Page 32 of Razors & Ruin

I touch Sweeney’s hand. “It sounds like hard work, dear. I think you did well not to bleed that fucking Beadle as soon as he sat down.”

Sweeney smiles, apparently pleased that we’re moving the conversation forward. No doubt he expected more resistance, but if I can distract him, we’ll be fine.

“I wanted to do it. His days are numbered, I guarantee, but for now, I need the fat cunt alive and well.”

“Surely a little cirrhosis wouldn’t go amiss,” I say. “A dose of the clap, just to get him leaning harder on that cane.”

“Relativelywell, then.” He stands. “Now. I promised you some better ingredients. I have a good guinea here and change. We could?—”

The doorbell again, and a young man appears, pointing at Sweeney. “Oi,” he says, waving his hand like he’s being attacked by wasps, “I need a shave.”

Sweeney’s jaw tenses as he turns around. “Are you seeking to engage my services?”

The man gives a mocking bow. “Fucking highfaluting barber. I don’t have all day, right?” He heads out and up the stairs to the tonsorial parlor, and Sweeney and I exchange glances.

“You wanted customers. Beggars can’t be choosers, love.”

I watch his back as he follows his patron out the door and wonder about Sweeney’s future in the service industry. To say hedoesn’t like people in general would be quite an understatement, but they don’t like him either, so fair’s fair.

I like him.Lovehim, even if that’s what my cold sweats and shuddering dreams add up to. Lying beside him in bed is like sleeping beside a slumbering dragon, some mythic beast, curled tight like a spring.

He sprawls over my body, heavy limbs draped on mine, but he wraps tendrils around my mind and heart, too. Choking, over-fertile vines, stealing into my tender places and seizing my very breath, stilling it where I can neither draw it deeper nor let it out. Unless he wants it to be so.

In those quiet places, I feel the essence of him. The airless depth of the thing he is, rather than the man he could have been before he carelessly left the door to his soul open so the light got out.

I cannot let Sweeney don a mask and take his predator’s focus into that Bacchanalian hall of wonders. They will not be able to hold him back; he is too powerful for the likes of them.

In an ocean of floundering pissants, my man will draw all eyes like a lighthouse, yet none will truly see. And he’ll get what he wants, of course.

He will find a lead on Johanna because he will dazzle despite the danger and risk. Eyes will burn from skulls, lips will drop pearls of truth, and he will start his ascent.

I must be the ballast he needs. His shipwreck is too much rotted to be risen now.

The tray of pies for the non-existent lunch rush is ready to bake. I decide to take them down to the bakehouse, as I could use the big oven, plus I fancy getting a little hot and bothered down here.

Mr. T could use some further sweetening, and after reigning himself in twice in one morning, he’ll be ready to do some damage.

I’ll always be ready to bleed for him; a timely reminder won’t go amiss. I’m about to reach beneath my skirts and get something going when I hear raised voices above.

The yelling doesn’t last long, and from down here, it’s muffled, but whatever Sweeney is about, his customer service is not up to par. The silence after is worse; cold and spacy, like a void has opened somewhere and is sucking the air out.

I sigh and head up to the the parlor.

18

Ten minutes earlier…

Sweeney

“Youarehim. I know it.”

The young man jabs a finger at me. “Mrs. Bellefonte told me all about you. I took a room at her place last night, and she heard some wonderful tales from one of her friends, including lovely grim stuff about the barber’s apprentice and murder most foul!”

I’m aghast at the cunt’s cheek. If he thinks I’m a killer, why the fuck is he baiting me, alone in my own establishment?

I suspect it’s because he assumes I’m a broken, no-dick old man, cowed and on a tenuous parole, and he’s come to gawk at the freak.

Turns out it’s worse.

---