Kidney Pie – Chapter 15-and-a-half

From Ch. 14: "Mrs. Lovett felt the whole roomful of eyes fixed on her, and suddenly didn't like it. She turned back to Mr. Todd. "Well, don't suppose there's anything you'd like to say, is there, love?" The barber was silent, and for just an instant she could have slapped him for putting them through that, for locking up her Jack, and leaving her to make their explanations alone. But in his eyes, she saw a trace of the same sly intelligence he had used that evening. He looked at each one of them, judging. He intended something for their whole group, but she could almost swear that his eyes had rested just a little longer on her. Her anger vanished.

"Yes." He was looking at Johanna, but let his eyes meet hers as he stepped back toward the door. "There is." He stepped out, making the bells sway again, and she heard his steps climbing the stairs to his shop…"

The door swung shut behind Sweeney Todd, and the little bells above it sang cheerfully. All four faces inside the pie shop remained fixed on the door as their song faded into silence. No one spoke.

Finally, blinking in shock, Mrs. Lovett shook on open hand at the darkness behind her doorway, and said the only thing she could think of after such a night: "What in the bleeding hell!?"

At that, as if a dam had burst, questions began pouring out of every other mouth in the pie shop. And far too many of them were directed at her.

"Mum! Are you alright?" Toby leapt forward instantly to take her by the arm with his free hand, the other clutching something in his pocket. "You aren't hurt, are you? You're out of breath. Did you have to run? Was somebody following you? Mum, I think somebody's in the shop! What's happened?"

Toby, at least, spoke only at her. Johanna and Anthony clung to each other like burnt gravy to her cast iron pans, and the tangled questions that flew from them made the baker's head spin. "Who…" "Are you alright?" "How did…" "Is she bleeding?" "Where am I?" "You aren't hurt?" "What's happened?" "What's happened!?"

"What…?" Nellie was not one to be easily stricken silent, but she could hardly keep track of who was asking what of who, the questions came so fast, and all her own thoughts seemed to have swept out the door with Sweeney Todd. She looked at the lovers, at the door, at her counter left only hastily half-tidied as they'd left for Fogg's, and back at the door again. Fine mess you left me to deal with, Mr. T!

Her body shook as Toby gripped her arm and tugged. "Mum, there's someone here, there really is!" She didn't reply.

Instead, her gaze fell on the young couple standing in her kitchen. Johanna gripped Anthony's hand until her knuckles showed white beneath the blood while he shook her gently, trying to coax some sense out of her. Finally her dark eyes fixed on his face, and, through the daze of terror, she managed, "How – How do – It's you…" Tears started down her cheeks as she said his name.

First thing's first, then. The girl, Mrs. Lovett judged, looked near the point of mental and physical collapse, and so the baker guessed her first necessary course of action, and launched again into her usual state of sound and motion. "You go on and sit her down, son. Nice and easy does it, now. She's had a bit of a rough night is all." Probably takes after her father, poor little duck. A checklist started to draw itself in her mind. "Just there in the parlor will do nicely. There now, loves, everybody's going to be alright. Toby, be a dear and fetch us some water to get her cleaned up."

But, for probably the first time since she took him in, Toby disobeyed her, darting forward to tug at her arm again. "But, Mrs. Lovett, mum!"

"Tobias Ragg!" The baker cast him a sharp look as she pulled away. One uncooperative lump of a man she could deal with, but Mr. Todd had that one spot pretty well filled, and the night had not left her in the mood to deal with even him, let alone Johanna and her slow-moving sailor, and her suddenly insubordinate Toby. "This ain't the time for foolishness, love. I need you to do like I told you, and no chatter. Quick now!"

"But we heard somebody in the shop upstairs, before you and Mr. Todd -"

"Hush, Toby, and get that water, love. There ain't nothing for you to worry about. Everything's -"

CRACK!

Mrs. Lovett stopped dead as the gunshot tore through the shop and all eyes leapt to the ceiling. The sound had definitely come from upstairs. Nellie felt like somebody had just whacked her heart a good stiff blow with a rolling pin. Hell! "Nobody move. I'll be right back." Skirts rustling, she started for the door, but, before she reached it, it swung open.

Nellie opened her mouth to rebuke Mr. Todd, who stood outside in the dark, when she realized that the man was not Mr. Todd at all. The stranger stepped forward unsteadily, stumbling heavily into the door frame, and Mrs. Lovett took a step back as he righted himself and staggered inside. Even Anthony and Johanna edged away, the girl hiding her bloody face in the lad's coat. Only Toby rushed forward, planting himself determinedly beside the baker.

The stranger, gazing bemusedly about the shop with glazed eyes, noticed none of this. He lolled his head in a nod toward Mrs. Lovett. "G'evening."

The baker blinked. "What-?" Dressed in a decent, if disheveled, suit, a bowler hat cocked askew on his head, the man would have to be a respectable sort, she supposed, if he didn't look as high as St. Dunstan's steeple. He didn't so much as blink as the ceiling above them burst out in a thunder of crashing and thumping. "Who're - ? Right, now, the shop's closed, love, you'll just have to come back -"

"Abberline." The man raised a shaky hand, smiling.

"What?"

"Sorry. 'Spector Frederick Abberline, with the Scotland Yard, in Whitechapel."

CRACK!

Another gunshot burst overhead. Nellie flinched, and she heard Johanna whimper behind her. Toby touched her elbow. Her heart beat hard. "Well, I can't help you now, sir. We're closed, and you'll really have to be going." The rumbling above continued. If you get your bloody self killed, Mr. Todd… "Ain't nothing around here needs any inspecting, not like in…" And suddenly, her blood ran cold. "Whitechapel? You ain't looking for…"

Abberline waved. "Jack the Ripper? Everybody's looking for Jack the Ripper these days."

Lovett stared as she thought carefully. Of all the blooming times for the police to show up! She took a breath, trying to steady herself. "Did you come in for a pie, then?"

"Pie?"

"Mum!" Toby tugged at her arm in disbelief.

She shook him off, taking hold of his sleeve and urging him back with her as she stepped blindly back towards her counter. Another bout of crashing from above struck her hard, and she felt almost faint. Making as if to steady herself, she swept her baking things off the counter. "Silly me, making all that noise." She laughed, but didn't look away from Abberline. "This is a pie shop, sir. Surely there isn't any other reason to come in here, 'cept for a nice pie?"

"I…" The inspector jerked his head, surprised, then looked back at the half-open door. He looked quite confused as he turned back. "I… would like a pie. I think."

Nellie stamped her feet as she ran to the hearth, trying to cover the noise from the barbershop. As she stooped to pick up one of her leftover pies, she heard something shatter overhead, and another mighty CRACK! Her heart fluttered. Quickly, she kicked the metal pan, sending the last pies rolling in the ashes. "Whoops! The racket I make!" She glanced at him as she reached for a clean plate, then looked carefully away from him as she rounded the counter, turning to Anthony and Johanna instead.

Both their pale faces were fixed on the baker, their eyes wide. And Johanna was still all bloodied. Pausing for just a moment, she mouthed the words, "Hide her!"

Abberline still stood, vacant-eyed, when she turned back to him. She made herself smile. "Here you are, sir. Have yourself a nice cozy seat, and I've got your pie for you."

"Thank you, ma'am." The inspector nodded appreciatively, sleepily, as he sat down, nearly missing the chair. And he sat, naturally, at the table between Johanna and the door. Mrs. Lovett hoped the sailor wasn't daft enough to parade her all blood-soaked right past a bloody detective.

He wasn't. With a whisper, he bundled her into a seat at the far end of the shop and, sitting next to her, laid his own coat over her shoulders. They looked like any innocent pair of lovers, except for when the girl's terrified face could be seen between them. She needed taking care of, and a talking to, but it would have to wait.

"Here's your pie, then." She set the pie down quickly, placing herself between Abberline and the girl. "Not too hot this time of night, but I can promise you it's still the best you ever tasted." The sickly smell of opium rolled off him, and she almost winced away. The bugger. It didn't seem surprising, all at once, that Mr. Todd had locked up Jack before the police could collar him. "Anyway, you won't have to worry about waiting for it to cool off now, will you? Hate to keep you from your work, and all."

Abberline poked speculatively at the pie crust. "Quite alright, ma'am. I'm not in any particular hurry." The falling crumbs seemed to fascinate him, and Nellie could have reached out to shake him as he paused to nudge them about the plate. "At least, I can't recall being in any."

"Lovely, dear." Mrs. Lovett gripped the edge of the table, plastering a smile over her gritted teeth, and listened again to the sounds of running and pounding and crashing from Sweeney Todd's Tonsorial Parlor. She wished she'd listened to Toby. Although Mr. T had thrown some spectacular tantrums, there was far too much noise, and far too much gunfire, for her to think he was alone up there. That boy ain't no fool. "Best get some food down quick, though, love, 'fore you waste away."

She glanced at Toby, still standing beside her disordered counter, and found him looking back with his little jaw set and his eyes hard. No, he was bright enough. Nellie suspected he knew perfectly well that a cop in her kitchen was no comfortable thing. A chill ran through her. No. She wasn't going to lose Todd to the law or whatever else had been waiting upstairs, she wasn't going to hang, herself, and she wasn't going to lose Toby and the shop and all her longed-for success.

Another crash, another rumble of footsteps and muffled shouts, broke overhead. Abberline glance up. "I think, ma'am, you might have mice." The smell of smoke rose off him as he paused, looking at her hopefully. "I wonder, perhaps you also have gin?"

CRACK!

Nellie fought off the sudden image of her Sweeney staggering around shot full of holes. "Y-yes, sir. Just a tick." Her eyes met Toby's as she turned back toward the counter, and she steeled herself again. If we get through this night, so help me God… So long as Mr. T's alive…

Tobias, she noticed, still clutched something hidden in his pocket.

XXXXXXX

In the dim light, the blood that rolled down Judge Turpin's face looked like only darkness spilling from the cut, darkness on the edge of the razor. No red. A thrill shook Sweeney as he watched Turpin stagger back. The teakettle fell to the floor with a hollow clunk. The judge very nearly fell.

But he didn't quite. He bled, and richly, but he lived. And, Sweeney found, this did not dismay him. He relished it.

In all his visions, he had never seen it end like this. He had imagined the judge dying a hundred ways in a hundred different places, but always, it ended quickly: sudden revelation, a single slice, a limp body dropping backward.

But he found himself recalling Benjamin Barker, shackled and afraid, standing before that bench sixteen years ago. Like a mouse trapped in a bottle.

He had imagined killing the judge, but never thought to reverse their roles so neatly.

Sweeney stepped between the judge and the door, watching the old man's face as the judge stumbled further back. It was a bloody face, open-mouthed with pain, grey hair disheveled. The silver razor, with its black-bloodied edge, flicked closed and back open. Todd stepped forward.

And Turpin stepped back. He didn't quite cower, but the barber didn't mind. He was still about to die. They both knew it.

The razor flickered, shut again and open again, with soft, steely slick, the sound of his friend laughing. Its master advanced, casting only a quick glance sideward to where Jack and the beadle grappled over control of the revolver. He didn't know how the Ripper had escaped, but for the moment, he was convenient enough. It let Sweeney focus finally on his revenge.

He lunged, striking Turpin across the arm. A light blow, but the blood trickled from a tear in his coat sleeve as the judge scrambled further back into the confines of the shop. He staggered into the square of light beneath the window, and the moon threw the shadow of the wooden cross-pieces like the shadow of iron bars.

The razor chuckled – closed and open. Like it was licking its lips. Sweeney Todd smiled again. Perfect. He stepped forward again, driving the judge slowly before him. Perhaps Mrs. Lovett was right. Good things do come to those who wait.

Todd frowned a moment, glancing again at Jack. He gripped his razor tighter as he leapt again. Soon, all will be resolved.

XXXXXXX

Jack the Ripper had made a career of making a mockery of the law, and he had long since cast aside all fear of being caught, so it quite surprised him too see how hard it was to catch one slimy specimen of officialdom. He was the fiend of Whitechapel, after all, and Beadle Bamford was weak, terrified, and horribly out of breath. He did, though, have the pistol, Jack had to concede.

Jack darted again, swooping out of the shadows. The gun spun shakily towards him. He dodged, retreated. Bamford ran. Again. But Jack grinned. He drew closer with every duck and weave. And he quite enjoyed the thought of cutting this particular throat after this particular disaster of an evening.

When the beadle bolted for the chair, the Ripper ran only precious feet behind him, knife flashing. Jack reached out, leaning. His knife flashed in the moonlight falling from the window. But before he could plunge it home, Bamford darted around the side of the barber's chair.

Jack's feet slid on the floorboards as he stopped short and leaped after his foe, but the beadle kept turning, around the chair. It stood between them as they ran, turning into the light and out of the light as they raced through the bright square beneath the window. Jack couldn't quite reach far enough for a good stab. But neither did Bamford dare stop running long enough to shoot.

You cursed, squealing little busybody! Hold still! Jack leaned perilously as he raced around the chair, almost falling as he leapt forward, his knife nipping at Bamford's back, not quite close enough. Anybody who goes sticking his nose in everyone else's business deserves to have it cut off!

He laughed as he turned quickly, springing back in the other direction in hope of bringing the beadle face to face with his blade. Instead, he felt his shin meet abruptly with the sturdy foot-rest of the barber's chair, and he went sprawling.

All sense of mirth vanished as he hit the floor. I am Jack the Ripper. He scowled at the stained floorboards as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. And Jack the Ripper does not trip.

His grin quickly returned, though, as he started to rise. Of course, it's critical now that no witnesses survive, Mr. Bamford. He was halfway to his feet, when he heard the unmistakable click as the next bullet slipped into the chamber of the revolver. He dropped back down, flinching as he heard the mighty CRACK! rip through the air above him, and then, on knees and elbows, he crawled on, as swiftly as he could, on around the chair. Perhaps I do trip, but I do not give up while there's blood to be spilt!

But, beyond his every expectation, he heard the Beadle's heavy footsteps continue around the chair, pursuing now. Jack scowled. Even a great, plodding cuss like Bamford could run faster than he could crawl. Quickly, he turned over, and found himself looking up at the back of the chair rising over him like a headstone, silhouetted before that massive window. And then, following close, the beadle's form appeared above him, his wide eyes white in the dark, and that gun pointed unsteadily down at his chest as two heavy boots clunked down on either side of the Ripper's body.

The pistol cocked. Jack's mind raced. His heart pounded. But, for the first time, the Ripper had run out of tricks. Not possible! He had played the game so well. His knife was in his hand, and even now Bamford shook with fear. But, pinned beneath the sights of that revolver, he drew a blank. He felt sick, and rage boiled up in him. Curse you, Sweeney Todd, and your women and your pies and your madhouse and your blasted chair-

A giddy joy seized the fiend of Whitechapel. The chair! On the floor near his head, he saw a lever. With flailing arms, he pounded it, grinning, desperate and gleeful.

The Ripper laughed as he felt the floor drop away beneath him. The shot rang out, but flew wild. The pistol tumbled away, and the beadle screamed. Jack was still laughing as Sweeney Todd's Tonsorial Parlor was swallowed up in blackness and both fell together.

XXXXXXX

The first shot, Sweeney Todd ignored. He leered as he dogged the judge's steps, herding him further and further back into the darkness of the shop. Turpin could retreat as far as he liked. There was no escape.

Blood trickled now down both the older man's sleeves, and one more deep gash marked his face. Sweeney could feel fresh, hot blood on his hands, and, after sixteen years of hate and misery, it was finally the very blood he had longed to shed. He grinned. He finally had the judge. And Turpin knew it, too.

Sixteen years. He shifted his grip on the razor. I think it's time.

In the same instant he started to step forward again, he heard the clanking and growling of his precious chair. And then he felt a searing pain tear into his left arm, just below the shoulder. The CRACK! of one last gunshot burst through the shop, along with a wailing cry.

He half-turned, seeing his chair ratchet faithfully back into its proper place, leaving the barber shop empty, save him and the judge. And the judge, too, would soon leave the same way.

He snapped back, ignoring the blood running down his arm, in time to see the look of perfect horror that flashed across the judge's face. But that look faded in a moment. Turpin, seizing what might be his last opportunity, trusted to Todd's wound and distraction, and ran.

But Sweeney was faster. Their footsteps thundered under them. He drew closer at every stride. His razor flashed as he cut through the light below the widow.

With revenge consuming his mind, the barber realized too late that Turpin was no longer running to the door. He nearly fell on top of the judge as the older man dropped to the floor, snatching at something. He lost his balance; the silver blade missed his mark. And something struck him squarely above his eye. Sweeney Todd crumpled to the floor. The revolver…

He heard footsteps rising, and the hammer click. He heard the hammer fall and - Silence. Empty?

Something hard hit him in the side, and then the shop faded into blackness as footsteps raced past him for the door.

XXXXXXX

Gah!

As usual, my apologies for not updating for two years. The next chapters should follow within a fairly reasonable time period. For once. Thanks for reading, and, of course, reviews are greatly appreciated. :]