“I did what I thought was right.”
The words hit Katherine like a bolt from the blue—sharp, unexpected, devastating.
“Hello? Kat, I can’t talk long—they’re beating up Nick,” the voice crackled through the phone. Her breath caught; her fingers clenched around the device. Adrenaline spiked in her veins before she could even ask a question. Then—nothing. Silence. The call had dropped.
Nick had gone out for a pint after work with his mate. Just another Friday night in Manchester. Now, everything had changed.
Katherine snatched her keys and bolted outside. She dialled Nick’s number over and over, but he didn’t pick up. Each unanswered ring twisted her stomach tighter. Desperate, she called his friend, who had been there—who had *seen* it happen.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she screamed into the phone, her voice raw. “You just *left* him? Why didn’t you help? Why call *me* instead of the police?”
Stammering, his friend tried to explain—said he panicked, said he wanted her to know. His shaky excuses only stoked her fury.
“Ran off to save yourself, did you? And left my husband alone with them? Do you even *hear* yourself?” she spat, cutting him off before he could reply.
She raced to the scene, heart hammering—but when she got there, it was over. A police car had already taken Nick away, leaving nothing but an empty street and the echo of violence.
At the station the next morning, they told her Nick had been held for “disorderly conduct.” Some passerby had reported a fight—claimed it was *him* causing trouble. No one saw the truth: that it was a pack of drunken louts who’d set upon him and his cowardly mate.
Katherine was livid. She argued with the officers, demanded they listen—but they just shrugged. Cold indifference. Meanwhile, Nick’s so-called friend was already home, tucked in bed, as if nothing had happened.
She spent the day hunting down witnesses, pulling the truth from the shadows. Finally, one bystander admitted it: he’d seen Nick jumped by a gang. That was enough.
That evening, she met Nick outside the station. He looked wrecked—bruised, hollow-eyed. She threw her arms around him, clinging tight, but beneath her relief, anger still simmered. She couldn’t forgive his friend. Nick was lucky it hadn’t been worse.
Later, Nick called the man himself.
“You just *watched* them kick the hell out of me?”
“I don’t know, mate,” his friend mumbled. “I—I froze. Wanted to help, but I couldn’t. Always been a coward, you know that. First thing in my head was saving my own skin. Sounds rotten, but it’s the truth.”
Nick hung up. Cold. Final. *What kind of friend does that?*
For weeks after, the man kept trying to explain—cowardice wasn’t a choice, he insisted, just who he was. Couldn’t change it. Didn’t want fights, never had. This was just proof.
But no excuse could unbreak what was broken.
Nick never spoke to him again.
