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.