The Kitchen Table

It had been a long shift at the hospital, not unusual for a Friday afternoon/evening. The drunks had started arriving about 6pm, full of bravado and liquor. The atmosphere in Accident and Emergency had changed in less than an hour. The foul stench of alcohol and vomit had replaced the clean aroma of disinfectant. The tone had been set for a holiday weekend in a seaside town.
Tired and aching after the shift from hell, and two hours late to make things worse, I was finally heading home. My head was thumping, a migraine brought on by lack of food and rest. I just wanted to sink into a steaming, body-soothing bath and fall into bed. Little did I suspect fate was not working that way as I drove home.


Pulling into the driveway of my house everything looked normal, nothing was out of place. The same as I opened the front door and switched on the lights, everything seemed right. Not that I was paying that much attention, of course, why would I be. I was more concerned with making myself a cup of tea to drink whilst I ran my longed for bath. So I made my way to the kitchen.


I didn’t notice it at first. I was too busy filling the kettle with water and putting tea bag in my mug. It was when I went to the fridge to get the milk that I saw it. There on my table as bold as brass, a dagger with jewel-studded hilt, just laying there. I’d never seen the likes of it before. Although a weapon, a tool of death, I couldn’t deny it was an amazing work of art.


I didn’t dare touch it, but I couldn’t take my eyes away from it either. Where had it come from? How had it got to my table? Whose was it? Was its owner still in my house? What should I do?


I called the police, an officer was on the way but I could have a long wait as I was in no immediate danger, nothing had been taken and the police were extremely busy with the influx of good time seekers in the town. So I drank my tea, had my bath and went to bed leaving the dagger where it was, untouched on my table.


It was still there, of course, when I got up. So it hadn’t magically disappeared the same way it had come. The police officer arrived as I was eating my bowl of ‘Special K’ and drinking a coffee. Very apologetic about the delay, it really couldn’t be helped.


The officer bombarded me with questions. “Are you sure you locked up before you left for work, miss?” “Does anyone else have a key to your house, miss?” “Have you seen the dagger before, miss?” “Could you have possibly left it on the table and forgotten about it?” There was no evidence of forced entry to suggest a break in. The police officer was just as puzzled by the dagger as I was. It took it with him carefully placed in a plastic evidence bag. “I’ll be in touch, miss,” he said as he left.


For the next couple of weeks life went on as normal I worked my four late shifts a week, played squash on Saturdays and went shopping with mum on Thursdays. Nothing out of the ordinary and I had almost forgotten about that little dagger.


That was until I was woken up that Sunday morning by what looked like a police raid. The had a warrant to search my home, the premises they called it. I thought they were going to tear my house apart and probably me too. But no, they were only interested in the kitchen, the kitchen ceiling, the antique light fitting to be exact. No reason or explanation apart from “Don’t worry, miss, the sarge will be here shortly and explain everything to you!” from the WPC assigned to look after me.


My kitchen was taped off; I couldn’t even make myself a cup a coffee. I had to ask the WPC and she would oblige. I felt like I was invading my own home, it was as if I shouldn’t be there. The young WPC sat with me struggling to keep me calm. She couldn’t tell me what was going on, as she didn’t know. Her job was to support and counsel victims of crime. Was I a victim now? What had been the crime?


The search team were just leaving with a box full of plastic evidence bags when the police officer who had called on me originally arrived. He turned out to be ‘sarge’ and had come to tell me the result of their enquiries.


Sarge told me the history of my house which I’d bought because of its original characters. A hundred years earlier it had been home to a shady character who made his living acquiring other people’s valuables. No, not an everyday burglar, a chap who would steal certain pieces and sell them on at the right price. The exquisite Victorian light fitting in my kitchen had been perfect place for hiding little knick knacks. So perfect that they had remained hidden until one piece had been dislodged. The dagger, and it had landed on my table.


It had been part of a haul of heirlooms taken from a country house and now some of the long lost items had turned up here in my house. The descendents of the family allowed me to keep the little dagger. It sits in pride of place in my sitting room, it has it’s honour back.


© Jem Farmer, all rights reserved.