Chapter 15
Christina
We stay.
I don’t know who makes the decision first. Me, or Phil, or the simple fact that leaving immediately would feel like surrender.
Emma brings me water I don’t remember asking for.
Nick says something to Rob that makes him snort into his pint.
Tommy watches the door without looking like he’s watching the door.
Everything continues.
Except it doesn’t.
Phil sits beside me, his leg pressed lightly against mine, his fingers linked with mine. His shoulders are tense in a way I recognise now, the quiet gathering of himself when something inside him has shifted out of alignment.
He doesn’t look at the bar.
He doesn’t look at the man.
He looks at me.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.”
The word comes easily.
It’s also true.
Not untouched. Not unaffected. But intact.
He nods once, like he believes me.
We sit like that for another twenty minutes, maybe longer. Time stretches in places like this, bending around noise and alcohol and the stubborn refusal of ordinary life to stop.
Eventually, Phil drains the last of his pint.
“We should go,” he says.
It isn’t an instruction.
It’s an offering.
I nod.
Emma stands immediately.
“I’ll come with you.”
I shake my head.
“No. Stay. I’m fine.”
Her eyes search mine, making sure I mean it.
Alex rests his hand lightly on her back.
“They’ll be alright,” he says.
She hesitates, then nods reluctantly.
“Message me when you get home.”
“I will.”
Phil stands beside me, his hand finding the small of my back automatically as we move through the pub. Not possessive. Protective.
We don’t look toward the bar as we leave.
The night air is cooler than I expect, sharp against my skin after the heat inside. The door closes behind us with a solid finality that makes my shoulders drop slightly.
For a while, neither of us speaks.
Our footsteps echo softly against the pavement as we walk through the empty street. Fellside at night feels smaller, quieter, like the world has drawn in around itself.
“I’m sorry,” he says eventually.
I turn toward him.
“You didn’t do anything.”
His jaw tightens.
“I should have—”
“No,” I interrupt gently. “You did exactly what you needed to do.”
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t argue either.
We turn down the narrow alley that cuts between the back of the shops and the row of cottages beyond. It’s darker here, the single streetlight at the far end casting more shadow than illumination.
I hear the footsteps before I see them.
Not in front of us.
Behind.
More than one set.
Phil hears them too.
His body stills beside me.
The sound gets closer.
A low laugh.
I turn.
It’s him.
The man from the pub.
He isn’t alone.
Two others flank him, younger, broader, their confidence drawn from numbers.
They slow as they reach us, spreading slightly without needing to coordinate it.
Closing the space.
“Well,” the man says. “Look what we’ve got here.”
Phil doesn’t respond.
He steps slightly in front of me without making it obvious, his body shifting until he occupies the space between me and them.
The man notices.
His mouth curves.
“All alone without your friends,” he sneers.
Phil’s voice is calm.
“Leave.”
The man laughs.
“Leave?” he repeats. “This is my village.”
His eyes flick to me.
“Couldn’t find yourself a British girlfriend?” he asks Phil. “Had to go importing?”
Heat flashes through me.
Phil doesn’t move.
“Go,” he says again. I'm not sure if he means me or them.
One of the others steps closer.
“You’re on your own out here,” he says quietly.
Behind me, the street is empty.
No witnesses.
No safety in numbers.
Phil’s hand finds mine briefly.
He squeezes once.
Then lets go.
“Christina,” he says, without turning around. “Go.”
I don’t move.
“Phil—”
“Go,” he repeats, sharper now.
And then it happens.
Too fast to stop.
One of them steps forward and swings.
The sound of the impact is sickeningly solid.
Phil stumbles, the force driving him sideways, but he doesn’t fall.
Not yet.
He stays between them and me.
Always between them and me.
Phil sways, but he doesn’t go down.
He absorbs the impact like his body has decided falling isn’t an option. His shoulder hits the brick wall beside him with a dull thud, and for a second I think he might recover. That he might be able to hold them off long enough for something to change.
Then the second one steps in.
It all happens so quickly. Just movement. A fist driving into Phil’s ribs with a force that folds him forward, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp, involuntary sound I’ve never heard him make before.
“Stop!” I shout.
None of them even look at me.
The first man grabs the front of Phil’s jacket and shoves him back against the wall.
“Thought you were a hard man, didn’t you?” he says, his voice low and vicious now that there’s no audience left to perform for.
Phil doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t plead.
He straightens as much as he can, forcing himself upright even as another blow lands, this one catching him across the side of the face. His head snaps to the side, the sound of it echoing off the narrow walls of the alley.
My entire body locks.
This isn’t real.
This isn’t happening here.
Not in Fellside. Not to him.
Phil’s hand finds the wall beside him, steadying himself. He pushes himself upright again, placing his body squarely between me and them like it’s the only thing he knows how to do.
“Run,” he says.
The word is barely more than breath.
“I’m not leaving you.”
His head turns slightly, just enough that I can see his profile. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth now, dark against his skin.
“Go,” he says again.
Another fist slams into his stomach before he can say anything else.
He folds forward, and this time they don’t let him recover. They keep coming, blows landing faster now, harder, the sound of it obscene in its rhythm.
Something inside me breaks free from the paralysis.
I can’t stop them.
I know that with absolute clarity.
But I know who can.
I turn and run.
My legs move before my mind catches up, carrying me out of the alley and back onto the main street. My breath tears at my throat as I sprint toward the Devil’s Barrel, the lights of the pub blazing like a beacon at the end of the road.
Behind me, I can still hear it.
The dull, sickening sound of fists hitting flesh.
I run faster.
My hands shake as I shove the door open, the noise of the pub crashing over me in a wave that feels surreal after the isolation of the alley.
Emma is the first to see me.
She stands immediately.
“Christina?”
I can’t breathe.
“They’re hurting him,” I manage. “Phil. They’re—”
I don’t finish the sentence.
I don’t need to.
The chairs scrape violently against the floor as Alex, Chris, Tommy, Nick, and Rob are already moving.
They don’t hesitate.
They move.
Alex reaches me first, his hands steady on my shoulders, his voice calm in a way that makes everything else feel sharper.
“Where?”
I point back toward the alley, my arm shaking so badly I can barely hold it still.
“There,” I manage. “Behind the bakery. They’re hurting him.”
Emma is already beside me.
Alex nods once.
Chris is out of the pub before anyone else, moving fast enough that appears almost like a blur. Tommy follows immediately, his expression stripped of everything except focus. Nick and Rob are right behind them, their usual ease gone, replaced by something harder.
Emma grabs my hand.
“Come on.”
We follow them out into the night.
The cold air hits my lungs like shock as we run. The alley feels impossibly far away now, stretched by fear and the memory of the sound his body made when they hit him.
Chris reaches it first and disappears into the darkness without slowing. Tommy is a step behind him, then Nick, then Rob. Alex slows only long enough to make sure we’re still there, his eyes flicking to Emma, to me, then he turns and goes in after them.
Emma doesn’t let go of my hand.
We enter the alley together.
Three figures are already pulling away, sprinting toward the far end. One of them glances back briefly before they disappear into the dark, their footsteps fading fast.
Cowards.
My attention snaps forward.
Phil is on the ground.
Alex is beside him, already kneeling, one hand on Phil’s shoulder, the other hovering near his jaw like he’s afraid to move him too quickly.
Chris stands over them, breathing hard, his hands still clenched. Tommy and Nick flank them instinctively, creating space, their bodies angled outward in case the men come back. Rob stands slightly behind, his face pale in the weak light.
Phil moves.
Just slightly.
His chest rises.
His eyes open.
They find mine immediately.
I drop to my knees beside him.
“Phil.”
My voice breaks on his name.
His mouth moves, but nothing comes out.
His hand lifts weakly from the ground, searching without direction.
I take it.
“I’m here,” I say, gripping his fingers tightly. “I’m here.”
Emma kneels beside me, her hand warm and steady on my back.
Phil’s fingers tighten around mine.
Not strong.
But enough.
Enough to tell me he’s still here.