Kidney Pie – Chapter 20
Abberline woke with a throbbing head, a churning stomach, and a foul taste coating his tongue. The wet, oozing something he lay in felt decidedly unpleasant, too. Slowly, achingly, the one man London hoped could catch the Ripper lifted his head from the muck.
Then dropped it, overwhelmed by the awful thump-thump-thump of his own pulse. He groaned. The last thing he could recall clearly was the "Emperor's" smile as he handed over his few coins in that silent, smoky cellar on Thomas More Street.
After that, indistinct images floated on the fog. Two men. A fine coach. A woman.
A woman, he thought, who had fed him. He felt sure she'd given him something. And gin. He definitely recalled gin. Wish I had a little now.
The thump-thump-thump-thump grew steadily louder, but Abberline gritted his teeth and forced himself up onto his elbows, his eyes still squeezed shut. He shivered as the cold air bit through his soaked clothes. Something was decidedly wrong.
The old man kept the opium den stoked to a lazy heat, and, supposing he'd made it home but never lit the fire, his room should still be warmer than this. Drier, too. Even the cells at the police station were never so damp or drafty.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
Bracing himself, Abberline opened his eyes in time to see the hooves and wheels of a horse-drawn cart rumble by, uncomfortably close to his sprawling feet. As it passed, taking with it the finally receding thumping, he found himself staring across an unfamiliar street.
Frederick swore. Then he pressed a hand to his aching head, swore again, and finally began to drag himself out of the gutter and onto his feet.
He managed only to keep his feet as he lurched too quickly upright, but let out another curse anyway. Damn the gin, and damn the bloody old pipe… But then again, a little hair of the dog might put him to rights.
That is, once he cleaned himself up just a bit. Scanning the street, he spied a horse trough in front of a shop across the street. A shop, according to its fading signs, that sold meat pies. His already rebellious stomach gave a little heave at the thought. But the trough would be full of water.
Blessed, cold, head-clearing water, and clean enough to at least wash his hands in.
As Abberline lurched into the street, his plan began to take a definite order. First, gin. Second, home, for clean clothes. And maybe more gin. Or perhaps something better… Then he'd face the challenge of finding out how he'd wound up lying on the side of the road.
Then again, he might have better luck finding out Jack the Ripper.
For the moment, trying to brush the worst of the mire off of his clothes made enough of a challenge.
Until he heard a sudden rustling sound in his coat pocket, like crumpling paper. Carefully, he shook the filth off his hands, and pulled out a folded note.
The trough waited beside him, forgotten. He opened the letter, blinked his bleary eyes, and, in the weak light of the morning, read:
Dear Inspector,
I do hope you get this letter alright. I had a terrible time getting them to let me write it. See, you came last night into my pie shop, and you was having a nice pie, when some great big fellow in a funny uniform crept in and cracked you right over your poor head! Swore he done it under the authority of the Grand High Masonic Lodge or some such nonsense, and said I wasn't to say nothing or interfere – or else! What's a poor pie maker to do? Them fellows, they scared me something awful, what with their talk about killing some other poor woman. I hope they don't hurt you. If you come out alright, come round again for a hot meat pie on the house. Call at MRS. MOONEY'S PIE SHOP. Don't mix it up with that other shop, the one on Fleet Street. Terrible pies there, anyway. Don't waste your time with it.
Sincerely,
Mrs. MOONEY.
P.S. Don't mind if you come back and I pretend like I don't know nothing about it. They got me so rattled, I don't think I care to say a word about it ever again!
Another horse and cart jogged by, splattering more mud onto Abberline's already ruined trousers. Sighing, he looked up at the storefront before him. There, as plain as day, hung a sign with big red block letters spelling out, "MRS. MOONEY'S PIE SHOP."
And further on, up and down the street as far as he could see, was nothing.
No Freemasons in their robes. No phantom coaches lurking in the shadows. No bodies bleeding out on the muddy sidewalk. No blue-clad bobbies whistling for help. No paper boys crying murder. Just nothing.
Damn.
Disgusted, he shoved the crumpled note back into his soggy pocket. Then Abberline turned and plunged his face into the cold water in the trough.
XXXXXXX
Mrs. Lovett watched as the lump of dough before her split jaggedly as it thinned. It needed easier, steadier handling if it was going to come out smooth and round. Bit of an art, it is. She almost winced as the crust tore apart, half clinging to the rolling pin and half to the counter. Ain't going to fill that one with nothing.
She'd have done much better herself, but she was determined.
"I guess I ain't cut out for baking, am I, mum?"
"Nonsense, Toby dear. You just ball that back up and we'll give it another try." Standing behind him, she peered over his head as he followed her instructions. The flour that stuck to the dough he mashed right into the lumpy mass of dough. Just as well, really. It needed the extra flour, or it'd stick no matter what.
Honestly, she didn't know how such a simple recipe could go awry. Toby evidently had different ideas about what six tablespoons of water meant than the rest of the world.
"Right. Now, let's try again." Reaching around him, she placed her hands lightly over his on the handles of her rolling pin. "Ready? Easy does it, Toby. You want to roll it out nice and steady. But don't be afraid to show it who's in charge, either."
A snicker sounded from her corner table, where Jack the Ripper sat, half-dozing. Sweeney Todd had long ago gone upstairs, although she'd warned him strictly that her letting him out of her sight didn't give him permission to open his shop. It'd be just like him to work himself to death soon as he got all he wanted. It was a good thing he had her to check up on him.
Jack, she expected, would wander off as soon as he could scrape together the will to make the trek back to Whitechapel. Dressed in his own clothes again, he wearily nursed a cup of tea. Hot tea all around had been her first order of business that morning. Bit of an antidote for the gin. And then, as always, back to making pies.
Toby's hands moved carefully beneath her guiding touch. "Easy and steady. Show it who's in charge."
"That's right, son." She lifted her hands away, and watched as he kept the crust rolling easily, if unevenly out on his own. She grinned as she ruffled his hair. "That's not so hard at all, is it? All you need is a bit of practice, and I'm going to see that you get it." She slipped past him and reached for her knife, then began to cut out the rough outlines of her pies. "You'll see, love. Things are going to be different around here. I'm going to take proper care of you."
"Does that mean I get to help you with the meat, too?"
Mrs. Lovett paused, her knife halfway around a circle of dough, and ignored the Ripper's chuckle. "Not today, Toby. Now, you see why it's important to put down lots of flour, or else the dough would be sticking. Well, worse than it's sticking now."
"Sorry, mum. Next time I'll be a little more careful with the water."
"Don't worry, dear." Gingerly, she pulled one damp, stretchy crust away from the countertop, trying not to let it stick to her fingers. "I'm sure they'll dry out in the oven. Now, the crusts go right into the pan, just like this."
"Crust goes in the pan…" Nellie cringed as the sticky mess Toby tried to lift left chunks of itself behind as it peeled away. "Just like this."
"Perfect, darling." She patted him on the shoulders, ignoring the flour she scattered over his shirt. She did mean to make things different. Now that things seemed to be going Mr. Todd's way – and hers – she didn't mean to let it go to waste. What a bloody night! And her Sweeney finally showing her a scrap of warmth. Odd timing, but she wouldn't complain. He'd been acting strange anyway since Jack had come along.
And who would've thought the fiend of Whitechapel would turn out to be such a hero? She gave him a smile over Toby's head, and the Ripper grinned back wearily.
She'd never have expected Toby's little revelation, either. Her brave lad! So help her, he'd be one of the gang indeed. And she'd give him the mothering he needed, too. "Now, once we fill this tray, they'll stand till we're ready to fill them."
Toby looked up brightly beside her. "Will we make the filling next?"
Nellie gave him a fixed smile. "Not just yet, I think. I'll have to fetch some meat up from the bakehouse first." She gave him another pat on the shoulder and then stepped away.
"I could run for you, mum." Toby followed after her, hovering just behind her elbow. "I'm awful eager to help. Anything I can do for you. Please."
Another sly chuckle reached her ears, and Nellie gave the Ripper a sharp look. "Tell you what, love. Let's make us a spot of breakfast first. How does that sound?"
"Yes, mum." Toby looked up, a little disappointed, but Mrs. Lovett smiled.
"That's my boy." It might not have been the best time to teach the lad, but the pies needed to made, and he'd so sweetly volunteered to help. All the same, she should've considered that the filling would become an issue, but she'd put him off alright for a little while. Getting him to quit eating the bloody things might be the bigger challenge. It was high time she got this maternity business set to rights. "Now, what would you like?" Cheerfully, she turned to the counter, peering and poking among her spices and tins and bags of sugar. "What would you say to a nice plate of pancakes?"
"Wouldn't it be quicker to just have some of the cold pies?"
"My, but we're eager this morning." Nellie pulled down a half-empty bag of sugar, then paused, reflecting. She still had a bowl of eggs that wouldn't keep forever. Better, she supposed, to use them up sooner rather than later. Reaching up again, she kept her eyes carefully away from the boy at her side. "You just had a pie with all that gin, dearie. You don't want to live off pies, do you?"
"I wouldn't mind, mum." Toby edged a little closer, near enough to touch her elbow. "They're awful good."
"You do make a fine meat pie, Eleanor." Jack hid his grin behind the teacup as Mrs. Lovett shot him another glance. "'Course, little boys ought to always mind their mothers."
"Right." The baker set the bowl down with a solid click on her counter and reached for a pan. "You know, Toby, I could really use a nice, hot plate of eggs, myself. Let's see what we can do after breakfast." She lit the fire, set on the pan, and tossed in a generous pat of butter. "Come to think of it, lad, you could probably do with a spot of rest. Been a long night for you, ain't it, son?"
"I'll be alright, Mrs. Lovett, honest. It's not like it's the first time I've gone without sleep. All the time, back in the workhouse."
At that, Nellie had to look down, and his eyes caught hers. Oh, you know how to pull them strings, you little blighter. "Well, we ain't in the workhouse now, are we?" Leaving the fire and the eggs, she gave his a pat on the shoulder. "I don't want my little man getting overtired. Let's just fix you up a good plate to keep your strength up. You feeling up to a bit of eggs, Jack?"
The Ripper grunted and looked sullenly back to his tea.
"Guess that's a 'No,' then. Well, we'll fix a little for Mr. T, just in case. Don't know as he'll want it, either, but then, he never really does eat his breakfast, anyway." Mrs. Lovett cracked an egg, then paused, giving her helper a calculating look. "In fact, Toby, I might need you to help me keep an eye on our Mr. Todd today, just to make sure he don't tax himself, what with him being hurt and all."
She smiled as the egg dropped with a hiss into the pan. That, actually, would work quite nicely. Keep them both out of trouble. "And then, maybe tomorrow, when we're all starting out on the right foot again, we'll both go down in the bakehouse."
She stooped to stir up the flames, but Toby touched her arm again. "Please, mum. If it's just about the old judge being down there still, you don't have to worry. I ain't afraid of him."
You certainly made that clear, love. She smiled and ruffled his croppy hair. "My brave little man. How'd you like to fetch me a couple of clean plates?"
Toby sighed, and Nellie couldn't help patting him on the shoulder as he turned to do as she'd bid him. "Cheer up, my lad. I do need you to watch Mr. Todd for me today, and then we'll have all the time in the world to learn all there is to know." Lots of time, once my cellar doesn't look like a slaughterhouse.
Toby knew about the judge, but she had the beadle to deal with, too, plus the bones and guts of two days of business-as-usual since she and Jack had scrubbed the place up. This time she doubted she could count on help from either of her pair of killers.
And she was too tired to even think about the mess right now. She supposed she'd better find an excuse for tomorrow, too.
When Toby came back with the plates, he was smiling. Maybe mothering ain't so hard after all. She grinned back as she took the plates. "Go on then, love, and have a seat. It'll be just a tick now."
She kept smiling as she tended the eggs. Granted, she had a few unique challenges in the motherhood department, and, she had to admit, she'd gotten off to a questionable start, but he was a fine lad. She'd see to it that everything got put to rights. No more secrets. No more cannibal pies.
It just might take a bit of doing.
"Are you sure I can't just have a pie?"
"Now, now, love. Your eggs will be ready in a tick." She smiled. If she could handle the two great scourges of London, she could manage her own apprentice. That, and the eggs smelled heavenly, to boot. "'Sides we really ought to save the pies for the customers, don't you think? Probably lots of things better for a growing boy, anyway."
"But Jack likes them, too. Don't you, sir?"
Looking up from her pan, Nellie turned back to look at her guest. Sitting a table away from Toby, the fiend of Whitechapel glanced backed and forth between the baker and her boy, and, catching her eye, shot her a crooked grin. At least somebody's enjoying this.
"Jack ain't having any just now either, son." Mrs. Lovett turned back to her eggs. It'd take some keen thinking to keep her little secret ingredient a secret forever. Especially since Toby had gone and solved the rest of her and Sweeney's puzzle. But perhaps it needn't be an issue for more than a few days; with the judge dead, the the whole bloody business could be behind them. "'Sides, Jack eats all kinds of things you wouldn't want to touch. Bits of whores and all…" Turning quickly back, she shook her spatula at the still-smiling Ripper. "You're lucky you don't make yourself sick, you know."
The yellow-eyed eggs stared up at her, and she smiled. Fine breakfast for a fine young lad. She felt quite pleased as she scooped them onto the first plate. The first task of her first day of real motherhood stood nicely resolved. The pies she'd bluster through. And, well, she still had the poor thing fairly surrounded by questionable influences, but that, she decided, was inevitable. She wasn't about to get rid of her Mr. Todd. But then, maybe it'd work out like she'd imagined – a little house by the sea, a cozy family, and no more murders.
Or at least not as many, I hope.
"It's not the same, though."
"What's not?"
"It's not – I mean, if Jack eats… Well..." Toby shuffled in his seat, his hands twisted together. "That's not the same thing, is all. It's not like it's real food, so it don't reflect on your pies at all."
Mrs. Lovett paused only for a moment. Then, forcing a cheery smile, she swept around the counter with the boy's plate. "Course, it ain't, love. Completely different."
"I mean, he could eat… He could eat anything he likes, but you still have to eat something proper. It's not like you can't eat nothing decent just because you ate…" Toby glanced nervously at Jack, who smirked but kept his eyes carefully on his cooling tea. "Ate something else."
"That's right, son." Nellie patted his shoulder as she set down his plate. "Now you go ahead and have your eggs."
"So it's not like him liking your pies has anything to do with… with that." Ignoring breakfast, Toby looked plaintively up at the baker. "It's not the same."
"Of course not. Now, what's got you fretting, you silly thing?"
"Nothing, mum."
"That's my boy." She ruffled his hair as she turned back to her cooking. He'd be quite alright. Smiling, she cracked another pair of eggs into the hot pan. She'd fry up a couple for Johanna and Anthony, though she'd already given them a plate of toast with their tea. Girl could use a little meat on her bones. No doubt they didn't feed them much in the madhouse.
She cast an apologetic glance at their other escapee, currently entranced with his tea. Jack would be alright. Johanna, too. They'd all be alright. They'd –
"It's just…"
"Those eggs won't stay warm forever, love."
"I know, Mrs. Lovett, only – When Mr. T put the old man in the bakehouse…"
"What about him now? I thought you wasn't worried about the bloody old -" She glanced again over her shoulder, still smiling. Until she caught a glimpse of Toby's face. Suddenly, she felt a bit less confident. Leaving the next round of eggs in the pan, Mrs. Lovett turned back at the boy. "Take it easy now, Toby dear. Whatever are you talking about?"
"When you and Mr. Todd – The bodies – You do hide the bodies, don't you, mum?"
"Of course we do, love."
At the next table, the Ripper laughed outright. "That's right. Hides 'em good and proper, they does." He grinned as he set down his cup. "You ain't never seen a more delectable hiding place."
"Jack!" She'd have hit him if he was within reach. The glare she gave him didn't seem to bother him any. She turned back to her helper instead. "Don't you pay him no mind, Toby."
Crouching down, she looked right to those wide, staring eyes as she clasped Toby's arms. Then again, it might be a bit late. Too bad, though. That vulnerable look of his always did get to her. Well, nothing for it. "I think it's time we had a little chat, Toby."
For a moment, the boy stood completely still. Nellie waited till he seemed steady enough to let him go. But that white, stunned face seemed frozen. "Hello? You listening, love?"
His pale lips parted, and, wordlessly, Toby pitched forward into her arms.
"Bugger."
Jack took another sip of his tea. "You shouldn't've told him you could get sick. Probably put him off good food for life."
"Yeah, well, you wasn't too much help yourself, dear." Carefully, she adjusted her grip, holding Toby up as best she could. "We'll be quite alright, though. He's a good, practical lad, he is, and he'll come 'round again. Just needs a little motherly affection."
Mrs. Lovett began to drag Toby awkwardly towards the parlor, letting his scuffed shoes drag across the floor. A bit of maternal care would be just the thing, and that was what he'd get.
That, and maybe gin.
XXXXXXX
Sweeney Todd's Tonsorial Parlor was spotless. Sitting restless in his barber's chair, its proprietor looked it over one more time. There was nothing.
The wreckage of Johanna's crib had vanished. He supposed it had been thrown down the trap door to be burned. Everything the judge had hurled at him had been returned to its place, the kettle set on the stove, and a fire lit. The bullet hole in the door was now hidden behind pasted-on sheets of newspaper that blocked the worst of the draft.
And the blood was gone.
The floor, the window, the trunk, the table, his clever chair, even his silver-framed photographs - all clean. Perfectly, thoroughly clean.
It drove him mad. Sweeney would have relished work to do, anything other than sitting and staring. Staring at the worn floorboards, he tried not to let his thoughts sink down again to the people underneath them: his daughter, the young man who wanted to marry her, the woman he wanted to marry, the boy who saw himself as their son, the man who may have saved his life.
Todd stood, wincing at the pain in his arm, and looked around desperately for something to do, anything to take his mind off last night, off them. But the shop was immaculate, and his arm was too stiff to even let him strop his razors properly.
Opening one, his best, he reached stubbornly for the rag tucked in his belt, but paused, gritting his teeth, and gave up. Instead, he simply held the silver blade, admired it, inspected its edge. My friend…
Sweeney drew a deep breath. His friends never changed. Fifteen years they waited, hidden under Mrs. Lovett's floorboards. They always did what he needed them to. Always.
And they never suddenly demanded love. They didn't suddenly think of him as a father. They never needed to be told things he didn't know how to say. They never threatened to kill him, or saved his life, either.
Sweeney scowled. Not that his life needed saving anyway.
But his arm hurt like it was on fire. Perhaps it was best after all that Mrs. Lovett had ordered him to keep the shop closed. He felt like he didn't know how to handle himself today. Plus, she seemed determined to send the boy running up every hour or so to check on him, and Toby probably didn't need to see any more bloodshed. He was looking a little green already.
As if on cue, Todd heard footsteps on the stairs outside. Razor in hand, he turned back to his chair and sat with his back to the door. He didn't want to see that eager little face peering in his windowpanes. Not until he figured out what to say to the lad.
A knock tapped at his door. He ignored it. With luck, Toby would leave as long as he could see the barber upright in the chair and not sprawled bleeding on the floor, or whatever it was Mrs. Lovett expected he'd find.
Perhaps he ought to be touched by her concern, but even that distressed him now. He didn't know what to say to her, either.
Did I really kiss her? Granted, it had worked nicely in that particular moment, but now he groaned as he remembered it. What was I thinking?
Another timid knock cut through the stillness of the shop.
He really knew so little about any of them, the people downstairs he suddenly felt so hopelessly bound to. Even Mrs. Lovett, who…
"I'm sorry, sir, shall I come back later?"
Todd started, jumping up so quickly that his throbbing arm twitched with a fresh jolt of pain, but he ignored it as he ran to the door. The jangling bells seemed to startle the young girl standing just outside. Johanna.
His Johanna, wearing one of her mother's dresses.. So many times he'd told himself she was gone beyond all hope of finding her, and believed it. They blinked at each other, uncertain.
"Mr. Todd?"
"Yes?"
She was so thin and pale – as pale as her father, and haggard, too. Perhaps it was the madhouse that did that and not inheritance. But her hair, pulled back in a simple braid, was her mother's wheat-field gold.
She stared up at him. "May I come in, please?"
Cursing silently, the barber almost jumped; he'd forgotten that they were standing in the open doorway. He frowned as he stepped back to let her pass, then shut the door carefully behind them. The pitiful, paper-covered glass caught his eye again as it latched. With his back to the shop, he imagined the gloomy parlor as Johanna must see it, here for the first time.
A shadow of Judge Turpin flickered through his memory, that stern voice. "These premises are hardly prepossessing…"
But the judge was dead. In the reflection in the remaining windowpanes, he saw a faint smile creep across his face, just for a moment. And finally, Sweeney turned to the girl who stood hesitating in his home.
"I wanted to thank you, Mr. Todd." She stared at him, her eyes dark like his in a face too much like her mother's. "If not for you and Mrs. Lovett, I'd be in that…" Her voice wavered, and she looked aside briefly. "In there. Still waiting." When her eyes found his again, Sweeney froze. "Thank you."
He stared back, standing stiffly. The proper reply hovered just outside the reach of his memory, and he strained for it. "You're welcome."
Johanna nodded, folded her white hands in front of her, and waited.
Sweeney stared. He couldn't think of what she was waiting for him to say, or what a man was supposed to say. "No trouble at all, dear. Any time you find yourself unjustly committed to an asylum, you can count on me…"
He didn't know what she expected him to say, and what he needed to say, he couldn't seem to find the words for. Questions he could never answer suddenly nagged him. What had she been told about her father? How much had she believed? How had she lived in Turpin's shadow so many years, and what if she had somehow loved him?
He glanced back at the photographs on the table, then forced a brief smile. "An honor to help."
The girl ducked her head, a pretty, modest, anxious gesture. He wondered who she'd learned it from, and whether she'd had to make a habit of giving that little bow before the mighty judge. A sop to the old man's pride. What a childhood.
Lucy had never looked so haunted.
Johanna looked at the floor as she spoke. "It's good to be free again. It's good to be…" Her eyes flickered up to meet his. "Among friends."
Free? The word almost startled him, simply because it had never occurred to him. Sweeney Todd had escaped, but he had never been free. And although he'd never had any question of Mrs. Lovett's talents and loyalty, neither had he ever stopped to think that it was good simply to be there with her. Even when he knew he loved her.
Sweeney nodded slowly. "Yes."
"You understand, too, then, Mr. Todd?" He didn't respond, but she had fixed her eyes on his now, and he could only stare. "You've been… you, too?"
Been. Oh, what he'd been. The barber half-turned away, looking toward the window. But he nodded again.
Silence welled up again in the dark shop, broken only by the muffled clatter of plates in the pie shop below. He knew she wanted an explanation. Just like Mrs. Lovett had the night she'd thrown the soup at him. The night she'd kissed Jack. And he still didn't have one. None, at least, that that wouldn't lead to others even harder to give.
His eyes flickered to the table that held his precious photographs. He'd never said anything to anyone about Australia. Aside from Mrs. Lovett, no one knew that he had ever been Benjamin Barker, had ever been a convict. And he hadn't spoken a word about it even to her.
Not that that was entirely his fault. It was hard to get a word in edgewise sometimes.
Johanna's gaze lay heavy on his back. "I feel as if…" His daughter spoke haltingly, choosing each word carefully. And still staring relentlessly. "As if I've found something I lost a long time ago."
At that, the barber turned. Johanna met his eyes immediately. Like she'd been waiting for him to look her way again. He could feel his heart pounding by the throbbing in his arm.
Finally, Johanna dipped here eyes, glancing awkwardly at the floor. "This place is very quiet."
Quiet? Compared to a madhouse, perhaps. He wasn't sure what that had to do with anything. "Yes."
"I mean, one can hear a lot of things here."
Todd blinked. And then snatches of conversation from the night before began replaying in his were lots of things said at 186 Fleet Street that would be best if never overheard.
He glanced longingly at the door, half in hope that his landlady would appear in the window. He suddenly couldn't quite turn on the charm he'd relied on to put his customers at ease, and Mrs. Lovett always had that effortless way of turning out a lie. "Shouldn't put too much faith in whispers in the night."
Johanna blinked at him. "Oh."
"Especially on a night like last night. Things sound different when you're distressed. It's easy to misunderstand."
The girl looked oddly crestfallen. Sweeney paused.
"Then, you're not…?"
All thoughts vanished from Mr. Todd's mind. "What?"
His daughter looked away. He thought again, listening to talk flashing through his memory. "Says they're not good enough for his girl, but he don't mind feeding 'em to my Toby." "Maybe she ought to have some. Maybe she'll like it? One way to find out, old boss." "Go gut a trollop, Jack." "I still don't see the bother. It's not like they killed nobody so far." "You are not feeding those pies to my –"
Shit.
"I thought-" Johanna kept her head down, her eyes averted, as a blush spread over her cheeks. She only half glanced at him. "Perhaps I was mistaken. I beg your pardon, sir."
His daughter moved quickly toward the door. And just as quickly, Todd raised his hand to stop her. Too quickly to have thought about it. If he'd had time to think, he wouldn't have done it. She stopped as his fingers brushed her arm.
Sweeney closed his fingers gently just above her elbow. Somehow he couldn't help thinking of the first day of her life, when her own tiny fingers had curled around the tip of Benjamin Barker's pointer finger. The barber swallowed hard, and silently led her toward the table where the family portraits waited.
Neither looked at the other as Todd released her. The barber kept his eyes instead on the two photographs. He picked them up reverently, pausing to scan the faces he had spent so much time studying, his fingers caressing the frame. Then, without a word, he handed them to Johanna.
She took them carefully. Watching from the corner of his eye, Sweeney noticed how gracefully her hands rested on the frames, how the skin of her forehead just barely crinkled as she focused on the faded pictures. He watched her trace her finger over the images, the way he'd done so often.
Johanna looked up at him, studying his face.
"Mr. Todd?"
She stood closer than he ever imagined she'd be. Still they drifted a little closer. Sweeney forced his dry throat to swallow. Then he nodded.
Johanna never stopped to put down the portraits; she still clutched the frames as she darted nearer and thrust her arms around him. The impact jarred his torn arm, and he winced, but carefully laid his good one across her shoulders.
He had her. Sixteen years, and he finally had her back.
"You were hurt last night." Johanna spoke so softly that he doubted he would have heard her if she wasn't nestled against his chest. "If you had died, I'd never have known. I'd have lost you all over again."
"I'm alright."
Neither caught the other's eye as they pulled apart. Sixteen years. And now he still didn't know what to do. He frowned as he turned his eyes back to the tabletop.
"Anthony and I are going away."
Sweeney nodded. He's toyed with the idea of finishing the sailor off, but something about that gathering in Mrs. Lovett's kitchen spoiled that part of his plan. But if the boy lived, they would have to leave. Their staying would risk inquiries about the judge's disappearance.
"We spoke about it this morning. We'll go first to his parents' house in Plymouth. He's sure they'll let us stay."
Listening dully, Todd turned back to the table and reached for the case that held his razor, lifted away the lid.
"At least until we find a place of our own. Someplace near the shore, I expect. He'll sail again. He says he'll do whatever he can to see that I'm provided for."
Glancing sideways, Sweeney didn't miss the fascination in his daughter's eyes as the light struck the silver spines of the blades.
"But, Mr. Todd… I hoped perhaps you might come with us."
His hands froze, forgetting the razors, and he stared at her.
Stepping quickly closer, she reached out to cover his hand with hers. Both their palms together pressed over the open box of knives. "Anthony wouldn't refuse. He couldn't. I know it."
He frowned as he looked down at their hands and the silver peeking out from underneath their fingers. She was probably right; Anthony couldn't refuse. The boy was too tender for his own good. But there were things Todd knew he couldn't do, too.
Johanna's words came back to him. "It's good to be free." It was strange to think of. He struggled to think whether that – freedom - had been something he looked for even when escaped from Botany Bay. He hadn't found it. Now that he'd had his revenge, he could see that he had been a slave to it even before he stepped ashore in London. And now…?
From below, he thought he heard Mrs. Lovett calling for Toby.
His daughter edged nearer, and he looked up again. How had he ever forgotten that she had his eyes?
"I know, after so many years, we're as good as strangers…" Johanna wound her fingers nervously around his as she looked up to meet her father's eyes. "But it would be a shame to never know."
The barber stared at her, and nodded. It would. This is what he'd killed for. Wasn't it? All those years, he'd longed to have his family back.
"You'll come?"
There was only one possible answer. "Yes."
Johanna smiled, weak and faint, was genuine, he supposed. That was more than he could say for his own. Somehow, Mr. Todd felt like he ought to feel something stronger. Johanna squeezed his hands gently, and then let go. "Thank you, Mr. Todd."
For a moment they hesitated, and he thought perhaps they might have hugged again. But instead, his girl stepped away. Quietly she moved past him. He followed the sound of her footsteps toward the door, heard its tinkling bells as it opened. He looked up in time to see her still smiling at him as it closed.
Alone again, Sweeney frowned. He tried to picture himself there, in a sandy town by the sea. It looked too much like Botany Bay. He tried to force his mind to show him a scene that wasn't Australia, to show him himself and Johanna together, happy.
It couldn't.
But, as he dropped into his chair, he thought of Mrs. Lovett and the sea.
XXXXXXX
Whoo. This chapter was crazy hard to write! Please pardon me for dropping out of the universe for months at a time. It's a terrible habit, I know. But - I'm so excited - the main reason for delay is that I have been WRITING LIKE CRAZY! Please allow me to point out three bits of hopefully good news:
1. I really have been working on Kidney Pie all along, just in such a haphazard, scenes-all-over-the-place fashion that I've been unable to post till now. But, the entire rest of the story is already written, so there probably won't be any TOO unreasonable delays while I revise it.
2. I now have a blog. It's mostly about exploring the ways Jack the Ripper has been portrayed in books and movies, which may or may not interest you. But it's also a handy outlet for my sick sense of humor. So, if you enjoy Kidney Pie and think you may also enjoy Ripper-related cartoons, rhymes, holiday traditions gone gruesomely awry, and drinking songs about serial killers, it may be worth your while to check out my site, FWD: From Hell. That's at www dot fwdfromhell dot com. There's a link on my profile page. Or, actually, if you search for "Jack the Ripper Humor" on Google, it's one of the first few things that comes up. That's right, folks. My actual serious content is like the proverbial needle in the haystack in terms of search engine optimization, by when it comes to cracking jokes about gruesome murder, I'm the top of the class.
3. I'd toyed with the idea before of doing something serious with Kidney Pie, but, you know, it's fanfiction. I'd have to either redo it based on the original, out-of-copyright Sweeney Todd, or else make it a straight up Jack the Ripper story, and either one would so completely destroy the plot that it seemed pointless. Until about a year ago. I am now over 50,000 words into the new, publishable Kidney Pie, courtesy of NaNoWriMo, and will start on it again once I finish this version. I love my work and I can't wait to start again...Anyway, please excuse my yammerin' on. Thanks for reading, friends. Reviews make me laugh and grin until my coworkers start to hide their scissors...