Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 20

20

Sweeney

T he idea certainly has legs. The apparatus is all here; a vast and hot oven, a basement bakehouse away from prying eyes, and the best ingredient of all, the impermeable veil of implausibility.

It’s too disgusting for most people to contemplate, even in this depraved city, and it’s that fact that will protect us from discovery.

“We do have a bit of an issue, as my friend Uriah pointed out,” I say. “Getting dead people into the grinder. The stairs are literally on the side of the building, open to the world, so that’s a bit of a fucker.”

Nellie looks rueful. “Agreed. And chopping them to pieces up here isn’t practical either.”

I spot a hole in the floorboards, a knot in the wood that’s fallen out, just at the boundary of the viscous blood puddle that’s presumably oozing deep into the slats.

Kneeling down, I close one eye and peer through the gap with the other.

“What am I looking at here?”

“It’s the storeroom floor. Trap to the bakehouse is right there.”

I stand and give the floor a kick with my heel. “Right. This chair is already a bit shagged, so all I need to do is over-loosen the ratchet, and it’ll tip all the way back.”

“Certainly will.” Nellie puts her hands on her hips. “You almost gave me a fucking concussion just now.”

I smile. “I didn’t, though, did I? And honestly, treacle—who the fuck would notice?”

“Oh, you’re in fine fettle now,” she scolds, a mischievous grin breaking out over her face. “A kill and a fuck got you all mellowed out. So what are you getting at exactly?”

“I’ll cut out a space, whack a slow hinge into it to make the door into a chute, and I can dump the stock straight down into the bakehouse. You must just remember to leave the trap open down there, too. And obviously, keep the fucking storeroom door locked.”

Nellie raises her eyebrows and nods. “Elegant. Can you do things like that?”

“I was in the colonies for over a decade, my pet. I learned a few things out there, including a bit of engineering and whatnot. I’ll get it done before I go out tonight.”

Nellie’s face drops, her full lips pouting. “Not we ?”

“I said no already, Nellie. I’m afraid you’re not going to get around me so easily. Besides, don’t you need to work out the logistics of this enterprise of yours?”

Covered in blood and rage, Nellie looks bizarrely mundane, like a nagging wife. I decide to throw her a bone.

“Treacle,” I soothe, reaching for her. “You needn’t worry. I will go along, play my part, and discover what I need to know. Your possessive harpy routine does it for me, but there’s neither need nor place for your theatrics tonight.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “Understand?”

“Fine.” She turns away. “You’ll need a mask if you’re to sneak back into the party and a change of clothes, too. I have some decent stuff left over from when Harry was thinner. At least one reasonable tail-coat.”

“I’ll go out to the pawn shop,” I say. “The thesps are always hocking their costume crap. I swear there was something in the window when I walked past the other day.”

“So I guess I’ll clean.” Nellie looks around. “I have a good saw downstairs, but as for the rest, I don’t know. Where will you get the stuff to make this magical dead-idiot-fairground-ride contraption on which you’ve set your heart?”

I shrug. “I’ll figure it out. There’s the ironmongers, scrapyard, you name it. And I’ve got all day.”

“Indeed you have.” She pulls a towel over her head like a shawl. “I’m going to dash for it, Mr. T, and fill the tin bath in front of the oven. I suggest you wash up before you head out, too; even the least observant plod out there will have a few questions for you otherwise.”

It does indeed take all day. I get the supplies I need but pay too much for them, leaving me with scant surplus to hire a carriage, but the work must take precedence.

I spent the day sawing and fixing, screwing things in, testing the tension, calibrating the wheel that lowers the trap at seventy degrees, the perfect angle to drop into the void of the bakehouse below. To my astonishment, it works perfectly and with nary a creak.

Despite my assertions to Nellie, I had not been confident in this job, so I’m puffed up with pride when I’m done.

I lie on my stomach and look straight into the open maw of the bakehouse. Nellie crosses the gap every few seconds, flickering through the postage-stamp-shaped field of my vision like a moving image in a zoetrope.

Time to give her a demo.

My poor treacle did what she could with the clean-up, and between us, we rolled Uriah in some old linens. He’s been lying in the corner all day like some Egyptian mummy.

I pick him up by his heels and drag him, releasing a hiss of air and a sick, over-sweet aroma. He slides quickly enough, despite his weight, and it’s no great effort to heave him into the chair.

The trap lever is a simple mechanism that looks like part of the chair. All I have to do is pull it, and the door opens at the correct angle.

A stomp on the overly loose ratchet sends the chair backward and dispatches my unfortunate customer through the gap into the bakehouse to dash his useless brains out on the stone floor.

Easy .

Nellie is humming again, and I smile to myself. I’d love to catch her off guard, but if he lands on her from this height, he might kill her.

“Watch the skies, Mrs. L!” I cry as I release the chair. Uriah’s swagged body embarks on its maiden flight, sliding smooth as butter down the chute, perfectly on course.

“What the—argh!” A horrendous crunch, followed by a groan, then Nellie’s disembodied voice from below. “You ghoul. Some warning!”

“I think he’s probably alright for consumption,” I call. “A bit over-ripe, but whack some coriander in there, and he’ll be grand.”

She appears in the bowels of the shop, her face cast in orange from the fire as she gazes up at me. “You promised me ingredients, so I won’t complain, but you must be careful what you drop on me.”

I come down to Nellie’s chamber to find her laying out a coat.

“It’s not bad, this,” she says, smoothing out the fabric. “Brocade silver in the vest. Black trousers here, and if we give your shoes a quick buff, you’ll be set.”

She’s too brisk and chipper for my liking. She’s been at work all day, cleaning upstairs, then dumping out all the contaminated utensils and scraping crusts from the mincing machine.

Pail upon pail of water, her hair in a mob cap, sweat beading on her brow. Admirable to see her with such purpose, but there’s a feverish hysteria to it like she must keep moving or die.

“So I see you got a mask.” She picks it up from the dresser. “It’s very you .”

I have to agree. I expect it’s meant to be some mythical creature, like Pan; the curly horns give it away.

But it’s fucking sinister and decadent and only covers half my face, so I’ll be able to whisper my honeyed words into the ears of rich sluts with no papier-maché to impede my powers.

Nellie watches as I make a bundle, putting the good clothes and the mask out of sight in the center. As I change into clean but plain barber’s garb, I catch her staring at my naked chest, her jaw slack.

“Unseemly.” I wag a finger at her. “Don’t be such a thirsty whore, Nellie. Tend to yourself if you must, but I’m late.”

She walks over to me and flips my collar, fussing it between her fingertips. Then she reaches below her skirt.

“What did I say? I have no time for?—”

She wipes her damp fingertips over my neck on each side, like she’s applying cologne. I smell of her and me, my come and hers mingled, spicy and wild.

“You think I should go to a party stinking of your sex?” I ask as she kisses my cheek. “That’s nasty , pet. I like it.”

She bites my lower lip. “Yes, I do. Now, have a good evening, and fucking behave yourself.”

I pick up my flat cap and doff it at her. “On my honor.”

She rolls her eyes. “On your what ? Forget it. Go.”

It’s not as easy as it seems to hire a carriage, especially on the Beadle’s tight-fisted allocation.

I duck into the tavern and ask around, settling for a horse and cart to drive myself. The owner doesn’t mind what time I’m back as long as I tie the nag up when I’m done.

The fog is freezing on my cheeks as I ride. The Regent isn’t far, and I should be right on time. The horse’s hooves are too loud, ringing off the cobbles as I pass beneath the lamps.

If I can hold my tongue and my temper until the humiliating bit is over, I might get around to enjoying this.

Nellie told me all about The Regent’s Ball, and I liked what I heard. The notion of rubbing shoulders, and maybe other things, with the elite? A man like me, with no business getting so close?

I shiver, but it’s not the cold. To warps like mine, infiltrating a space and sullying it with my presence brings with it a sensation of arousal, and I enjoy the flush of heat that pulls up from my abdomen like a sickness, pebbling my skin with gooseflesh.

Johanna will be found in ashes or in glorious life. I don’t dare to hope she’s happy; I just need to know .

If she’s miserable, I could save her, like I tried to save her mother. I only wanted to free Veronica from the wretched life she knew, to take her away from her beast of a husband and see to it she knew no more pain.

But it all went wrong, and my child was lost to me, lost to this steel-colored hellscape through which humanity skips and plays, oblivious to the grinding pointlessness of it all. Each of us is on the make, the take, the grift.

I told Nellie to get her damn business in order, and she set to it. That’s her occupied for the evening, behind her ‘closed’ sign, reducing Uriah to a heap of potential profits. The wet stuff, for under the pastry, turning useless eaters into useful eatings.

I want to love her, I just don’t know how. But I admire her truly and deeply, and I’ll tell her so when I return.

The concierge at The Regent doesn’t attempt to hide his disdain.

“Mr. Todd. I see.” He gestures with a claw-like hand for me to follow. “This way.”

He accompanies me in the elevator but stands as far away as possible, keeping his eyes straight ahead. In my long sleeves and with neatly-brushed hair, I look normal, if a little poor, but he’s being a rude cunt for no reason.

Am I or am I not the special guest of Beadle Higgins, the founder of the fucking feast?

We leave the elevator on the fourth floor, and he marches me to wooden double doors, tinkling laughter and chamber music meandering to my ears from inside. He’s barely got it open before the Beadle descends upon me, pungent with gin and, to my disgust, ambergris.

“Mr. Todd, my dear fellow!” He claps me on the back and leads me into the fray, leaving the hapless concierge in the doorway. “Come and meet my friends.”

I spot the back of a shiny jacket with a bald spot above it that’s just as reflective in the low lamplight. The woman beside him turns aside, giving me her aristocratic profile—upturned nose, broad forehead, curls cresting her full cheeks.

Her mouth is too generous, her laugh too self-conscious, and, as it catches my eye, I realize her bosom is positively scandalous for the company.

Her husband’s laugh is horribly familiar, but it’s too late. He swivels on his heel at the sound of the Beadle’s voice, and as he clocks me, the ruddy-cheeked joviality in his face drains as fast and as surely as if I’d slit his jugular.

“Lord Wetherby!” the Beadle says, beaming. “And Lady Beatrix Wetherby. May I introduce Mr. Sweeney Todd, tonsorial wizard of Fleet Street?”

I glance from His Lordship to his wife and back again, seeing the quickening in the good lady’s tender throat.

She's too fast and easy to give away what she likes, and she sure as Hell likes me; her heaving breasts give a lurch as I seize her with my eyes.

That’s it, you slut. You’re my play .