Everybody in street knows Martha, or think they do. Then we learned we didn’t know her at all.
It’s a suburb like in any English town. We know one another to nod to and that’s as far as we want it to go.
Martha’s middle-aged, frumpy, solitary, unloved. Neighbours tutted about her overgrown back garden and the weeds that sprouted between the blocks at the front.
We hadn’t seen her mum and dad for a while. They retired years ago and I imagine daytime television schedules played a big part in their lives.
Nobody remembers when they last saw them: not pottering in the garden, taking out the bins, waiting at the bus-stop.
Martha was an only kid and never married, and to look at her today I’d say she never had boys chasing after her.
After the discovery, my wife said she’d seen Martha at the supermarket and she looked like she needed a wash and a change of clothes. My wife didn’t say anything, she thought it wasn’t her place.
It was a fluke we did find out. They hadn’t paid their council tax so someone went round to check who lived at the house.
They found Martha was the only person living there, but another two were dead in the back parlour with their heads smashed in. They’d been sat in armchairs for at least a year.
We didn’t attend the funerals, you know how it is: we didn’t really know them, we didn’t want to intrude.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 