I saw it
She was just closing up the till in accounts when her manager poked her head out of the office and asked if she could “pick up” the supplier report tomorrow. There was a gentle insistence in her voice that left no room for refusal.
She nodded, though her mind instantly began listing out tomorrow’s jobs: collect her son from school, pop into Boots for her mums tablets, check homework at home. Shed long lived by the rule: dont argue, dont draw attention, dont give anyone a reason. At work they called it reliability; at home it was simply keeping the peace.
That evening, she walked from the bus stop towards home, clutching a bag of groceries at her side. Her son trudged along beside her, nose in his phone, occasionally asking if he could have “five more minutes.” She always replied, “Later,” because later always took care of itself.
At the crossing by the shopping centre, she stopped for the green man. Cars were lined up two abreast, horns beeping, people growing restless. She stepped onto the zebra crossing just as a dark Land Rover shot out from the right row, darting past the stationary cars and trying to beat the changing lights.
The crash sounded sharplike a heavy dresser toppling over. The Land Rover slammed into a white Ford that was pulling into the junction. The Ford spun, its rear end swinging onto the zebra. Pedestrians leapt backwards. She just managed to grab her sons sleeve and haul him close.
A heartbeatand everything froze. Then someone shouted. The Fords driver sat hunched, not raising his head. The Land Rovers airbags had gone off, and behind the glass she glimpsed a mans face, already reaching for the door.
She set her bag down on the tarmac, pulled out her phone and dialed 999. The operator’s voice was calm, as if it had nothing to do with the chaos around her.
“Car accident, junction by the shopping centreinjuries,” she said, speaking clearly. “The white car spun onto the crossing, the driver Im not sure if hes conscious.”
Her son stood pale beside her, watching her as if shed aged suddenly into adulthood.
As she answered the operators questions, a lad ran to the Ford, opened the door, and spoke to the driver. The man from the Land Rover strode out, brisk and self-assured, talking on his mobile, wearing a tailored coat with no hat, acting as though the crash was no more than a flight delay.
An ambulance arrived, then a police car. A constable asked whod witnessed the collision. She raised her hand: she was right there, after all.
“Name and details, please,” said the officer, flipping open his notebook. “Tell me how it happened.”
She gave her name, address, and number; her words came out dry and clipped. She explained: the Land Rover emerged suddenly from the right lane, the Ford was moving on its signal, and there were people on the crossing. The officer nodded, scribbling.
The Land Rover driver drifted closer, a hint of deliberateness in it. He gave her a brief looknot threatening, but enough to unnerve her.
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly, almost casually. “Theres a camera, itll have picked it up.”
“I said I saw it,” she replied, and instantly regretted sounding so blunt.
He gave a slight, lopsided smile and moved back to the officer. Her son tugged her sleeve.
“Mum, can we go home?” he murmured.
The officer handed her back her passportwhich shed fished from her bagand said she might be called in for clarification. She nodded, picked up the shopping bag, and led her son across the forecourt. At home, she scrubbed her hands for ages, though they were clean. Her son was silent, then asked:
“Will that man go to prison?”
“I dont know,” she answered. “Thats not up to us.”
That night, the sound of the crash and the Land Rover slicing through the air haunted her dreams.
Next day at work, she tried to focus on figures, but her mind kept slipping back to the junction. After lunch, a call came from an unfamiliar number.
“Good afternoon, you witnessed the accident yesterday,” a polite mans voice began, not offering a name. “Im connected to some of those involved. Just wanted to checkyou mustnt worry.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Its not important. Awful situation, but things arent as clear-cut as they seem. You know they drag witnesses through the courts for years these days. Do you need that with a job and a child?”
He spoke as gently as if recommending washing powder; that only made it scarier.
“No ones pressuring me,” she replied, voice wavering.
“Good,” he said, “Just say youre not sure, that it all happened too quickly. Thats best for everyone.”
She hung up, stared at the screen for a few seconds, then locked the phone in her desk draweras though stashing away the whole conversation.
That evening, she fetched her son from school and called on her mum, who lived nearby in an old block of flats. As soon as she opened the door in her dressing gown, her mum began complaining about her blood pressure and how the GP surgery had mixed up appointments again.
“Mum,” she asked, helping with the tablets, “if youd seen a crash and someone told you dont get involved, what would you do?”
Her mum sighed, weariness in her eyes.
“Id stay out of it,” she said. “Im too old for heroics. And you shouldnt get involved either. Youve got your boy.”
Her advice was simple, almost caring. But she felt stung, as though Mum doubted she could cope.
Next day, the phone rang againdifferent number.
“Were just concerned,” said the familiar voice. “You know, the chap has a family, a job. Mistakes happen. Witnesses get dragged into things for years. Why bother? Maybe you should say in your statement that you didnt see the exact moment.”
“I saw it,” she said.
“Are you sure you want the hassle?” the voice chilled slightly. “Which school does your boy go to?”
She felt everything inside contract.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Small town,” came the calm reply. “Were not enemies. We want you and yours to be okay.”
She put down the phone, sitting quietly at her kitchen table, staring at the worktop. Her son scratched away at his homework in the next room. After a while, she got up, put the chain on the door, even though she knew how silly it waschains dont stop calls.
A few days later, a bloke in a plain jacket stopped her near her blocks entrance, as if waiting just for her.
“Flat 27, is it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied automatically.
“About that car accidentdont be alarmed,” he said, hands raised to calm her. “Im a friend of some friends. You dont want endless court dates, do you? It can all be sorted out quietly. Just say youre not sure.”
“I wont take any money,” she blurted, not knowing why.
“No-one mentioned money,” the man smiled. “Were talking about keeping things simple. Youve got a child. Lifes tense enough these days, lots happens at school and work. Why bring more trouble?”
He said “trouble” as if it was rubbish to be binned.
She walked past, refusing to answer, climbed the stairs, unlocked her flat, went inand only then noticed her hands were shaking. She dropped her bag, took off her coat, and went to her son.
“Dont leave the school gates on your own tomorrow,” she said as calmly as she could. “Ill come for you.”
“Whats wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she replied. And knew that was a lie with a life of its own.
On Monday, she received a formal summonsshe was called to the police station to give evidence and identify those involved in the accident. The paper was official, stamped. She filed it with her documents but it felt like dropping a brick in there.
That evening, her manager kept her back after work.
“Look,” she said, shutting the office door. “Someones made enquiries about you. Very polite. Said you were a witness and best not to be stressed. I dont appreciate folk coming in about my staff. Be careful.”
“Who came?” she asked.
“No idea. But they were confident.” Her manager shrugged. “Im telling you woman-to-womanmaybe its best not to stir things? Weve got reports, audits. Calls will disrupt everything.”
She left the office with a feeling she was losing not just her right to speak, but also the comfort of hiding behind spreadsheets.
At home, she told her husband everything. He sat in the kitchen, eating soup in silence, then put down his spoon.
“You realise this could turn ugly?” he asked.
“I do,” she replied.
“Then why bother?” he sounded tired rather than cross. “Weve got the mortgage, your mum, our boy. You want us dragged into trouble?”
“I dont want to,” she answered. “But I saw it happen.”
He looked at her as if shed said something childish.
“You saw itnow forget it. You dont owe anyone anything.”
She didnt argueit would mean admitting there was a choice, and the choice crushed harder than any threat.
On the day of her interview, she rose early, made breakfast for her son, checked her phone was charged, and packed her passport, summons, and notebook. Before leaving, she texted her friend: where she was going, when she should be home. Her friend replied simply: “Understood. Let me know when youre done.”
The station smelled of paper and damp rubber mats by the door. She hung her coat up, approached the duty desk, and was sent to the investigators office.
He was young, with tired eyes. He offered her a chair and turned on a tape recorder.
“You understand its an offence to give false evidence?” he began.
“I understand,” she replied.
He asked his questions quietly, without pressurewhere shed stood, what the lights were, which way the Land Rover came, did she see its speed. She answered, careful not to embroider. After a while, he looked up.
“Has anyone contacted you?” he asked.
She hesitated. To admit it meant admitting the trouble had begun. To keep silent was to face it alone.
“Yes,” she said. “They rang, and approached me at the block. Told me to say I wasnt sure.”
The investigator nodded, as if hed expected it.
“Do you still have their numbers?”
She showed him incoming calls. He copied them and asked her to take screenshots and email them straight away. Her fingers were clumsy with nerves.
Afterwards, she waited on a bench in the corridor. The far door opened and she saw the Land Rover driver, walking with a solicitor, murmuring as they went. Just for a moment, he glanced at hersteady, weary, as though used to things working out for him.
The solicitor paused nearby.
“Youre the witness?” he asked amiably.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Id recommend care with your wording,” he said, still gentle. “Under stress, people get confused. You dont want to answer for mistakes, do you?”
“I just want to tell the truth,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows slightly.
“Everyone has their own truth,” he replied, moving off.
She was called in, shown several photographs, asked to identify the drivershe did. Then signed her statement. The pen left sharp, strong linesoddly reassuring: the mark couldnt be rubbed out by a single phone call.
It was dark as she left the station. She looked over her shoulder all the way to the bus stop, though no one followed. On the bus, she sat near the driver, like those wanting to feel a bit safer.
Her husband greeted her in silence. Her son peered in from his room.
“Well?” he asked.
“I told them what I saw,” she replied.
Her husband exhaled heavily.
“You know they wont let this drop now,” he said.
“I know,” she answered again.
That night she didnt sleep. She listened to stairwell doors slamming, people passing by. Every sound felt loaded. In the morning, she took her son to school herself, even though it threw her timings. She asked his teacher never to let him go with strangers, no matter what they claimed. The teacher gave her a searching look, didnt ask, and nodded.
At work, her managers tone became drier. They started handing her less to do, as though shed become troublesome. She caught colleagues glances, quickly averted. No one said anything, but an empty space had grown around her.
The calls stopped for a week, then a message arrived from an unknown number: “Think about your family.” No name. She showed the investigator as instructed. He replied: “Noted. Tell me if anything else happens.”
She didnt feel safe, but her words hadnt vanished.
One evening, the neighbour from the first floor caught her at the lift.
“Heard you got mixed up in something,” the neighbour whispered. “If you ever need, my husbands often home. Dont be shy, call. Weve been meaning to put a camera outside the block. Lets chip in and get it done.”
Her neighbour talked simply, without heroics, like suggesting a new doorbell. It made her throat sting.
A month later, she was called again. The investigator said the case was going to court; shed likely have to attend more hearings. He couldnt promise the culprit would get what she felt was fairhe spoke of the process, reports, expert analysis.
“Anyone else threatened you?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But Im always waiting for it.”
“Thats normal,” he replied. “Try to live as before. Report anything unusual right away.”
She left the station realising “normal” sounded foreign. Her life had changed. She became more cautious: mixed up her routes, kept her son away from the yard, set up call recording on her phone, and arranged with her friend to message her when she got home. She didnt feel brave, just like someone trying not to fall over while she walked a thin line.
In court, when she was called, she saw the Land Rover driver again, sitting upright, listening, writing notes, not looking at her at allwhich felt worse than his gaze. She was just part of some inevitable routine.
When asked if she was certain about her testimony, a swell of fear rose in her. She pictured her son at the school gate, the managers dry voice, her mums tired advice. And still, she said:
“Yes. I am sure.”
After court, she stood on the steps, hands cold even in gloves. Her friend messaged: “How are you?” She replied: “Alive. Going home.”
On the way, she popped into the local shop for bread and apples, because supper still mattered. It was oddly comfortinglife insisted on being ordinary.
Her son met her at the door.
“Mum, are you coming to the parents meeting tonight?” he asked.
She looked at him and realised this was the reason shed endured it all.
“Ill be there,” she said. “Lets eat first.”
Later, locking up for the evening with two deadbolts and checking the chain, she noticed she did it without panicjust calm, and as part of her new routine. That calmness was what shed had to learn afresh. No glory, no thanks, no heros role. Just the dense, simple truth: she hadnt backed down from what she saw, and she no longer needed to hide from herself.
