," He wiggled the paper around.
Mrs. Lovett furrowed her eyebrows. She felt like a scraggly dog retrieving a bone. She rose from the couch and clasped the form. She expected Mortis to affectionately rub her hair and comment, 'Now, there's a good girl." But he only sat down.
She read the form carefully, silently:
Multiaxial Evaluation Report Form
Client name: Nellie Lovett
Physician name: Richard Mortis, MD
Axis I: Clinical Disorders, Other Conditions That May Be a Focus of Clinical Attention
300.3 Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (With Poor Insight)
Axis II: Personality Disorders, Mental Retardation
301.6 Dependent Personality Disorder
Axis III: General Medical Conditions
None
Axis IV: Psychosocial and Environmental Problems
Check:
[x Problems with primary support group: Death of spouse; history of obesity (client states husband would 'eat to bloatation'), severe leprosy related to deteriorating environmental conditions (client states husband's 'leg half gave out with gout').
[x Problems related to the social environment: Lived alone for three months after death of husband. Inadequate social support, accomplice Sweeney Todd provides little if any support or care to client.
[ Educational problems: None
[x Occupational problems: Stressful work schedule. Difficult work conditions. Job dissatisfaction.
[x Housing problems: Discord with neighbor (Sweeney Todd). Unsafe neighborhood (Fleet Street, London).
[x Economic problems: Extreme poverty. Inadequate finances. But situation was soon rectified with introduction of 'new, savory meat pies.'
[ Problems with access to health care services: Not applicable
[x Problems related to interaction with the legal system/crime: Murder.
[ Other psychosocial and environmental problems: None.
Axis V: Global Assessment of Functioning Scale
Score: 53
Her eyes flickered from one statement to the next. Obsessive-Compulsive? Dependent?
"Am I insane then, Dr. Mortis?" She questioned, quite perplexed.
But Emma answered instead, her mocking laughter was hideous. "Aren't we all, dear?"
Author's note: Man, this chapter was SO fun to write! I hope you enjoyed, as always.
Until next time, faithful ones.