Author's Note: The fifth installment, in which Anthony tries to save Lucy and has trouble dealing with Freudian as well as Jungian issues. This turned out way more violent and upsetting than I expected. The title comes from the Patsy Cline song of the same name. "I walk for miles/Along the highway/Well, that's just my way/Of saying, 'I love you,'" reminds me of Lucy and, to a lesser extent, Anthony.

Disclaimer: Don't own Sweeney Todd or "Fennario."

Warnings: So. Many. Warnings. I thought I'd gotten past the worst stuff, but...no. We've got sexual harassment, attempted rape, prostitution, general violence, mental illness, borderline suicidal thoughts, tasteless jokes about incest, very improper gun use, mentions of a child dying (although the child in question is Johanna, so she's actually very much alive), and mild language. Oh, and drunkenness, I suppose.

Chapter Five: Walking after Midnight

To tell the truth, Anthony's not exactly sure why he's loitering outside a gaming hell at one o'clock in the morning. He doubts that the judge would punish Johanna by making her deal cards in a den of iniquity—there must be no end of vile youth in there—and he's hardly a gambling man. His mother raised him to regard games of chance as a sin, right between hard liquor and fornication in the hierarchy of Thou Shalt Not. Besides, he's not much good at it. He only has middling luck and everything shows on his face.

It's Beadle Bamford's fault, really. Anthony's been trailing him for weeks now, hoping it'll lead him to Johanna, but all he's seen so far are the worst taverns, hells, and whorehouses in London. Of course, he knows better than to throw the first stone—he's neither a teetotaler nor a virgin, after all—but the beadle seems to do nothing but wallow in vice. He's convinced that, were somebody to make and distribute an illustrated pamphlet of the beadle's nightly activities, the whole kingdom would turn to virtue out of sheer disgust.

This hell isn't the worst place he's seen, but the group of gentlemen currently stumbling out of the doors make him wary. There are six of them, all wearing top hats, wide cravats, and tight trousers with checks or stripes. Their jackets are unbuttoned, displaying waistcoats of scarlet, gold, vermillion, rose, bottle green, or sky blue. In the half-light, their tall boots shine like mirrors. They're obviously drunk, falling all over each other as they walk, and there's an edge to their loud, raucous laughter. Anthony guesses they're just ordinary gentlemen on a spree, but he thinks they might do something nasty tonight. He dodges behind one of the garish painted columns in front of the establishment and waits for them to pass.

They're talking about a woman who will take four men at once. Anthony's not so naïve that he hasn't heard of a woman taking two at once. He can even imagine three, although it doesn't sound very comfortable. But four…well, he thinks that people would run out of places to put things at some point. He's half trying to figure out the logistics and half trying to put the whole thing from his mind when he hears a familiar voice.

"How would you like a little muff, sirs?" the beggar woman shrieks. He winces. They run into each other sometimes, far more often than two strangers in such a big city should, and she always strikes him as the most pitiful person he's ever seen. God loves all His creatures, but He has a funny way of showing it to this poor woman. "A little jig-jig?" she pleads. Her ravaged voice falters. "A little bounce around the bush?"

Anthony peeks from behind the column. She's standing before the drunk gentlemen, lifting her skirts to expose her scabby, unwashed calves. She's not even wearing stockings, just an old pair of men's boots. Her bonnet, as usual, droops over her eyes. A great wave of pity and revulsion washes over him, turning his stomach.

Why doesn't somebody help her? he wonders. Why didn't somebody help her, before it came to this?

"Oh, I doubt it'd be a little muff, mum," quips the gentleman in the gold waistcoat. "Not with how long you've been plying your trade."

His companions howl with laughter. She just stands there with her tattered skirts suspended above her knees, looking as though she doesn't understand at all. Maybe she can't, but Anthony understands plenty. The old wave is replaced by one of pure rage. He clenches his fists—when the sun rises, there will still be crescent-moon marks on his palms—and he sees everything through a red haze. Because they're gentlemen and she's an insane, wretched prostitute, they think they can say anything to her, do anything to her, and that doesn't shock Anthony at all. Really, it doesn't. He's not what the judge says he is, but neither is he blind to the ways of the world. It's the pointlessness of their cruelty that gets to him. They clearly don't want to sleep with her and there can't be much fun in mocking somebody so wretched, so why won't they just leave her alone?

"Tell you what," the gold gentleman says. His voice drips with false sweetness. "I'll give you a farthing if you come behind the building with us. How does that sound?"

"Thruppence," she insists. The gentlemen just snicker.

"London may be expensive, sweeting," says the gold gentleman, who must be their spokesman, "but I doubt prices have gone up that much. It's a farthing or nothing."

"Tuppence," she says, but they're not interested in bargaining. The gentleman in the sky blue waistcoat grabs her arm and, with a sick certainty, Anthony sees that she won't even get a farthing out of this. Worse, they'll hurt her, all six of them. They'll leave her torn and bleeding behind this building. Maybe they'll end up killing her.

Before he quite knows what he's doing, he's picked up a discarded liquor bottle and smashed the end against the column. He jumps from behind the column, brandishing the bottle.

"Leave her alone!" he shouts. The gentlemen turn and stare at him. A couple of them seem a little uneasy, but the rest of them, the gold gentleman included, look unimpressed and a little amused. It occurs to Anthony that there are six of them and just one of him. He also realizes that they might be armed. Perhaps a few of them even have guns.

And you've never really used a weapon on anyone, he tells himself. Waved a broken bottle at Barton that one time, but the worst you've actually done is vomit on Harris's boots. You, Anthony George Hope, are the stupidest person who has ever lived.

Still, he forces himself to continue. He does not lower his voice or soften his tone. Maybe these men will murder him for that, but he'll definitely want to kill himself if he backs down now.

"She doesn't know what she's doing," he says. "Let go of her."

"Oh?" asks the gold gentleman, raising one thin eyebrow. "And how does this concern you?"

"Can't you see, Edwards?" asks the man in the scarlet waistcoat, grinning at Anthony. "We've insulted his mama."

They all burst into gales of laughter. Anthony's annoyed—drunk people who find themselves inordinately amusing are the worst—but not really offended. All he can think is that the beggar woman must be about his mother's age. His mother, who decorates her home in Plymouth with sad paper doilies, who knits him more scarves than he'll ever be able to wear, who has no idea what goes on at sea because he can't bear to tell her half of it. What happened to this poor woman to make her so different? How many people had to hurt and fail her before she ended up like this?

The sky blue man's laughing so hard, tears are streaming from his eyes. This allows the beggar woman to break away from him. Her vacant, strangely sweet eyes light on Anthony.

"Sailor boy," she says. Her cracked lips curve into a smile and she stumbles towards him. He resists an impulse to back away. The thought of her dry, dirt-caked hand on his arm gives him an odd, prickly feeling, like he doesn't want to be in his own skin anymore. It's not fair, he knows. She deserves his pity, not his disgust, and it's not as though misfortune is catching. Besides, he can't help her if he runs from her. So, he makes himself stand still when she grabs his jacket sleeve. "I remember you, sir," she says. "Got another penny for me?"

That gets the gentlemen's attention.

"Oh, so that's how it is," the gold gentleman—Edwards—says. "Well, it's a commendable thing for a young man to love his mama…although it's going a bit far for him to love his mama. And, really, my boy, she shouldn't charge you so much. You're family, after all."

More laughter. Anthony knows that Edwards is being deliberately outrageous. Nobody here actually thinks this woman is his mother, or that he has an…incestuous thing with her. Still, he feels wrong just listening to these people. He wants to be in his rented room, alone and tucked away from all of this.

"Well, alright," he says. It doesn't really mean anything, but he has to start with something. He raises the bottle a little higher and puts his free arm around the beggar woman's shoulders. "That's fine, but we're leaving."

"Like hell you are," Edwards snaps. The laughter is gone from his eyes. He strolls right up to Anthony and the beggar woman. "I believe we engaged the lady before you did, Mister…what's your name?"

He asks pleasantly enough, but one hand pulls back his jacket to reveal a pistol hanging off his belt. He takes hold of the weapon and, still smiling, uses the barrel to stroke the beggar woman's thigh. Anthony doesn't want this man to know his name, but he can hardly refuse and he doesn't have the presence of mind to come up with a false one.

"Anthony Hope," he replies. Edwards grins even more broadly, but that's expected. Men like that love Anthony's surname.

"Penny first," murmurs the beggar woman. She doesn't seem to notice the gun at all. Thank God for small favors.

"What a strange economy London has," Edwards remarks. His eyes shine with mirth. He moves the gun from the beggar woman's thigh to Anthony's. He can feel the cold metal through the material of his trousers as Edwards runs it up and down his leg, from his crotch to his knee and back again. "This diseased old whore costs thruppence, yet Hope costs nothing."

The other gentlemen—the other bastards—titter at the pun. Is it a pun? Anthony doesn't know. He wonders if they can see the gun from where they're standing. It bothers him that he doesn't know exactly what they're laughing at. He also prays he can keep from pissing himself. He has room for no other thoughts because, good Lord, it has never been this bad. He is going to die here, in front of this gaming hell. What will his mother think? What will happen to Johanna?

"What do you want?" he asks. His voice comes out dull and quiet. Thank God for that, too. "I don't care. Just don't shoot her, or me."

Before Edwards can reply, the beggar woman lets out a high, earsplitting screech. It sounds the way lightning looks, like it could bisect the sky. Then she breaks into a run, still clutching Anthony's arm. He has to run, too, to keep them both from falling to the ground. He barely has time to glance back at the gentlemen. Edwards is gaping at them, but the rest are laughing again.

They are laughing at Edwards, he tells himself, because he has to believe that if he wants to live with himself. And maybe that's not fair, either, but it's the way he feels.

They end up in Fleet Street, outside of Mrs. Lovett's pie shop. Anthony doesn't remember making a conscious decision to come here. It's near his room in Bell Yard, but it's closed for the night. There's no chance he could buy a meat pie or even visit the occupants at this hour. Not that he's inclined to see them, anyway. Mr. Todd was always reserved, but now he acts more like a pale ghost than a human being. As for Mrs. Lovett, Anthony's never trusted her, although he can't quite explain why. He feels bad about it—she takes such good care of Mr. Todd and Toby—so he tries to ignore it. Still, he'd never go to her with anything important. Anyway, she seems to have an irrational hatred of the beggar woman. Maybe the beggar woman led him here. She always seems to be hanging about the shop, after all.

By the time they get there, they're no longer running, but she's still clinging to his arm. He doesn't mind her touch anymore; it saved him and, besides, it beats the hell out of a gun barrel. Together, they collapse onto one of the picnic benches.

"I could've died," he says, once he has his breath back. The words sound stark and cold in the night air. He wishes he hadn't said them, but he keeps talking. "I could want to be dead right now. You saved me."

The beggar woman shakes her head. He thinks she's being lucid, as well as charmingly modest, but then she starts singing, almost under her breath, and he realizes that her mind is somewhere else entirely.

"What will your mama think, what will your mama think, what will your mama think, pretty Peggy-O?" she chants, swinging her legs like a little girl. "What will your mama think, when she hears the guineas clink, and my soldiers all marching before you, oh?"

Then she falls silent. After a while, he turns to her.

"Promise me you won't go near men like them again," he says. She blinks at him like he's speaking Chinese. In the ruins of her face, he sees that she must have been pretty. "They could have hurt you very badly. They could have killed you."

"Could've hurt sailor boy," she mutters. "What will your mama think? Mama worries about you, you know."

"I know," he says heavily. He doesn't know where she is in time or space, whether she's talking about his mother or her mother or herself or Pretty Peggy-O's mother down in Fennario, but it doesn't matter. He's still thinking of the letters his mother sends, full of worry and Bible verses and love. He loves her, too, but it's easier not to live with her.

"I lost my baby," the beggar woman says. Her tone, simple and matter-of-fact, somehow makes the words even sadder than they are inherently. "I worry about her. I don't know where she is."

"I'm so sorry," he tells her. She's with the Lord now, his mother would say, but he senses that the words would be inappropriate, even obscene at this moment. Instead, he says, "You'll see her again someday."

And he means every word. He can't believe in a God who wouldn't reunite this woman with her child, no matter what she's been or done.

"Will you look for her?" she asks. He wonders how he can even answer that until she says, "Please, keep looking for Johanna. I know you love her, too."

"Of course," he says fervently, because that's something he can do, something he wants to do. "I'll keep looking for Johanna. Don't worry."

Author's Note: Sorry, Anthony. Also, a gaming hell sounds worse than it is; it's just a casino, basically.