I’ve spent most of this weekend thinking about the woman I saw getting beaten up outside my flat on the early hours of Saturday morning. Horrible, the sight of a big strong man repeatedly punching someone smaller and weaker while her friends watched, terrified.
There are few sounds more repulsive than that of a bony fist meeting a fleshy cheek with force – half thud, half crunch. His equally sizable friend could have intervened but like me, choose instead to do nothing. I should have called the Old Bill straight away but was overcome with the terrifying thought that Mandy was due home at any minute, that was the reason I was looking out of the window in the first place.
After partying all evening with work friends, and probably worse the wear for lager, she would undoubtedly try to do the right thing and intervene. The thought of this bullying piece of shit smashing his fist into Mandy’s nose made me feel physically sick, even worse would be me stood by utterly powerless to do anything.
I turned Pharoah Sanders off, the repeated lyrics “It’s all about peace and love” now sounded stupid. The woman got in her car and tried to drive off, but was too upset so just sat and stared at the steering wheel.
I regretted not calling the Police almost instantly, and now can’t stop thinking about my lack of action and that bloke, who probably didn’t think he did anything wrong.