Page 3 of Razors & Ruin

“You keep doing that, and you’ll make me come,” I say in between harsh breaths. “On your pretty face or in your pussy. What’s it gonna be?”

Footsteps getting louder, along with the unmistakable jangle of keys. Charlie’s voice calls through from the corridor.

“The Superintendent is walking down the street,” he says. “You hear me in there? Get done with the slut now. I have to put these cuffs back on you, or the Guv will wring my neck.”

I stick out my lip. “Aw. My cock-hungry wee princess will have to settle for a faceful.” I grip my cock and pump it. “Open wide, lovely. Have a taste.”

I groan as thick ropes of come splash over her face, enjoying the view of my release catching in her eyelashes. She swallows what’s in her mouth and sits back on her heels, smiling at me as I rearrange my clothes. How she can look so innocent with my mess all over her is beyond me.

Charlie lets himself in and surveys the scene. “Oh, class act, aren’t you? Right, fuck off, girl. You’re sending a man to exile with a happy memory, which is more than he deserves.”

The girl stands, and I shrug. “Sorry, love. Some bastard will be lucky to get a go on you. What’s your name?”

“Nellie.” She wipes her face on her sleeve. “Don’t forget me.”

She’s mad as a box of frogs, this one. Does she think she’s gonna hold a vigil and save herself for my glorious return from the colonies? She’ll forget my name by next week.

“Whatever you say, Nellie.” I give a jaunty wave from the wrist. “Ta-ta.”

1

Sweeney

Ifucking hate London. But in all the wide world, where else is there to go?

Only here could a man like me blend in. I stood out in the new world, but now I can finally breathe. Home and walking through the fetid smog of England’s glorious capital.

Ten years. Ten whole years I spent at His Majesty’s pleasure, laboring under the baking sun. The dark never felt better, but I’ve got nothing.

The satchel over my shoulder contains my paperwork and a few scraps of bread. My parole officer instructed me to report to the workhouse for homing and employment, and I said the right things, but that place won’t see me again.

Before I left, I hid my silver razors where no one would ever find them, tucked away in the room above the moneylender’s place in Fleet Street. The magistrates seized all my belongings, but I never listed the razors in the inventory, so they weren’t missed.

If they are still there, I’ll be set. I could sell one and use the proceeds as a downpayment on lodgings.

Fleet Street is the same gray avenue of misery it always was. The rookeries are more crowded and the miasma thicker, but as ever, the poor crawl beneath the feet of the rich, who don’t look to see the suffering at their heels.

The money lenders are no longer resident here. Instead, a faded sign bears the legend: ‘Mrs Lovett’s Meat Pies.’ A board outside says, ‘Traditional fare. Delighted to serve you.’

I peer through the grimy glass. A woman stands at a counter, swiping her pastry brush over a row of ready-to-bake pies. She dips into her egg wash and starts on the second row, pausing to pick out a piece of eggshell.

She will have the key to the upstairs room.

I push the door, setting the bell jangling. The woman looks up, and as her eyes meet mine, she drops her brush onto the dirty floor.

“Mr. Brook?” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “It can’t be.”

I recognize her now. Her cheeks are hollow, but the years have done little to dim her beauty. Of all the people in this city, how is it that she’s the first one I meet?

“Well, I’ll be.” I walk toward her and sit on a stool beside the counter. “Could it be my Nellie?”

She flushes and wipes her hands on her apron. “I never—I mean, this is unexpected.” She pulls off her mob cap and fusses with her hair, pushing it off her face. “Did they pardon you?”

“Sort of, treacle.” I smile. “Good behavior, if you can believe that.”

“Not for a minute.” She giggles, then composes herself. “Goodness. I’m so silly. Hold on a minute, love.”

She darts out of the room through a back door, and I look around. A velvet portrait on the far wall stares back at me; a man with a receding hairline and a severe, puritanical outfit.

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