A Friend for Life

Mrs. Hughes had been gone for a week but Martha didn’t feel any better. Despite the veterinarian’s hackneyed assurances, time was not healing her wounds; she still desperately missed kissing that furry little face and seeing her tuxedoed darling curled into a ball at the end of the bed, paws tucked into the neat white bib that reminded Martha of Downton Abbey’s housekeeper (hence the name). Twice Martha had gotten up in the morning to get Mrs. Hughes her breakfast before remembering there was no need, her forgetfulness a cruel reminder of comfortable habits formed over years of intimacy. She would sit and cry over the loss of her precious darling, but there was the slightest tinge of anger at Mrs. Hughes' abandonment as well. Eventually she would return to bed, where she could dream that her sweet companion was still alive and cavorting with one of the many toys collected over the cat's much-pampered lifetime.

This dreamy state accounted for Martha’s lack of surprise when she was awakened in the middle of the night by a thump coming from the ground floor of her miniscule two-up two-down semi-detached. After a moment of drowsy confusion, she simply snuggled further under the bedclothes, secure in the assumption her beloved pet was enjoying a bit of nocturnal play.

Then she froze as memory came flooding back. It couldn’t be Mrs. Hughes making that noise!

Martha’s heart started racing even as her mind told her it had to be nothing. After all, who would waste time robbing a cash-strapped little old lady in her crumbling home?

There was another thump, and Martha bit her tongue to stop herself from squealing in terror. She wracked her brain trying to remember if she had anything close at hand to use as a weapon. The copper bedpan on the wall of her bedroom was a bit unwieldy, and it would be next to useless in these tiny rooms where there wasn’t enough room to swing a … 

Martha’s body sagged into the mattress as she was suddenly swamped by despair. It was all too much: first losing Mrs. Hughes, and now this. What had she done to deserve so much anguish? She’d always been kind to animals, sent a bit of cash to her nieces and nephews on their birthdays, and she attended her local Methodist chapel with admirable consistency. Was it because she snubbed that trollopy new trophy wife Mr. Fredericks had the temerity to bring to the Historical Society meeting last month? That girl didn’t know Stanley Baldwin from Alec Baldwin, for heaven’s sake, and she certainly had no interest in the presentation on famous antique weapons, preferring to sit there staring at her mobile and giggling at inappropriate moments, no doubt because someone had ’liked’ her.

Martha believed the only justification for social media was the access to cute cat videos.

Thoughts of the recent lecture reminded Martha of the dagger she’d purchased decades ago at an antiques fair because she liked the paste jewels on the hilt. It had stayed buried in her nightstand drawer ever since, providing theoretical comfort from unlikely danger.

Until now. Martha slowly eased the drawer open, grateful she’d kept the runners oiled so they didn’t make a sound. Her mother had taught her it was important to keep on top of the housework and this proved it. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light coming through the crack in the lace curtains, then carefully reached in toward the back where she thought the dagger should be. It was there! Martha breathed a sigh of relief as she gently inched it out, trying not to rattle the bag of cat treats she hadn’t had the heart to throw away yet.

Once the knife was out, Martha removed the sheath and, clasping the dagger in her right hand, used her left to painstakingly lift the bedcovers and manoeuvre her feet onto the carpet. Her 82-year-old muscles protested a bit, but Martha’s regular chair yoga practice served her well as she managed to quietly rise from her bed with only a couple of pops from her aged joints.

Avoiding the creakiest floorboards, she crept out of her bedroom and peered over the banister into the hall below, pulling her voluminous cotton nightgown tight against her legs so it didn’t impede her view. She could see light coming from the direction of the dining room and recalled the collection of Lladro figurines she had displayed there. Martha felt a surge of anger toward the dastardly punk—she was so tempted to call him worse!—trying to steal her meagre treasures and this sudden energy helped propel her through the hall and halfway down the stairs before she slipped and tumbled the rest of the way, landing in a dazed heap at the bottom.

There was a sound of booted footsteps and then he was in front of her, a large, burly man dressed all in black and wearing a ski mask over his head. He, too, had a knife in his hand, and a rather large one at that, but it hung down by his side as he stared at her, his narrowed eyes barely visible through the woolen slits, no doubt wondering if it was worth killing her. Martha, bruised and shaken, closed her own eyes and turned her forehead to the floor, resigned to whatever came next. She sent up a prayer of thanks that at least she didn’t have to worry if he had harmed Mrs. Hughes.

Her eyes flew open again when she heard the man scream, followed by the clunk of his knife hitting the floor. Cautiously looking up, she saw his arms flailing wildly in the air as his ski mask seemed to pull itself up off his face of its own accord, until it was bunched on the top of his head. Martha gingerly pushed herself into a seated position, and then gasped as five parallel gashes appeared on the man's face, starting from his jaw and proceeding up his cheek. Blood quickly began dripping from them as they were crisscrossed with yet more cuts on both sides of his face.

The burglar continued his frantic and somewhat eccentric dance for several more seconds until, with a final screamed obscenity, he wrenched open the front door and fled into the night, still trying desperately to dislodge his phantom attacker as he hurried down the street and around the corner.

After a few minutes, Martha took a deep breath and began flexing her joints, pleased to find nothing was broken, although she suspected her right ankle was slightly sprained. She’d be black and blue by tomorrow, so she’d have to concoct a story for the neighbours to prevent them calling social services because they thought she was feeble or mad. She might even be able to convince them she’d fought off a dangerous criminal single handed! That would discourage their pitying glances. And it was sort of true, although she’d feel a bit naughty taking the credit for whatever had truly caused that man to break out in sores like that. Maybe he had a skin condition.

She used the telephone cabinet to pull herself to her feet and carefully limped over to close and lock the front door before phoning the police. As she described her recent intruder, assuring the desk sergeant that the man could be easily identified by the many scratches on his face, she felt a furry body wind round her ankles and heard the faintest hint of a rumbling purr.

“Well hello, my sweet girl!” she softly exclaimed in sudden understanding. “I should have known you would never desert me.”

She couldn’t see anything down there, but that didn’t matter, because Martha knew she would never be truly alone again. Even better, this way she didn’t have to clean the litterbox.