Mrs Gerrish's Rear Window
November 26, 2017 @ 3:00 PM
Ever since the accident, time for Mrs. Gerrish had been at a standstill. For the umpteenth time she flicks through the wellthumbed issue of ‘True Detective’ that she’d found tucked under the bed in Room 13.
To combat her boredom she starts to observe the comings and goings of her neighbours through the large picture window her Jack had put in after Jerry dropped that land mine over the back in 1942. It had landed slap bang on Mr. Minton’s garden shed and blew his Hayter Harrier lawn mower clean through her rear window.
That window had now come into its own as the only relief from her state of suspended animation where even the hands on her Smiths Electric gold starburst wall clock seemed to have stopped moving. Oh, hang on, no it’s alright, she hadn’t plugged it back in after she’d done the hoovering last Thursday. Last Thursday… when she could nip to Normans for 10 Embassy Regal, last Thursday… when she could stand on a wobbly stool wearing nothing but her kitten-heeled house mules, lean out a bit too far to clean the upstairs windows and then find herself staring up at the sky from the top of the coal bunker with a broken leg and a face full of pink feathers from her duster.
So, confined to her wheelchair for the next six weeks, Mrs. G. begins to study, through her binoculars, the private lives of those living around her. Their curious behaviour fascinates her until one awful evening when she sees something that makes her blood run cold, something that makes the gory murder stories in the pulp fiction novels she has been reading seem as mild as an Enid Blyton Famous Five adventure…