Hibiscus Tea

“It’s good shai tea. Very healshy. Hibishcush,” Iris would say, her words softened by a faint lisp. Her eyes bulged slightly as she spoke. Thin, stringy hair clung to her skull; her faded greenish grey house robe had long since lost all colour and carried the lingering smell of boiled cabbage and onion, with something else beneath it—like wet clothes long forgotten in a washing machine.

Eddy would murmur his thanks, turning away from her tiny figure, his eyes searching for something safe—but always, as if drawn by a magnet, returning to the cup of blinking-red liquid. And every time, he would remember the pool of blood…

He had told himself a thousand times that he had been young, stupid. That it had been an accident—a tragic mistake. But deep down, he knew.

He and Steve had argued over some girl. He couldn’t even remember which one, or why it had mattered. What he did remember was the riverbank, the shouty company of other students, the edge of the woods, the cheap alcohol they had drunk far too much of. He remembered the others leaving, one by one. Remembered that he and Steve had stayed behind. They finished what remained. And then—

He came to with Steve lying at his feet. Their clothes soaked in blood. A knife in his hand. The metallic smell and taste. The handle—slippery, gleaming, wet…

A scream tore through the air—thin, high, inhuman. It took him a moment to realise it was his own.

Then Iris appeared. As always, wearing something grey and baggy, even smelling somehow grey—a hint of wet clothes left too long in a washing machine. She stepped out of the dusk, smiling that strange, unsteady smile, and said, lisping through her crooked bite:

“Everyshing will be alright. Come wish me. I’ll take you home.”

A grey little mouse—that was Iris. Invisible at the university, unnoticed by everyone. She walked along the walls, clutching a bundle of textbooks. Looking strange. It was impossible to hold her gaze—with those slightly bulging, mad, unblinking eyes.

She took his hand—smudged with blood. Brought him to her flat. Washed his clothes. Fed him. Put him to bed. In her own bed.

And when the detective came a few days later, she said they had left together. Spent the night together. Heard nothing. Knew nothing. Perhaps Steve had stayed behind with someone—but they couldn’t recall who. It had been getting dark, after all.

No one ever found the knife. No one ever found the killer. The investigation faded, died away of its own accord. Disappeared from their lives.

But Iris remained.

x x x

She stayed in his life like a grey cliff—silent, immovable. Like a terrible angel. Like something else entirely… something with wide, unblinking eyes.

They never had children. Fortunately.

Eddy worked late into the night, driving himself to exhaustion so he could come home and collapse into sleep. Iris would bring him her shai tea. And cookies she baked herself. He had told her a thousand times he hated both. She would stare at him with those tin eyes and say,

“It’s very healshy.”

The worst was when she smiled.

He pushed himself harder and harder, just to avoid being awake near her. But then she followed him into his dreams. There, she brought him bloody shai tea.

She would scoop it from Steve’s corpse—straight from the torn cavity of his chest—and place it gently before Eddy.

“It’s so healshy,” she would whisper, a faint lisp in her voice.

In the darkness, only her eyes remained—round, bulging, lit from within. Frozen with something that might have been terror. Or worse.

And beneath them—a smile.

x x x

One night, he woke to a thin, piercing scream. For a long time he lay still, unable to understand what he was hearing—until he realised it was the tap, shrieking.

He got up for water. Turned the tap. Then bent beneath the sink.

Something glinted in the darkness. The handle. The knife. The same one. Still crusted with dried blood.

His hands began to shake. He didn’t know how it happened—didn’t understand when the moment shifted—but suddenly he saw himself standing over a sleeping body, the knife raised.

And he screamed—high and thin, like the tap—as he brought it down again and again.

Until she opened her eyes. And smiled.

“Shall I bring you some shai tea, dear?”

x x x

The room was coloured a faded greyish-green—the table, the chairs, the walls. The light flickered slightly, and Eddy wanted to close his eyes when the flickering became unbearable. The detective paid no attention—he noticed nothing was wrong.

He was plump, ruddy, with small, drilling, pig-like eyes. But the carefully combed hair stretched over his bald spot instantly reminded Eddy of Iris. And the walls cast a shade of her robe over everything, including the detective's face.

“So,” he said, opening a file and setting a paper cup of coffee in front of him, “why did you kill your wife?”

“I didn’t kill her,” Eddy muttered, his voice trembling.

“Oh, you didn’t,” repeated the detective.

“No,” Eddy shook his head nervously. “She can’t be killed.”

“So you deny the murder.” The detective raised his eyebrows and tapped a pen on the table.

“No. I confess,” Eddy said. “I killed Steve.”

“Steve?” The detective frowned, flipping through the file. “Who is Steve?”

“Someone…” Eddy muttered, rocking slightly, his leg trembling. “Someone… by the river…”

“When?” the detective asked absently.

“Ten years ago.”

“Okay,” the detective murmured slowly, checking the red light on the camera beneath the ceiling. Recording. “And what about your wife?”

“My wife?..” Eddy looked up—and felt a coldness spread down his spine.

The detective’s face turned a pale green-grey, like the walls, and seemed to thin. The eyes bulged. A mad smile slowly stretched across his lips.

The smell of boiled cabbage filled the room. And something else—something grey, like wet clothes long forgotten in a washing machine.

“Have some shai tea, dear,” Iris whispered. “It’s healshy.”

She slid the cup of blood-red liquid towards him.