Kidney Pie – Chapter Fifteen-and-Three-Quarters
The air inside Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium carried an electric charge. Toby could feel the jittery current skimming along all his nerves and making his hair stand on end. His heart pounded. He only couldn't tell how the baker herself could stand it. He stared at her, trying not to twitch from sheer nerves, as he tried to figure out how she could force herself to act as if everything was perfectly as usual.
Entirely normal to have detectives and madhouse fugitives and young lovers appearing suddenly in her kitchen, while guns went off upstairs. Toby had born a lot, but he couldn't take another second of this could-be danger to the lady who was as good as his mother.
And he couldn't do a thing about it.
"Go on and tuck in, sir." He stared as Mrs. Lovett planted herself directly between Abberline and the couple sitting further back in the shop. The small, dapper man from Whitechapel nodded like a drunk, and lazily, he turned to gaze around the shop. Her hand moved quickly, and she pushed the plate nearer. Toby didn't realize why, until that drooping head turned back toward the movement. "And you can get back nice and quick to your work."
"That's what you have to do," a boy had told him once in the workhouse. "If you want to pick a man's pocket, you get him to look someplace else first." Toby had never stolen anything. He guessed even the workhouse was better than jail. But the idea had impressed him that a boy could make a man see or not see something. Mrs. Lovett knew what she was doing. But of course she did.
Toby shifted, brushing his shoulder against the counter, knocking a wooden spoon its owner had knocked askew to the floor. His eyes never left the two at the table. Mrs. Lovett was like that, he knew. She always kept moving, and quickly, but he knew she was always thinking even quicker. And she was awful clever, even if she didn't often show it to little boys like him, and he knew it. Sometimes, he felt like she could work magic, if she wanted. He loved her for it. It was too bad she wasted it tangling up with the likes of Mr. Todd.
"Work?" Abberline blinked owlishly as he contemplated the pastry before him. "Work's nothing special, I'm afraid." He took a bite, chewing slowly. "I wake up, people shout at me, I have weird dreams, things get worked out."
No one might have said anything to him, but Toby wasn't stupid. He heard things, and he'd seen enough to know that Sweeney Todd made Pirelli look like a saint. Jack, he suspected, did the same for Mr. Todd. Gin didn't work quite so fast as Mrs. Lovett thought it did, and he wasn't deaf. The two of them killed people, and nothing else could possibly explain it all. He couldn't convince himself that he was wrong. And how was he to know whether the pair of them were bright enough to leave the evidence against them someplace safe and far away? How many they'd done in, he never figured out, or worse, where they'd hidden then? Even if the Ripper left those women lying where he found them, what about Todd? What about the people he never saw leave the shop upstairs? Where could they possibly be buried? Or were they still here?
And how was he to trust that the police would be particular about nabbing decent folk who just happened to be nearby, innocent and trusting.
Decent folk like Mrs. Lovett.
He watched her as she leaned over the table, her eyes on Abberline, except when she glanced upward again.
Abberline waved the pie at its maker. "This is the fourth time this week I've been hauled into a carriage and swept off to do God knows what with God knows who. Comes with the territory." He paused, licking his lips, and brushed crumbs from his tidy moustache. "My God, that's a good pie."
Toby scowled. The detective made him sick, and he clenched his fists tighter. The boy could smell the reek of his drugs even from across the room. Enough people in the world just looked away from all the bad things what happened, and here's the man supposed to be stopping them, staggering around worse than drunk, stuffing his face with meat pies.
Don't know why she can't bring herself to throw trouble out on its ear. He watched her fiddle with the glass and the half-gone bottle of gin.
"My, ain't that sweet of you." The baker's eyes shot upwards again. "Must be nice to get a decent meal for a dreary ol' night's duty, I'm sure. And a nice tot of something to warm your bones." He could hear the scheming in her voice, the way she spoke when her thoughts were running ahead of her words to some other end. As they all too often were. He supposed she didn't know how obvious it was, but he could tell when she set to scheming. Or, not even scheming …
She glanced again towards the barbershop overhead. Dreaming. Dreaming of that barber, for some reason he couldn't imagine.
Toby's own gaze leapt up as another bout of crashing broke didn't particularly care about Sweeney Todd. If he were dead, it would only keep his mother the safer. But only if she didn't have to hang for what he'd done. Or if he were alive, he might come make himself useful, and handle this mess. Or would he come down still as soaked in blood as if he'd been rolling in it, and parade himself right in and get them all arrested? His palm felt damp and clammy against the handle of the closed knife.
Abberline's reply – possibly, "Quite" – was smothered by a mouthful of pie. Toby watched him set his pie down slowly, clumsily. He could almost envision the thoughts drifting, butting shoulders, spinning lazily apart again behind the bloodshot eyes. "Nice, you know, to get a bit of respect, a little bit of a sit-down, not being pulled about all the time and expected to go arrest a butcher or whatever."
Or a barber? Toby stared, listening to the thumping above. Maybe they're putting him in chains right now? He tried to quell a shudder, in spite of himself. It was what he'd often hoped for, to see the barber taken too far away to ever hurt the baker. But that would hurt her.
And in his mind, he watched her, surrounded by dark-coated constables, trying to explain that she never had anything to do with any of it, that she had no idea, even though it had all been done in her own house, even though it had been going on for so long. And even in his own ears, he knew how feeble her excuses would sound.
"Got your hands full, no doubt." Mrs. Lovett brushed crumbs from the tabletop, but Toby watched her look again at the ceiling, and then again, only half listening. He could sense, too, the quick combinations of her own thoughts. "Bloody mess..."
A cry sounded out above them, and every head turned up to look. There came another and then a heavy thump. Toby turned quickly back to the shop, watching his mother's face. And it surprised him, because he thought he saw a shadow of something like fear there. And she was never afraid, too clever to let anything slip out of her control.
The only one unaffected was Abberline, licking gravy from his fingers. "What, because of the Ripper, you mean, miss?" He reached for the gin, his hand maddeningly slow. His other hand fumbled in his pockets. "Already solved."
At that, Nellie's eyes snapped back to the stranger. "What's that?"
Toby stared, too, and he felt his heart pound harder. Slowly, he drew out his hand and wiped his sweating palms on his trousers. Not here… So long as they catch him anywhere but here. His mind raced. Jack had been with them when they left. He was gone when they returned. They might have caught him just now, alone, wherever he ran off to. They never need to know he was mixed up with any of us. But then, what were the odds they just happened to trip over him tonight? Why would the police be here, if he hadn't at least been seen with her or Mr. Todd?
The detective drank. "'Fraid nothing will come of it, is all. Freemasons."
Toby almost shook from relief. And he saw Nellie ease just a bit.
And then another CRACK! sounded from above them, and she flinched like she'd been kicked. She reached for the table's solid support.
Toby let his own free hand touch the counter's side as he watched her. He knew she loved Mr. Todd. He thought there was something else between them, besides the rooms she lent him, and the rest, something that kept them closer, even when the barber treated her so cold. He didn't like it. He didn't trust Todd. But he watched the strain growing in Mrs. Lovett's face.
He hated it. It wasn't even about Mr. Todd, although he couldn't fathom why she bothered with him. It was the same thing it had been his whole life. It was going to the workhouse because where else can you go. It was taking Pirelli's abuse, because he had no other choice. It was laying quietly on the baker's couch at night thinking that Sweeney Todd had taken in more customers that day than he'd ever sent back down, and knowing there was nothing a nobody orphan could do about a thing in the world.
It was always the same. But now, he had Mrs. Lovett. And he couldn't bear to see her taken from him.
But what could he do?
He felt the sweat forming on his forehead, and the droplets on his scalp reminded him of Pirelli's stupid wig. He clutched the knife.
"Shame." Her fingers clamped around the edge of the table, Mrs. Lovett turned to look at Toby. She could keep her face pretty calm, he knew. She was like that. But around her eyes, it kind of unraveled, and he could see her looking distant, and scheming. And worried? Toby bit his lip. It wasn't like her. "Now, my lad, why don't you get a wet rag and go see to them tables over there."
He followed the direction of her nod to the other table and saw the girl, with blood smeared in her yellow hair. Toby swallowed hard. He had no idea whatsoever who that girl was, or how the sailor knew Mr. Todd, or what any of them were doing in the shop. Worse, he couldn't guess what had happened at the madhouse. Except, evidently, that somebody had bled a lot. That somebody, he imagined, was probably dead.One more thing we'll hang for, like enough. Unless, perhaps, that somebody was the suddenly absent , he darted around the counter to get a rag, dunked it in the cold water for dishes, and brought it directly to Anthony and his friend.
The sailor took it carefully, looking at him gratefully as he mouthed, "Thank you." Gently, he began to wipe the sticky red from her face, but it still streaked her hair, and one big, scarlet hand-print marked the sleeve of her dress. Mr. T's, no doubt.
He studied the Anthony. The lad had rough hands, and if he was a sailor, Toby guessed he had a grip that could crush a man's throat. But if it should come to a fight, if the chaos overhead should spread to the pie shop, he doubted Hope would stand against an officer of the law. If that's even who was up there. He watched that rope-roughened paw dab tenderly at the blood on Johanna's face.
Perhaps they'll blame him, not us.
Still watching the sailor, he listened to the detective.
"I solved it with my dreams." Abberline held up his empty glass. "Do you mind, ma'am?" He unwrapped a packet of crumpled paper from his pocket; matches, sugar cubes, a scorched spoon, a small green bottle nestled in its folds. "I have premonitions, you know."
Nellie frowned. "Keep drinking that and I'm sure you will." She refilled the glass.
A second shot rang out, and the grinding and thumping within the walls of the pie shop that were all too familiar. Quickly, Toby threw over one of the chairs, pretending to trip. "Sorry, mum. Awful clumsy tonight."
Abberline ignored him. "I can see you on a beach, serving little cakes with pink frosting." The spoon he laid across the glass, the sugar cube in the cradle of the spoon. "Man and a boy there." And three careful drops of bitter-smelling laudanum he measured onto the cube. "And an iguana in a satin waistcoat." He struck a match.
"Warms my heart to hear that, dear."She looked down as Toby slipped back to her side, then both of them looked up as another chorus of pounding hammered the boards above them. And both, for a moment, remained looking up: Mrs. Lovett at the ceiling, and Toby at her. His eyes still clung to her face as she looked down again and forced a smile. "Might as well go have yourself a rest in the parlor, son, and take it easy, alright?"
Toby paused, staring back at her. He couldn't quite remember seeing her like this. Couldn't remember seeing her afraid. He knew she was a tough lady, but he could see it around her eyes. And he knew it was Mr. Todd she was afraid for, because she had to know what was happening to him. Like Toby had to know what was going to happen to her. It shook him. He hesitated, drew a nervous breath, and didn't look away. "No, Mum."
On the far side of the table, Abberline nodded over the blue flame that rose from his glass. His spoon tipped out like a trap door from under the concoction it held.
Finally, Toby turned his face from hers. "I'll take care of the gin for you, Mrs. Lovett."
He snatched the bottle and ducked quickly away, her call smothered behind him from a drum-roll of footsteps in the barbershop. The noise ended in one awful, heavy THUMP! as he reached the sailor's table. He didn't find the quiet comforting. Silently, he passed the bottle to the girl, ignoring Anthony's stunned expression. Johanna ignored it, too. She picked up the bottle like she didn't know how and drank, choking in surprise as she swallowed. Anthony picked it up as she set it down, took a quick sip, and the passed the bottle back to Toby.
The boy glanced upward into the sudden silence, and drank.
He could be dead. Toby set the bottle down, wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve. His eyes stayed on the ceiling, waiting. But who'd be left alive?
Carefully, Abberline swallowed down the hot liquid. "The whole thing's quite a shame, about the Ripper, that is. What with the dead girls and all."
Mrs. Lovett was no longer listening. The only footsteps now were hers, marching across the shop to her counter. When she turned again to the Inspector, she had her rolling pin in hand. But she stopped, staring at her helper. Toby stared back. She had a wild sort of look. She couldn't take it anymore. He knew it. She had to do something.
And she wanted him not to see it. That's why she wanted him to go sit. That's why she was always giving him the bottle and sending him to bed. Like he couldn't hear or guess. He wasn't stupid. She looked at him like she was daring him to say she shouldn't do what she was about to.
Toby didn't care. He didn't care if she killed him. He reached for the knife in his pocket again.
"I could tell you the whole story, you know. About the Free… I mean, the Freemasons…"Abberline's head lolled back against the back of the chair. His eyes closed slowly as the laudanum hit him. He didn't stir as Nellie strode back to the table."But then the Ripper might drop by himself… Don't want nobody to know… And they're killing all of them, the women." Toby couldn't look away. The rolling pin swung high. "You wouldn't want the Ripper here, Mrs."
And the detective opened his eyes. WHACK! The pin fell, hard enough that Abberline's body jerked as it connected with his forehead, and he was still.
Toby flinched as she brought the rolling pin down a second time. Better safe than sorry, he remembered her saying once.
Toby felt his heart pound. His hand clenched. His thumb rested on the catch of the knife, and he wanted very badly, all of a sudden, to see the blade spring out again. He wanted very badly to see to it that nothing bad would ever come near his mother again.
The rolling pin rose again, and hovered, as its wielder looked almost frantically around the shop. "I'll be back. Don't nobody go anywhere. I just – I'll just…"
But the sound of footfalls came again, and she froze. Toby stared. The footsteps were no longer overhead. He nearly jumped when Johanna cried out, "There's someone on the stairs!"
XXXXXXX
In the darkness of the barbershop, the light of the moon shone down from above him, and the wooden sashes of the window cast intersecting shadows like prison bars. The air was cold, but Judge Turpin's skin burned with the heat of exertion and of his own blood coursing down his face. He panted, and staggered, trying to catch his breath. But he lived!
He pressed a sticky hand to his chest and felt his own heart beating, draining out more blood from the gashes in his face and arms, as he stepped away from the figure before him. The still form of whatever creature wore Benjamin Barker's face, lay on the floor before him. He did not think that Sweeney Todd was dead, but he didn't move.
But Turpin lived, and the door stood unlocked and unguarded, waiting only for his breathing to steady. But he looked anxiously around the shop. In this place, where chairs came growling to life and devoured men, even a corpse – even the walls and floor of this nightmare place – could swallow him up.
But nothing stirred in the corners of the shop. He looked around again, and then up, at the great, wide window with its crisscrossing bars. All he saw above him was the glass, flecked with spots (Would they be red in better light?), and, far above, the full moon, round and white and mottled, hanging over the shop like an eye.
The moon looked down on him, the cold, white eye of an eternal judge.
A familiar bit of scripture struck him, but in a new, unsettling way. It was a verse he had often used to admonish the criminals before his bench. But that was all. There was no call for the words, "Be sure your sins will find you out" to ring suddenly, ominously through his mind.*
No call at all.
The judge coughed, wheezing. He couldn't breathe. It didn't matter. He only had to leave that shop. His coachman would still be waiting in the street. In less than an hour, he would have the full strength of the London police force descending on Fleet Street. He could do it. Sweeney Todd would pay for his crimes. He'd make sure of it.
Staggering, he made for the door, but outside the moon shone even brighter, illuminating the blood on his hands. He could feel it all over, hot, running down his arms and face. His gashes burned. The moon looked down. For one absurd moment, he hoped the framed photographs he had thrown at Todd hadn't fallen open someplace where that light could touch them.
Turpin froze. And if Barker comes to trial again, what else might he say before the jury? He stared out, not seeing the rooftops across the street and beyond. There were, he knew, men who had spent long years serving the city. He knew one grey-haired sergeant who, if he found that picture, would remember the couple behind the glass. And there were others.
The judge gulped at the cold air.
What a terrible coincidence. That shop, that man… Just as he had moved to seize Johanna as he had her mother, he reappeared, the same dark building, the same face. It had found him again. It had bent his pathway back toward Fleet Street, back towards this monument to his own wickedness.
Behind the open door, the specter called Sweeney Todd still lay silently. Damn the beadle for wasting bullets! It could have ended. It should have ended.
But the moon stared. And that bit of a half-verse echoed through his mind again.
"Be sure your sins will find you out…"
Judge Turpin ran.
The stairs flew under him, but when he reached the ground, he stopped, looking wildly about. Between him and the coach there lay the whole courtyard washed in that accusing light. He turned, frantic, toward the accursed pie shop. And in its dingy windows, he saw yellow hair. No.
He should have bolted for the carriage. He should have bolted sixteen years ago. But he tore at the doorknob and threw himself inside. There was Mrs. Lovett herself, standing over the limp form of Frederick Abberline, looking up in horror at him. There was a young lad jumping forward. And the sailor; he knew it. And there – No!
Something exploded in the judge's mind.
He was aware only dimly of charging across the pie shop. Of the chairs toppling as Hope stood to protect Johanna. He didn't notice at all the young boy pulling something from his pocket.
He saw himself grab the baker's arm as she tried to block his path. He saw his free hand snatch the rolling pin she brandished at him, his fingers still bloodied.
But the center of the whole scene – Johanna, his Johanna – filled his mind, her face, white as china, smudged with blood, her golden hair in disarray.
Then, a sharp click, a sudden burning pain in his back. Turpin half-turned as he fell to his knees, and there was the baker's apprentice behind him, bearing down on him again with the switchblade knife.
And the judge collapsed finally to the dusty floor of Mrs. Lovett's pie shop.
XXXXXXX
Far away, Sweeney heard voices, muffled: an uproar, things breaking, light voices shouting. They sounded from behind a wall someplace. Or rather, from beneath the floor, cold against his cheek, and cold against his aching head, although his hand lay in something wet and warm.
The floor? He blinked at the razor that lay before him. Why the floor? Imagine if the judge should come and –
The judge! Todd scrambled upright, ignoring the tearing pain in his arm. The shop lurched and rolled around him like the Bountiful at sea. He nearly fell, but the door was open before him, and, focusing on that open patch of night, he staggered on.
He can't escape. He clutched his razor as if it could hold him up. If the judge lived, it would mean the gallows. They would need to run. Immediately. They would lose everything. No revenge, no life by the sea, nothing. He can't escape.
Beneath him, he heard a voice say the same thing. "If he gets out of this shop alive, we're all dead."
No! Snarling, he lunged at the door. The bells rang. They were still ringing when he reached the railing above his stairs and stared into the courtyard. The empty courtyard. His fingers clenched around the wooden rail, and the bells still rang behind him.
Or, below him now, as warm light spilled into the dark, and a shadow, as Mrs. Lovett's door flew open. She dashed out, but stopped at the foot of the stairs.
"Mr. Todd?"
"Mrs. Lovett." There was silence for a moment, and Sweeney leaned into the rickety railing, trying to breath in enough cold air to clear his head.
Her footsteps started quickly up the steps, and then her face leaned in close to him. "Mr. T, what happened?" Her hand covered his own on the rail; her other touched his wounded arm, and he hissed with pain.
He flinched away, standing upright. "The judge!"
"I know. He's in my shop, bleeding all over my floor." She deftly slipped her arm over his shoulders as he swayed a little. "What happened to you?"
He sagged against her as relief and joy hit him. "Stray shot. Be alright." As he stepped toward the stairs she moved with him, and down they went, carefully. He supposed he ought to stop to see how bad he was hit. "Johanna?"
"She's fine, love." Nellie's hip jostled his as they drew nearer to the square of yellow light below. "Wouldn't let nothing happen to her after all that trouble."
Sweeney felt steadier by the time his feet touched the cobblestones of the yard, and it struck him that this was the end. Everything he'd wanted, everything he'd been working for and killing for, was just inside the pie shop's door. The end of all of it. The thought supported him. "And you, Mrs. Lovett?"
Her arm slipped off his shoulders as she faltered. "I'm alright, Mr. T." With the bells jangling quietly, he passed into the light and noise inside, Nellie drifting behind him.
"Mr. Todd?" Anthony turned to look, and Sweeney's eyes fell on him first. The bandages still covered one side of his face, red splotches seeping into the cloth from underneath, and he seemed uncertain. But he stood, the barber saw, between Johanna and the bleeding figure on the floor. An odd feeling seized him about the heart as he stepped in nearer. "Are you alright, sir?"
"Fine." He half-glanced at Johanna, in the booth behind the sailor's back. She still had red streaks on her face and in her hair, and she was terrified. He frowned. But he wouldn't let anything threaten her again.
Sweeney moved farther into the shop and found Tobias standing at the counter's end. The boy looked up at him. The barber never thought much of the lad, but in that one look he found suddenly relief and dislike and a world of confusion. Toby's hand held a knife, and his sleeve had blood on it. Sweeney's hand brushed Toby's shoulder as he approached. "Good lad, Toby."
And there, at his feet, lay Judge Turpin, breathing still, but beaten. "Good lad."
He leaned down, scowling, to grasp Turpin's shirt collar with both hands, still clutching his razor. His head felt stuffed with fire as he stooped, and pain ran up his arm, but he hauled Turpin to his feet. Already, the breath rattled in the judge's chest. Sweeney stared hard. The old buzzard might be dying, but he had breath enough yet to suffer. "Mrs. Lovett, the bakehouse door, please."
Nobody spoke, not even Mrs. Lovett as she went to the heavy door and pulled it open, its edge rasping on the floor. Sweeney looked around the shop again, at all the faces regarding him fearfully. He faltered. "It'll… It'll be alright." Will it? He had no idea what else to say. He had never pictured even only Mrs. Lovett present to see him kill the judge, never mind his Johanna, or white-hearted Anthony, or the boy, all giving their silent, nervous consent. His mouth felt dry, suddenly. "Be alright in just a minute."
Turpin offered no resistance as Todd dragged him to the stairs; it was all he could do to stay upright. Slowly, painfully, Sweeney brought him to the head of the stairs, while the eyes behind them watched. With a great shove, the barber threw him down, watching the hoarsely screaming body tumble down the dusty steps.
He felt too tired to smile, panting at the head of the stairs, but he fingered his razor. With a glance at Nellie, waiting beside the door, Todd stepped down into the darkness.
Her voice called out behind him, "Stay here, loves," and her footsteps followed him down into the darkness. "We'll be back in a tick."
Sweeney supposed it was best that she did come after him; he was already feeling unsteady again by the time his feet reached the stone floor of the cellar. He could almost sense her hovering just behind him, waiting. As she had been that day he returned. As she seemed always to be. Never, ever thought… He swayed a bit and lost track of what he was thinking, but his chest seemed to swell with that strange sensation again. Or perhaps that was the effect of blood loss. Really ought to see about that arm…
He picked up the judge again, devoting all his effort to keeping them both upright. "The oven door." Mrs. Lovett's shoes clicked on the stone floor as she crossed quickly behind him.
The yellow light of the flames hit them as Todd dragged his victim across the bakehouse, and it revealed a face already paling, eyes already dimming. The fight had left him, and Turpin followed helplessly, like a mouse, thoroughly broken, in the cat's paws. Sweeney stared as they neared the oven. It suits.
His wounded left arm screamed as he freed the razor. He grimaced at the pain, but, gritting his teeth, he grinned as he pressed the blade against Turpin's throat, savored the moment, while the last dregs of his enemy's life ebbed, waiting only on the last stroke to be released.
He made one, swift slice. The rubies flew, hot on his hand and face. Todd almost laughed. It's finally, finally finished. And with a single heave, he threw the dying judge into the fire. It's over.
A moment passed before Mrs. Lovett shut the door with a resolute clang, and plunged them both into darkness. Mr. Todd felt his body finally waver. She stepped nearer.
"You did it, Mr. T." She touched his side, carefully stepping closer. "You finally got him, and your Johanna, too. You finally done it all."
"Yes." He took a dizzy step towards her. His mind reeled with the heady combination of fulfillment, blood loss, longing, and concussion, and, as he lurched forward, Mrs. Lovett seemed suddenly so very, very close. He flung his arms over her shoulders. "Finally have everything I wanted…"
"Mr. Todd?" Both her hands now gripped his sides, clutching at the fabric of his vest, and her voice was thick with emotion. Sweeney heard pride, and disbelief, and – Was that even love? He could hear her heart pounding as his head lolled against her chest.
That was because his knees finally gave out from beneath him. Suspended by his arms around her, and hers around him, he sighed into the neckline of her dress. Don't get too excited, Mrs. Lovett.
"Mr. Todd! Oh, bugger." Nellie shook him, calling. "Mr. T? What – Who's that over there!?"
But Sweeney Todd didn't answer, as he sank happily, again, into oblivion.
XXXXXXX
*The only slightly misquoted back-half of Numbers 32:23, "But if you will not do so, behold, you have sinned against the Lord, and be sure your sin will find you out."
Timeliness may not be my strong point, but I did make it in less than a year, this time. It's a start. Actually, I hope to have the next installment up within a few weeks, if all goes well. In the mean time, though, reviews=life.
Thanks for reading, as always. :)