"In my own words? Well, we were coming home from a visit to my parents and... Yes, that's right, Tommy and me. Thomas Ian Campbell, my husband. Sunday the seventh of April, yes. Can I get on with it? Well, Tommy's always dead grumpy after a visit to my folks. He's never liked them. Pretended too before we were married, mind. Anyhow, it was a struggle to get him to go, even once a month or so, even just for a couple of hours. This time he was in a right paddy on the way home, bawling and screaming at me, getting himself in a real lather. That day it was the way I was dressed - one of his hobbyhorses.
You look like a slut. Must get it from that bitch of a mother: mutton dressed as lamb, the pair of you. Should know better, especially that old bat. And you! For Christ's sake woman, you're forty-eight years old: skirt up to your arse, tits hanging out. Bloody near see-through that blouse is. What is the matter with you, you stupid looking tart!
On and on. I did my usual, sort of tuned out. You have to. If you argue with Tommy, answer back, you get a belt in the mouth. And that's if you're lucky.
Sick little bugger, Tommy.
He was still ranting when he turned into Sussex Road, not concentrating on his driving. And BANG! He must have slammed on the brakes. The seat belt almost cut my throat. Tyres squealing, everything. When I recovered and looked up there was this jogger. We must have stopped a whisker away from him because he's right up close to the bonnet of the car - one hand even resting on it! A big bloke, all in black, and staring in at Tommy - cold, dark eyes..."