Free The Widow's Tale by Mick Jackson

little exchange. I don’t imagine I made much of a contribution. It consisted mainly of her telling me to mind my own fucking business, combined with a stream of quite personal insults. (Well, I suppose if you’re going to insult somebody you might as well make it personal.) But as she carried on I had the distinct impression that shewas working herself up into a state. As if, now that she’d finally found a legitimate target for whatever anger she’d been carting around all day, she might as well offload as much of it as she could. The longer her little rant went on, and the more I looked into her eyes, I had the sense that she was also gearing herself up for a small explosion of violence – a grown-up version of that little nip she’d just delivered to her child.
    But just as she’d glanced over her shoulder before approaching me, I now saw her glance over mine. And I thank God that she must have seen someone coming towards us, because she suddenly stalled. Her little onslaught was suspended. And as a parting shot, she leaned right in towards me.
    ‘I’ll see you later ,’ she said, and jabbed me in my chest again.
    Well, I scurried off up the hill just as fast as my little legs would carry me, and as soon as I got home I locked and bolted all the doors. And I didn’t mention it to anyone for two whole days, and then only to Ginny. I think perhaps I was ashamed – at how frightened she’d made me. Like a bullied child, I’d thought that if I did actually tell anyone it would somehow only make things worse, to have things out in the open. And that by keeping it to myself I might somehow contain it. When, in fact, as I say, what I really wanted to keep secret was my shame.
    When I finally spilled the beans Ginny insisted I go to the police and report the incident. And when I refused she appealed to my sense of morality – those same moralsthat had so quickly deserted me when that crazy woman stepped up to me. I should contact Social Services, Ginny said, because if she’s prepared to treat her child like that in public, then how the hell might she be treating it behind closed doors?
    All of which did nothing but make me feel even more awful. The truth is I was terrified of ever seeing the dreadful woman again. She’d looked into my eyes and known that she could trample all over me. So I made Ginny swear not to tell another soul and from that point on whenever she started haranguing me about it I’d immediately get all emotional, until she left me alone.
    There’s no doubt that if I’d had John around I wouldn’t have felt quite so frightened. In the first instance, I’m sure, he would’ve flown off the handle and, just like Ginny, insisted I do something about it, etc. But at the close of the day when the lights went out he would’ve been there, in the dark, beside me. Someone for me to hide behind.
    As it was, I became quite obsessed with her. And, as well as avoiding the street where I’d happened to encounter her, I drew in my mind a half-mile radius around it and created a no-go zone. Returning home from a bit of shopping I’d have a quick look all about me, to make sure she wasn’t there, taking note of where I lived … just as I looked left and right before leaving the drive on my way out. And lying in bed, alone, I’d imagine her creeping round the garden, and trying the windows. Now just how screwed-up is that?
    I managed to bestow on her a kind of omniscience. Sheknew what I was thinking – was right there in my head with me. And the only solace I could find was that young policewoman who’d told me about John’s death.
    She’d be used to dealing with such people, I reasoned. She wouldn’t be frightened. And in the midst of my deepest panics I’d comfort myself by thinking that if I was still half as terrified when I woke the following morning, I’d ring her up and tell her all about it – the equivalent of running to my mother and telling her how beastly some big girl had been to