~St Dunstan's~
"Before this," Nellie said to the ascending shadow on the foot of the stairs, "you told me we'd go someplace togetha."
This was foolishness, of course, she reminded herself. The sort of foolishness that had flipped Lucy Barker's brain. Yet the Judge was playing no games this moment. He had offered her freedom, plain and simple. There were no strings. Might she see where her fancy led her? Down the garden path and six foot deep under the earth, reminded the voice in her that still remembered all the nights she'd lingered in agony of bandaged oblivion, trapped in Judge Turpin's house.
But what if? The sense of his hand briefly lingering on her arm rose up then, as if the ghostly memory lingered unseen over her shivering hand. The darkness could cast magic and all strange romances, but this was daylight, and she had no reason to dress up any deed done by Septimus. He had done the most horrible things - but then so had she."Wos it true?"
"It was." The shadow paused mid step. "Where would you have me take you?"
The Sea, was near leaping from her lips. "The market," she said quickly, hoping it would qualify for a normal womanly activity. "I 'aven't 'ad a chance to admire them goose-feathered 'ats in months." She cocked her head slightly, wondering if he had bought the bait.
He came down to the foot of the stairs, downward eyes trailing over the nape of her neck as he travelled. "As you wish, my dear."
*~*~*
If Judge Turpin had moved a centimetre to his left at a quarter to eleven on a sunny Friday afternoon in St Dunstan's square, he would now be lying on a cold slab in a London morgue somewhere, instead of wandering around jovially with his hand curled around Nellie's arm, cracking smiles.
Sweeney Todd was bracing himself to fire. Take aim and cut short the agony of revenge. True predators do not wait to slay their pray, he realised. He should have put aside his razors many months ago, and slaughtered the Judge while walking down the street. He loved no living human being - what had he to lose?
Steam rose from the drains at his feet. Rotten meat splayed in thick stools of congealed mud. He imagined the ground was heavy and putrefied with the stench of month-old carcasses. And yet a few metres away, there it stood. He lifted the pistol in a brief requiem to his soiled past. There, the yellow glow of the old flower shop where he had first discovered the true beauty of love and equally, the depth of evil residing in the human heart. That day, Sweeney knew that every man craved for the flesh of another man pinned to the wall - if given the chance. And he had been supplied with ample chance.
"Back to work," he ordered himself, raising the barrel of the pistol up to his line of sight. A blur of cherry red dazzled his view - he lost sight of the Judge's greying head. A woman. She.
Dressed in the colour of blood - a gown that was no weekend dress for shopping. It raged of the fingered grasp of wealthy men, with white lace gloves and a cherry hat to top off the coiffured rings of hair. He'd hated such women for a long time - such women who succumbed when they should have been content to sit smoky-faced and bleary eyed by some weary cottage fire, kept warm by their husband's gaze and the grim crackle of fire. It had been enough for Mrs Lovett - no other woman would skin and shred and slaughter for love - but now?
Gone over to the other side. Dancing with enemy fire. He removed the pistol for the second time that morning, just to take in the exotic creature flapping her wings about the market square. Mrs Lovett.
Transformed Mrs Lovett. In the old days, in fact, all his days, he had seen her only as the spectre-woman, bringing up his slabs of stale bread, sloppy soup and luke-warm tea cups with the enthusiasm of a starving circus clown, her gaunt cheeks puckered and eyes brimming with the possibilities of love died and won. For he, the brute killer of Fleet Street, had won this woman's heart, and she would perform countless tricks to turn the faded bristles of his lips into smiles.
And still, the barber had not smiled, yet somehow - "can't kill her," he muttered to himself, deepening the creases with another frown. She had betrayed him again. But he would not kill her. Just the demon dressed in lamb skins, nodding courteously to all the farming lasses holding up duck eggs and plucked chickens and shallot bundles - no doubt he'd slept with all of them.
Through the barrel of the gun Sweeney had his vision reborn. A plain little cottage, shoal-floored and thatch-roofed, on the edge of a cliff or on the outskirts of some grey-stained colliery somewhere in the bitter cold of England. He would tame her there. He saw her quiet and intense wide-eyed, no spoken thoughts at all. She was cooking over a battling hearth, and the ends of her skirts were burnt. Both their hands were coated in coal. She never asked him to smile. It was a poor vision by any man's standards - but treasure to the poorest of women. The woman in his dream-world, his getaway from London, was no longer Lucy. It was a dark angel - the only type of softness allowed in Sweeney's world.
And, he realised, he could mend it all.
He loved her - as dead men going to the gallows keep their deepest secrets close to their chests, even as the noose is swinging ready, high, before their eyes. He loved her - and this goat would not have any more of his brides.
"Fire!"
Heads turned and bodies threw themselves to the floor, behind barrels and under stalls. A madman had been unleashed on St Dunstan's. Shouts echoed across the square as the slowest stragglers skirted around loose chickens and broken fruit. Judge Turpin was one of those stragglers.
"This way, quick!" Nellie was dragging the Judge back through the shattered stalls toward his home - but the man was pulled toward his enemy, as if they were magnets destined to meet at this exact point in London.
Sweeney stepped forward, hands raised open, crucifix fashion. "Not yet a success," he said, at last with a smile, raising his pistol in clear aim of his nemesis.
"It's blank," said the Judge, unsmiling, his arm blocking Nellie from stepping forward.
"Let's tempt fate," Sweeney suggested, charging the second shot.
~*~*~*~*~
A/N: Whoopee, I'm on my one-week uni break!!!
linalove: Here it is, sooner than later, I hope! =D
AngelofDarknes1605: Wow, I've turned you into a Turplovett supporter! Woot! I'm guessing you're busy studying for your test right now, so *fingers crossed for you*, as always. Good luck!
MireiLovett1846: OMH I love your random Beatle references (or not so random in the Judge's case!) Ah, I don't think I remember the subliminal message you sent me? What was it? ;) And yes Mirei, you are always verbose. But that's why you're awesome (one of the reasons anyway =D)
StrawberryStoleYourCookie: Thanks for your encouragement! I'm glad you're still sticking by Nellie, even if she's gone battier than normal =)
Shadow: He he, I feel your pain Shadow, but you know cliffies are a girl's bread and butter, well, apart from certain barbers =D I too think Judge T really deserves it. ;)
the-sadisticalovett-nutcase: Sorry sorry sorry it took me so long to update. I feel like I've been separated from fanfiction for a LIFETIME.
MisssElphaba: Yeah, but poor Mrs Lovett still thinks Sweeney butchered the ole beggar woman. Although why she would be upset about that....=D
obsessivelyfanaticqw09: Two days late with the update since you caught up to it! I hope you and MisssElphaba will keep the pointy objects hidden!