“I did what I thought was right.”
“Hello, Emma, can’t talk long—they’re beating up James!” The words hit her like a bolt from the blue. Emma froze, her fingers tightening around the phone. Her heart pounded, adrenaline flooding her veins. She barely had time to ask a question before the call dropped. Her husband had gone out for a pint with his mate after work—just a normal Friday, just an ordinary evening. Now, everything had changed.
Emma snatched her keys and bolted out the door. She dialled James’ number again and again, but he didn’t pick up. Panic coiled tighter with every passing minute. At last, she got through to his so-called friend, who’d apparently witnessed the whole thing.
“What the hell were you thinking, leaving him there?!” Emma shouted, tears burning at the edges of her voice. “Why didn’t you help? Why call me instead of the police?!”
The friend stammered excuses, babbling about how scared he’d been and how he’d wanted her to know what was happening. His shaky voice only stoked her fury.
“Oh, so you stepped back, did you? Let my husband take the punches alone? Do you even realise what you’ve done?!” She barely let him get a word in before hanging up.
She raced to the scene, praying she wasn’t too late. But by the time she got there, the street was empty—just a flashing police car vanishing around the corner with James inside. Emma stood there, helpless, the pavement cold beneath her feet.
The next morning, she marched into the police station, where she learned James had been arrested for “disorderly conduct.” Apparently, some passer-by had called it in, reporting a brawl—except no one had seen the real attackers, just James and his useless mate in the middle of it. It looked like they’d started the whole mess themselves.
Emma was livid. She tried explaining—pleading, really—that James had been jumped, but the officers just shrugged. Meanwhile, his friend—the one she’d been frantically searching for last night—was tucked up in bed, sleeping soundly, without a single thought spared for what happened.
It took her the entire day to track down witnesses and scrape together proof. Finally, a man who’d seen it all confirmed that James had been set upon by a gang. That was enough. By evening, James was free.
She met him outside the station, exhausted and defeated. She pulled him into a hug, pouring every ounce of love and apology into it, but beneath the relief, anger still simmered. She couldn’t forgive his friend’s cowardice. James was lucky—this time, it hadn’t ended worse.
Later, James called his mate.
“How could you just stand there?”
“Dunno, mate,” the friend mumbled. “Got scared. Wanted to help, but… couldn’t. You know I’ve always been a coward. Saw those blokes laying into you, and all I could think was saving my own skin. Sounds awful, I know, but… I did what I thought was right.”
James hung up. Some friend.
Later, the bloke kept trying to explain—cowardice wasn’t a choice, just who he was. He wasn’t proud, but he couldn’t change. All his life, he’d dodged fights, avoided trouble, shied away from hard decisions. That night was just another proof of it. He reckoned it shouldn’t wreck their friendship. A couple of pints, make up, move on.
But no excuse held water. James was done with him.
