Short Story: The Seventh Sin

Short Story: The Seventh Sin

Plop, plop, plop.

The sound of the dripping tap tormented me like some fiendish oriental torture. I lay stranded in my bed, unable to lie listening to the beastly sound and equally unable to summon the energy to get up. My dilemma was resolved by the sound of the doorbell. After struggling out of bed I opened the door and peered, bleary eyed, at the colourfully dressed stranger who stood in the porch.

"Good morning," he said.

"Yes?" I inquired suspiciously.

"I've come for you," he announced. "Number Ten Abingdon Way, eight-thirty a.m."

I pulled my dressing gown more closely around me.

"This is Ten Abingdon Way and it is now…" I squinted at the hall clock, "now eight-thirty-one, but I don't need a taxi, thank you."

I made a move to close the door and my heart gave a jerk as I realised his foot was blocking it.

"Take your foot out of my door!” I demanded.

"Don't be afraid," he said. "Just give me time to explain."

"I'm not frightened," I tried to conceal the tremor in my voice. "I'm angry. Take your foot out of my door!"

"I'm sorry," his tone was ingratiating, "it is, of course, unforgivably rude of me. If you could just, er, stop pushing so hard on the door I'll withdraw my foot."

I relaxed the pressure for an instant and, as soon as the impediment was removed, slammed the door shut. Peeping through the net in the hall window I was gratified to see him turn and walk away from the house.

I turned on the radio. Returning to bed with the newspaper and a cup of tea seemed like a good idea. I was filling the kettle when, to my horror, he came in through the back door.

How could I have been so careless as to leave it unlocked? Backing away nervously I made an inspired guess.

"You're not some sort of kiss-a-gram are you?" I envisaged him prancing around my kitchen in a g-string.

"No," he frowned, "do I look as if I am?"

"N-no, of course not," I replied hastily.

"My name," he said, "is not important. Suffice to say that I have been watching your activities for some time now and I have the pleasure of informing you that you have committed one of the seven deadly sins. So, if you'll just sign the register," he produced a scroll from the folds of his cloak and unrolled it, "we can be on our way."

"Who me?" I screeched. "Ludicrous!"

My indignant reaction was soon overtaken by the absurdity of the situation. The man obviously had more than a few screws loose. There was the chance that he might be dangerous - it would probably be wise to humour him.

"Surely," I protested, "I'm supposed to have signed up in advance, made a sort of pact, you know, I get all the goodies in this world and you get my soul in the next."

“It sometimes happens,” he said, “but in a case like yours it’s not really necessary.”

“I don’t have a picture like Dorian Gray’s, recording all my vices. You’ve only to look at me to see what a blameless life I lead. Would you believe I’m a day over thirty?”

“And pride,” he said, “is the first deadly sin.”

“Oh well, if I’m to be condemned for a little human vanity, half the human race will be right there with me.”

"Precisely so, but we'll pass that by for the moment. Next is envy......."

"Not guilty," I said, "I have plenty of money and I live my life the way I choose. I consider myself quite a fortunate person really."

"I'm sure we can alter that," he murmured, making a note on the parchment with a quill pen. "And who has not been, at some time in their lives, guilty of lust? He gave a lascivious leer.

I wrinkled my nose in distaste.

"There was not much of that sort of thing with my late husband - the poor dear was, after all, very old. I suppose, since his death, I have fancied the odd good looking guy here or there but, to be honest, I'd sooner read a good book any day."

"Gluttony? Mm, no," he muttered regretfully, eyeing my skinny figure. He made another note.

"Next we have avarice. Your husband was, indeed, very old. No doubt you married him for his money." I made a move to protest but he fluttered a hand at me and continued, "Since you are, however, very open-handed where charity is concerned, you have unfortunately, compensated for any earlier lapse."

"That's seven!” I declared triumphantly, "And you haven't made a good case for any of them. I've done nothing, absolutely nothing!"

"Precisely so," he agreed, "but avarice was, in fact, the sixth. You have indeed done nothing, absolutely nothing. Being too idle to practice, you have wasted your talent for music, with which you could have given pleasure to many. All your life you have done nothing, contributed nothing to this world. The seventh sin is sloth."

My mouth dropped open. I had never considered my natural indolence to be a bad thing, it's just part of me; the way I am.

He came towards me. I shrank back, intimidated by his close proximity.

"And so," he declared, placing the parchment on the work surface and wrapping my fingers round the quill, "you sign just there." He pointed.

"I don't believe any of this," I croaked.

"Then it won't matter whether you sign or not. Please, humour me."

My hand hovered over the parchment; my will to resist was at its lowest ebb.

"Sign," he said.

I wrote my name but, well, I'm used to biros, roller balls, fibre tips. I'm not too clever with a fountain pen, let alone a quill. The tip split and ink spattered, blotting out my signature.

His eyes bulged and his face grew red with fury when he saw what I had done. He snatched the parchment from me and began scraping at the surface with a fine blade.

I edged my way to the door while he concentrated on the work in hand.

“In all the thousands of years I have been collecting signatures," he complained, "even the most cack-handed illiterate dolts have been able to make their marks without slopping ink all over the place."

I pressed down on the door handle.

He looked up. "Wait!" he cried, but I was out of the door in a flash and crashed full tilt into a man who was standing just outside.

"Hello," he said, "I'm Mike. I'm sorry I was delayed."

My first visitor caught up with me. Seeing Mike he gave a theatrical groan.

"Guardian Angels," he said, "the bane of my life. But you're too late this time, she's signed, she's mine!"

I took a second look at Mike. I wondered how I could have missed seeing the glamour of his celestial countenance. He needed no badge of rank, he was simply, well, angelic.

His presence gave me courage, "You scraped it off," I said. I was getting into the spirit of the thing now. "Can't you just turn him into a snake and make him crawl off into the undergrowth?" I suggested, pleased to find the Milton I'd struggled with at school had come in handy at last.

"We-ell," Mike was obviously considering this suggestion.

The other paled. "I must be off, urgent business elsewhere, you know. I'll see you later," he hissed at me as he passed.

"Not if I see you first," I answered cockily, with the reassuring bulk of Michael beside me. I turned to him gratefully. "Mike, I could hug you, but I'm not sure if it's allowed?"

"It's very nice of you to offer, Missus," he replied, "but I'm running late, working through my tea break as it is so, if you wouldn't mind, just show me where the dripping tap is, I'll fix it in a jiffy and be on my way."