Chapter Text
During all his years in Australia, and when he first came back to London, he could only think of Lucy and Joanna. The piercing cry of the baby, more panicked than usual in response to her mother’s desperate shrieking. “Benjamin, Benjamin, no—” as he was dragged away from the dock, sentenced to life. Her pale face, the child’s tiny hands grasping and shrieking. The feeling of helplessness and doom as he was dragged away from them. He had obsessed over it in his 15 years in Australia, polishing it in his memory. Lucy’s heartbroken face, little Johanna’s wails. It was horrible, but it was his last memory of them. He kept it, the last horrible moment they were together.
But ever since he killed Pirelli, ever since his epiphany — The vision was fading these days. The pain and sweetness alike were dulled and fading away. He couldn’t remember so well. What was she wearing? What had she said, as they dragged him away? Had she reached out for him so desperately, really?
15 years was a long time ago, and the days piled on like layers of ashes. The past was being smothered. Not just by the passing of time. The blurry ghosts of the past were no match for the flash of his silver razors, and the blood.
He was shaving another man, but his mind was elsewhere. Trying to remember. What had her face looked like, as he was dragged away? Had she screamed or merely watched? He could not be sure. He remembered the loathsome Turpin, banging his gavel. That was his focus. The ultimate aim.
He returned to the man.
“And what brings you to London, sir? Your accent is unfamiliar to me,” he asked the man in his chair. Wealthy fellow, dark wool frock, elegant waistcoat, the latest lambskin gloves. Another of the rich bleeders.
“I am traveling on business from Switzerland,” he said. “We have a deal to make with the famed Cunard Line shipping magnate.”
“Traveling for work can be so taxing,” Sweeney said, prodding. He had almost scraped away the last bit of suds. A tight shave. “One misses the comforts of home.”
“On the contrary,” said the man. Sweeney flicked away the last dot of suds from the man’s cheek, expertly wiped the razor on the towel. “I’m happy to leave that nagging wife of mine behind. All this talk talk talk, chirping away, never letting me get a moment’s —”
Sweeney’s razor jumped forward and bit deep into the man’s neck. The man’s simpering cut out immediately. Blood poured forth.
—-
Later that night, Todd trundled into the parlor after his shop was closed up and the floors were cleaned. Lovett was already there, sitting at her harmonium, hands on the keys and eyes staring blankly ahead. A streak of flour was still in her hair. She looked leaden and exhausted.
When he came in, she inhaled deeply and summoned a smile. “Ahh, Mr. T,” she said. “Look at you, can’t have had a much better day than me by the looks of you. In you pop, come have a nice sit on the sofa and I’ll put on a nice kettle of tea.”
“No need,” said Todd, but she was already up and bustling around. He was getting used to her, now, though, and he could see through her cheery demeanor. She was worn and exhausted, the constant patter was just her frantic way of hiding it.
“Nonsense, dearie, it’s like I always say, there’s nothing like a warm pot of Assam to lift the spirits and no doubt about it. Now won’t that be cozy. A nice pot of tea.”
He assented. There was no stopping Lovett, anyway, when she had her mind set to something.
A few minutes later, after she had fussed over him, poured him a cup and fretted about how many sugars he took, and had a reminiscence on her old Albert’s tea preferences (sweet enough to rot your tooth), she plopped down next to him on the settee.
“I’ve got the boy cleaning up in the shop,” Lovett said cheerily after half an instant of silence and a slurp of tea. “He’s a good lad. Don’t know how we did without him.”
“Mm.”
“Of course, I don’t know how I did without you either, dearie,” she continued, turning to him. “Oh, look at you, worn down by the day’s work. Poor dearie.”
Another moment passed, and she touched his shoulder. “Had a bad day, did you, love?” she said, soft, maternal.
She wanted more from him, he knew. He felt bad being so taciturn. He should be more forthcoming. She had done so much for him.
“No, no, not bad, no. Just. Another day of the work.” He gestured.
“I saw you sent another bundle of supplies down,” she said.
“Not the ones I really want.” He said. “Who knows if the damnable judge will ever return.”
She pursed her lips, tensing at the mention of the judge. He knew she resented the way it preoccupied him. But again, he felt helpless to give it up.
“Let’s talk about something nicer,” she announced. “I tell you what, Mr. T. This business - the bloody judge non-withstanding - ” she waved a dismissive hand at the specter of Turpin - “has been very good. And what nice treat to have a warm body in my parlor again.”
“And several in your cellar,” said Todd.
“What?”
“The bodies.”
“Ah. Well, they’ll be cold by now, won’t they?” She said, with a little chortle. He cracked a smile, ran a hand through his hair, and relaxed slightly back into the couch. Emboldened by his gesture of relaxation, she sighed happily and grabbed his hand, lacing her fingers through his. He stiffened. He was still unaccustomed to her friendly and easy manner. The kind touch of another human had been foreign to him for many years.
“A moment and I’ll get us some supper,” she said, patting his hand happily. “You’ll feel much better after a nice bowl of stew. None of the pie meat in it, I promise, just a nice mutton I got from the butcher the other day. Oh Mr. T, he was so hurt, thought I’d found another butcher because I hadn’t been around in so long.” She shrugged. “Well, I suppose I have found another one, haven’t I?” She gave him a coy glance.
“I started a barber and ended a butcher,” Todd mused.
“Finest of either in all of London,” Lovett said, and kissed him on the cheek. Her gaze lingered on his face, searchingly. “Now, come here, sweetheart,“ she said, and pulled him towards her.
Todd did as he was told.
Later that night, when he woke up next to her in bed, he momentarily thought the past 15 years had been a nightmare. The warm body beside him was Lucy, Joanna was just down the hall in her cradle. But no.
He felt a creeping guiltiness as he settled back into the facts of the case. He, Todd now, Sweeney Todd, not Barker, was a murderer, he was in bed with a woman who was not his wife, and besides, he couldn’t even find the one throat he really wanted to slit.
—-
The days and weeks went by, a grey procession livened up by Lovett’s twittering and fussing and punctuated by death. His mind picked unceasingly at the problem - how to get the judge? How to get Joanna? It seemed intractable, and yet he continued the work.
They were walking down the street, Lovett holding his arm and cheerfully prattling on. A young woman passed him, with long blonde hair, escorted by an older man. She had a gloomy aspect. Immediately, Sweeney thought of his Lucy.
He would believe himself completely numbed to the pain of the past, and then something would rip him open again. It seemed like there was an infinite supply of pain waiting in the putrid city of London. But each time he felt it less and less, he reminded himself. The work waited. The work was saving him. Saving them all from this putrid hell.
“Oy, Mr. T,” Lovett said, fluttering a hand in front of his face. “Where’d you get to? Got that faraway expression again. Come back now love, don’t want you throwing another fit of temper before errands are over.“
Nellie Lovett was a strange woman. Very different than his Lucy. Lucy had been reticent and modest, Nellie was garrulous and flashy. Lucy was steadfast and peaceful, Nellie was always in motion, always scheming or flirting or making a wicked little joke. His Lucy would not recognize him now, but she was long gone, chewed up and destroyed by the harsh world. But Nellie was too tough a morsel of gristle to be easily swallowed, even by the beastly streets of London.
“Alms,” begged a thin voice by the road. It was the old beggar woman who he had first seen on his arrival. Sweeney looked at her hunched body, her quivering upturned begging hand, her face concealed beneath her ragged bonnet, and felt another strange sensation, thought he could not say why.
“I don’t think so!” Lovett said hurriedly and gripped his arm tighter. She sighed. “Now, Mr Todd, let us be going.”
“I used to walk these streets with Lucy,” said Todd. He was not sure why, he knew that it upset her to hear him speak of his dead wife. “She liked it when I would get her something simple from the florist. Just a few posies.”
“Heavens, but you don’t let go of the past,” said Lovett. “But of course you did. It is a nice place to walk with a lady, if you don’t mind the beggars, the rats, the puddles, the noxious smoke - indeed, a very pleasant walk. Much nicer now that we have each other.” She patted his arm again. “Now, getting flowers for a lady. I wouldn’t mind if you did that for me, thank you very much.”
“Mm.” Once again, Todd let himself be buoyed along by Lovett's comforting patter of talk. He had grown to depend on her. The practical Nellie. He shook off the ghosts of the past once again and continued walking with her.