The Tolling Bells
The Tolling Bells
A Sweeney Todd Fanfiction
The London fog rolled in early that evening, thick and heavy, settling over city and harbour alike, a death-shroud that seemed to suggest that the very weather itself understood the gravity of the incidents of this very night. In the distance, a clock struck ten, its sonorous tones blunted and deadened in the oppressive fog. Few souls remained awake at this hour, and of those who had not yet retired to their beds, only a few knew of the tragedy that had struck but a few hours before.
Down along Fleet Street, a thick, oily black smoke billowed up from a solitary chimney; mingling and entwining with the fog, it traced an intricate pattern in the starless, moonless sky. The lamplighters had been along this way some hours previous, but despite the light, some pall or shadow seemed to hang over the street, blotting out what little light remained.
In the morning, the headlines of the papers would proclaim that murder had been done, and a shocked and outraged public would mourn the loss of their finest Judge and his Beadle. Of the barber, the baker, and the beggar, there would be little mention, save for speculations as to the barber's motives for so ghastly a crime, first killing the Judge and the Beadle, and the beggar, and the baker, and finally himself.
Of the boy there would be not a word, not a hint that it had been he who had slain the demon of Fleet Street, for of the boy there was no trace, no clue left behind that he had ever been there at all.
The Judge and the Beadle would have fine burials, both interred in the choicest and most expensive plots in the cemetery, as befit their status. The beggar and the barber would be carted off to the paupers' graveyard and thrown into unmarked graves; the baker's ashes would be swept from the oven and buried next to the body of her husband.
Rumour would run through the streets of London, flying from ear to ear. What reason, it would be wondered, had the barber for such atrocities? There was no doubt that it had been he who had committed these ghastly crimes, for the wounds upon the victims' throats could have been made by one instrument only -- those fine razors, with their handles chased in silver. They were to be thrown into the grave with the barber, for no one wished to buy blades with so bloody a history.
On the day of the burial, it was discovered that one of the fine razors had gone missing. Perhaps some thief had pocketed it - well, let him keep it, for it mattered not.
---
The clock struck midnight. Twelve long and ponderous strokes the bell tolled, and with the last tolling of the bell, the fog around the harbour began to lift - only a little at first, so as not to be noticeable except to the keenest of eyes. A light, barely perceptible in the gloom, emanated from a tavern upon the wharf. The establishment was a favourite amongst sailors who had just returned from a long voyage out at sea, for the drink was plentiful and the food, though simple and modest fare, was pleasantly free of maggots and beetles.
In a dark corner of the tavern, sitting as far away from the fire as possible, two young sailors lurked in the cover of the shadows. Both were dressed in simple clothes, although one wore a cap and the other did not, and they both of them glanced from time to time at the door, as if they expected at any moment some unforeseen enemy to come bursting in upon them. Both were young lads, neither of them with a whisker upon his cheeks, and yet while one seemed full of youthful energy and good cheer, the other seemed aged far beyond his years, despite his delicate face and innocent features.
The first of the two companions drank freely and gladly from the mug that had been placed before him, and he spoke openly to his fellows when they chanced to pass his way. The second had not anything to drink at all, and he was as tight-lipped as his companion was vocal. Presently they retired to their rooms above the tavern, and the first, drowsy with drink, slept soundly, while the second slept not a wink but stayed watchful all night.
---
The bell in the clock tolled twice. The fog over the harbour lifted yet again, as imperceptibly as before. In her tiny and cramped room above the tavern, Johanna Barker sat on a dusty and mouldy pallet of straw, and contemplated her future.
Had it truly only been a few hours before that she had stared into the very face of Death himself? Had Judge Turpin really and truly been killed, in the very room in which she had been hiding? She hardly dared believe her good fortune, for she was free of him, free at last from his grasp, and yet it seemed to her that in the oppressive air of this room she felt his presence looming over her, watching her, as if his shade, angered at having lost so precious a jewel, was determined to cling to her as long as he was able.
Shuddering, the girl stood and made her way to the only window in the room, a tiny fixture coated thickly in layers of dust and grime. She threw open the latch, leaned out to catch a breath of fresh air. Her trouser legs brushed the wall, and an unfamiliar weight in her pocket gave her pause. Questioning fingers slipped down, withdrew a treasure unexpected and unwanted, for in her palm lay a razor, its handle chased in silver. For a brief, wild moment, the girl considered flinging the thing away, but she stayed her hand, for Turpin's presence seemed to lessen at the sight of the blade.
But how had it come into her possession? In her fright and her haste in securing herself within her hiding-spot, she must have forgotten to replace it within its box! Unthinking, she must have slipped it into her pocket as she slipped into the chest. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, for surely the madman who had held so similar a knife to her throat would discover his treasure missing, and seek the thief that had stolen it.
How fortunate for her, then, that on the morrow she and her companion, the young sailor Anthony Hope, would be gone from this wretched place, on a voyage across the vast Atlantic, to escape to the distant shores of America. Of Johanna Barker there would be no trace, for she was to remain disguised upon their voyage. Johanna Barker would be lost, and no one would suspect that the young Joseph Hope, brother to Anthony, had anything to do with the girl's disappearance.
The razor, then, was perhaps a Godsend, a blessing unforeseen. That she should have accidentally kept it, was perhaps, nothing short of a miracle. Removing her cap, the girl let her golden curls spill loose and tumble down her back, and at once she set about cutting them. When she had finished, her hair was shaggy and straggled, cut close to her shoulders, and the severed strands lay in a pile about her feet. These she bundled up and hid under the straw pallet; it would be a long time indeed before the hair would be discovered, if the state of the room were anything by which to judge. The razor she wiped carefully before replacing to her pocket; it would be the only reminder she would have of home once she was gone.
---
Four times the bell tolled; the candle in her room had burned itself down to a mere stub. She had shut the window and sat now with her back to the wall, facing the door, for she fancied that she had heard footsteps along the passage outside. The razor lay open in her lap, the handle resting gently in her hand. She marvelled at the power so simple a blade could bestow - this sole razor had become her sole protector in a matter of a few short hours. And why not? Its brother had slain the man she so desired to be rid of, it had perfected the last of her disguise.
The handle had been cool at first, but now, as she sat with eyes half-closed in weariness, it seemed that the handle began to grow warm. Such a comfort it was, to hold it close, to lift it and watch the guttering light of the candle dance across its surface. Was it her imagination, or did the blade seem to whisper to her, soft and seductive? She raised the blade, angling it this way and that, entranced by her reflection. For a moment, as she held the blade toward the candlelight, it seemed almost to flash red, a deep crimson, the colour of blood.
Startled, she dropped the razor; it landed on the pallet without a sound, and she became aware of a stinging pain on her finger. The blade had nicked her as it fell. The cut was not deep, although it beaded quickly with blood. Hastily she stuck her finger in her mouth, but upon tasting the sharp metallic flavour of blood, she withdrew it, but the taste remained. From its resting-place upon the floor, the razor shone in the light of candle, and Johanna could see along its edge a spot of blood that had already started to dry.
In the distance, the bells began to toll yet again, and yet the girl could not have said how many strokes there were.
A Sweeney Todd Fanfiction
The London fog rolled in early that evening, thick and heavy, settling over city and harbour alike, a death-shroud that seemed to suggest that the very weather itself understood the gravity of the incidents of this very night. In the distance, a clock struck ten, its sonorous tones blunted and deadened in the oppressive fog. Few souls remained awake at this hour, and of those who had not yet retired to their beds, only a few knew of the tragedy that had struck but a few hours before.
Down along Fleet Street, a thick, oily black smoke billowed up from a solitary chimney; mingling and entwining with the fog, it traced an intricate pattern in the starless, moonless sky. The lamplighters had been along this way some hours previous, but despite the light, some pall or shadow seemed to hang over the street, blotting out what little light remained.
In the morning, the headlines of the papers would proclaim that murder had been done, and a shocked and outraged public would mourn the loss of their finest Judge and his Beadle. Of the barber, the baker, and the beggar, there would be little mention, save for speculations as to the barber's motives for so ghastly a crime, first killing the Judge and the Beadle, and the beggar, and the baker, and finally himself.
Of the boy there would be not a word, not a hint that it had been he who had slain the demon of Fleet Street, for of the boy there was no trace, no clue left behind that he had ever been there at all.
The Judge and the Beadle would have fine burials, both interred in the choicest and most expensive plots in the cemetery, as befit their status. The beggar and the barber would be carted off to the paupers' graveyard and thrown into unmarked graves; the baker's ashes would be swept from the oven and buried next to the body of her husband.
Rumour would run through the streets of London, flying from ear to ear. What reason, it would be wondered, had the barber for such atrocities? There was no doubt that it had been he who had committed these ghastly crimes, for the wounds upon the victims' throats could have been made by one instrument only -- those fine razors, with their handles chased in silver. They were to be thrown into the grave with the barber, for no one wished to buy blades with so bloody a history.
On the day of the burial, it was discovered that one of the fine razors had gone missing. Perhaps some thief had pocketed it - well, let him keep it, for it mattered not.
---
The clock struck midnight. Twelve long and ponderous strokes the bell tolled, and with the last tolling of the bell, the fog around the harbour began to lift - only a little at first, so as not to be noticeable except to the keenest of eyes. A light, barely perceptible in the gloom, emanated from a tavern upon the wharf. The establishment was a favourite amongst sailors who had just returned from a long voyage out at sea, for the drink was plentiful and the food, though simple and modest fare, was pleasantly free of maggots and beetles.
In a dark corner of the tavern, sitting as far away from the fire as possible, two young sailors lurked in the cover of the shadows. Both were dressed in simple clothes, although one wore a cap and the other did not, and they both of them glanced from time to time at the door, as if they expected at any moment some unforeseen enemy to come bursting in upon them. Both were young lads, neither of them with a whisker upon his cheeks, and yet while one seemed full of youthful energy and good cheer, the other seemed aged far beyond his years, despite his delicate face and innocent features.
The first of the two companions drank freely and gladly from the mug that had been placed before him, and he spoke openly to his fellows when they chanced to pass his way. The second had not anything to drink at all, and he was as tight-lipped as his companion was vocal. Presently they retired to their rooms above the tavern, and the first, drowsy with drink, slept soundly, while the second slept not a wink but stayed watchful all night.
---
The bell in the clock tolled twice. The fog over the harbour lifted yet again, as imperceptibly as before. In her tiny and cramped room above the tavern, Johanna Barker sat on a dusty and mouldy pallet of straw, and contemplated her future.
Had it truly only been a few hours before that she had stared into the very face of Death himself? Had Judge Turpin really and truly been killed, in the very room in which she had been hiding? She hardly dared believe her good fortune, for she was free of him, free at last from his grasp, and yet it seemed to her that in the oppressive air of this room she felt his presence looming over her, watching her, as if his shade, angered at having lost so precious a jewel, was determined to cling to her as long as he was able.
Shuddering, the girl stood and made her way to the only window in the room, a tiny fixture coated thickly in layers of dust and grime. She threw open the latch, leaned out to catch a breath of fresh air. Her trouser legs brushed the wall, and an unfamiliar weight in her pocket gave her pause. Questioning fingers slipped down, withdrew a treasure unexpected and unwanted, for in her palm lay a razor, its handle chased in silver. For a brief, wild moment, the girl considered flinging the thing away, but she stayed her hand, for Turpin's presence seemed to lessen at the sight of the blade.
But how had it come into her possession? In her fright and her haste in securing herself within her hiding-spot, she must have forgotten to replace it within its box! Unthinking, she must have slipped it into her pocket as she slipped into the chest. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, for surely the madman who had held so similar a knife to her throat would discover his treasure missing, and seek the thief that had stolen it.
How fortunate for her, then, that on the morrow she and her companion, the young sailor Anthony Hope, would be gone from this wretched place, on a voyage across the vast Atlantic, to escape to the distant shores of America. Of Johanna Barker there would be no trace, for she was to remain disguised upon their voyage. Johanna Barker would be lost, and no one would suspect that the young Joseph Hope, brother to Anthony, had anything to do with the girl's disappearance.
The razor, then, was perhaps a Godsend, a blessing unforeseen. That she should have accidentally kept it, was perhaps, nothing short of a miracle. Removing her cap, the girl let her golden curls spill loose and tumble down her back, and at once she set about cutting them. When she had finished, her hair was shaggy and straggled, cut close to her shoulders, and the severed strands lay in a pile about her feet. These she bundled up and hid under the straw pallet; it would be a long time indeed before the hair would be discovered, if the state of the room were anything by which to judge. The razor she wiped carefully before replacing to her pocket; it would be the only reminder she would have of home once she was gone.
---
Four times the bell tolled; the candle in her room had burned itself down to a mere stub. She had shut the window and sat now with her back to the wall, facing the door, for she fancied that she had heard footsteps along the passage outside. The razor lay open in her lap, the handle resting gently in her hand. She marvelled at the power so simple a blade could bestow - this sole razor had become her sole protector in a matter of a few short hours. And why not? Its brother had slain the man she so desired to be rid of, it had perfected the last of her disguise.
The handle had been cool at first, but now, as she sat with eyes half-closed in weariness, it seemed that the handle began to grow warm. Such a comfort it was, to hold it close, to lift it and watch the guttering light of the candle dance across its surface. Was it her imagination, or did the blade seem to whisper to her, soft and seductive? She raised the blade, angling it this way and that, entranced by her reflection. For a moment, as she held the blade toward the candlelight, it seemed almost to flash red, a deep crimson, the colour of blood.
Startled, she dropped the razor; it landed on the pallet without a sound, and she became aware of a stinging pain on her finger. The blade had nicked her as it fell. The cut was not deep, although it beaded quickly with blood. Hastily she stuck her finger in her mouth, but upon tasting the sharp metallic flavour of blood, she withdrew it, but the taste remained. From its resting-place upon the floor, the razor shone in the light of candle, and Johanna could see along its edge a spot of blood that had already started to dry.
In the distance, the bells began to toll yet again, and yet the girl could not have said how many strokes there were.