A Measure of Life and Death
A Measure of Life and Death
A Flash Fiction by Stephanie Percival
A florist shop below, is good cover for a shady business above.
It’s the black vans pulling in at all hours of the night that makes Iris suspicious. When she can’t sleep, she observes the street. The disturbances make her angry, intruding on her peace. Vehicles bumping over cobblestones. The drone of engines, giving her a headache.
Lots of things annoy Iris these days.
Her fingers grasp the ankh pendant at her neck. She tugs it, her fingers rough against its smooth surface. The weight and coolness of it soothes; her shoulders relax. It was given her by a lover when she’d been studying in Egypt. Iris lets out a sigh. That was so long ago. She’d been happy then. Now, life weights her, furrowing her forehead; pulling the corners of her mouth down. Always cranky. It’s easier to be nice when you’re in love. Now, nobody loves her. There are other trinkets from Egypt. A cartouche, hieroglyphs illustrating her name. A sphinx-like bronze cat, blank eyes all-seeing. She reaches to the sideboard, strokes the ornament. Her fingertips tremble, her heart beating a little quicker. Egyptian myths always enthralled Iris. The rituals of burial, all those golden artefacts beneath pyramids. The ankh symbol represents life, but now all Iris thinks about is death. Most cultures have an end-of-life myth, an evaluation of good deeds versus bad. Iris isn’t sure whether she’ll get eternal rest, spend years in purgatory or rot in hell. The ancient Egyptians believed the decision was made by weighing a heart against the feather of truth. Iris rubs her arms, feeling a chill around her neck. There won’t be many to mourn her. She sniffs, sure she can smell lilies.
She pulls the net curtain aside, peering into the night. Across the way subdued lamplight illuminates shadowed figures doing business. Weighing, measuring, dealing? Her eyesight isn’t what it was, and she presses her nose close to the window, feeling the chill of glass. She squints. There’s a seated woman. The profile resembles Iris. Iris shakes her head, blinks again. Along with misted vision, arthritic joints mean Iris doesn’t sleep well. When aches grumble in her elbows and knees, she’ll put on her dressing gown, shuffle to the kitchenette in her orthopaedic slippers; clawed hands grabbing the door frame and backs of furniture to steady herself. She’ll make herself cocoa, take two biscuits, and then sit in prime position at the window.
She plumps the cushion behind her, raises the footrest and waits for the show to start. The lights stay on late into the night, even the florist shop below. Iris thinks the flowers on display look funereal rather than bright.
Iris’s flat is located on a back street of Milstead Town. The paving below, cobbled, adding rattles as vehicles rumble by. There’s been a petition that Iris has added her name to, about replacing the cobbles with tarmac. ‘It’s a conservation area,’ is the continual excuse. She blames the council for restricting her mobility now she has to use a stick. She gives a shudder of disapproval. There’s a lot to blame the government for. Lots of letters to write.
Around midnight, a vehicle draws up, knocking and bumping, a delivery being made. A door slams, there are shouts, then silence. Moments later shadows appear behind the orangey curtains opposite. Iris tries to work out whether they’re men or women; one even resembles an animal.
Iris picks up her writing pad, ready to compose another letter to the council complaining about the suspicious behaviour across the road.
Iris has a lot of complaints; they’ve accumulated over the years. She pulls her dressing gown more tightly around her, trying to stop quaking. Everything brushes her with irritation. Most of her life she’s put up with ‘stuff’, generally stupid people making decisions in positions they aren’t suited for. She was a PA for many years, serving a bullying misogynist who patronised her. It was enough to drive her to thoughts of murder. She’d taken delight in upsetting him. Swapping diaries, buying tickets for wrong trains then insisting he’d given her inaccurate information. Once, she’d sent flowers intended for his mistress, to his wife. She gives a hollow laugh, a gruff noise that makes the paper in her hands shake. Remembers his face reddened with rage when he’d realised what had happened, swelling up like a poisonous puffer fish. His grey hair spiky, his brow sweaty. She didn’t actually kill him… but had probably left it too long before calling the ambulance. He’d survived, hadn’t he? Though he’d never walked or talked again.
Iris puts the pad of paper down. Her fingers are heavy, unable to hold the pen. She used to love writing letters, proud of her neat hand-writing. Now, it’s becoming a chore.
She leans forward. What are they doing over there? But the figures are blurred, purple shapes swimming in and out of focus.
Iris is considering whether another cup of cocoa and a digestive are in order, but she yawns, suddenly exhausted. She lifts her hand and scrubs her eyes, trying to clear her vision. The woman sitting over there in silhouette does look just like her. Iris topples forward, falling from the chair and lying lifeless on the carpet.
How did I get here, thinks Iris, surprised at how her legs move without stumbling. She is climbing stairs. The perfume of lilies makes her sneeze. A door swings open without sound and a jackal headed figure leads her into a room suffused with orangey light. A single lightbulb swings above a table on which sits a set of scales, as you’d find in an old-fashioned shop. ‘Welcome’, says a voice, ‘I am Anubis. Your life is to be measured’. Iris watches, her eyes wide with fascination, but not fear. A heart, she presumes her own, is placed on one pan of the scales. On the other, a feather, soft and white.
Iris leans forward, her mouth open with surprise, as the scale pans move.
Author: Stephanie began writing seriously after being shortlisted for the BBC End of Story competition. She enjoys writing in different styles and genres, and has been short and long-listed and won several writing competitions. Her first novel, ‘The Memory of Wood,’ is set in her home county of Northamptonshire.