If you think these things,
then fair enough. You’ve obviously got your moral standards in the correct
general area. But what if you were actually confronted with such a situation?
What if you had to decide what to do? Could you do it? Obviously, the correct
answer is yes – but as with so many situations, it is rarely so simple.
I’ll tell you about a situation
I happened across last Tuesday, and I would be interested to hear what you
think about it.
I was at the Blue Brick
pub in Brierley Hill for a Jam Night with my friends Rich and Dave. Some other
people I knew were also coming down, but they arrived after all this happened.
I was marginally aware of the other people in the pub; that is to say I knew
they were there, but I didn’t know any of them in person and had no reason to
talk to them. So while the guys in the band were setting up, I sat at a stool
on a table quite close to the stage area to watch them.
From behind me I heard the
soft and quite unmistakable sound of somebody being hit. This gave rise to some
concern on my part. As I said, I was aware of the people behind me but I didn’t
know who any of them were. But as I became aware of the sound of somebody being
hit, I started to listen. There was someone behind me, almost certainly male,
talking in a low voice, and when the voice rose, it was punctuated with the
hitting sound again.
*whap*
*whap*
*whap*
That wasn’t right. It
shouldn’t have been happening. But I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by
looking around to see what was going on. There was always the possibility that
it was just some friends playing around… but it sounded just a little bit too
serious for that. So I got up, and walked to the top of the room where the
front door was. From there I could see the whole room, and this is what I saw:
From where the noise had
come from sat a couple; I reckoned early-to-mid 20s. The girl had a fearful and
resigned look on her face and appeared to be staring in the direction of the
ground by the bar directly in front of her. She was obviously upset. The man
sat next to her looked quite big and was talking to her, but his posture was all
wrong as well. He had is arm around her shoulders, had leaned in close and was
talking to her very quietly, as though he didn’t want anybody other than his
girlfriend to hear what he was saying. And every so often, as I watched, he
would hit her in the back of the head, just a little bit too hard.
*whap*
*whap*
*whap*
It could not have been
more obvious that the man was giving his girlfriend a hard time.
I wish I could say that
I’d walked up to him and broken a chair off the back of his head. I wish I
could say that I’d called the police, and that they’d dragged him off to spend
the rest of the night in a cell and the following morning explaining himself to
two very angry coppers and a tape recorder. Hell, I’d even have settled for
walking up to the guy and telling him to stop.
Of course, I didn’t do any
of those things. Why? Well, it was largely because I was scared of getting the
shit kicked out of me. After all, he was a pretty heavy-set guy, and if he had such a poisonous mind that he
felt justified in treating his girlfriend in such a way, what would he do to
someone who’d actually done something to him? I didn’t call the police either,
because I learned when I’ve come across this situation before that acting
unilaterally – i.e. calling the police – does not often result in thanks.
So what did I do?
Well, my mate Rich, who
was running the night, was at the bar so I went up to talk to him across from
where the couple were sitting. We chatted for a moment about who else he
expected to come that night, then I leaned in close and said “Do you know the
guy behind us?”
Just to clarify this
question: A lot of the people in that side of the pub were there for the jam
night, and Dave and Rich knew them personally. Therefore it wasn’t outside the
realms of possibility that Rich would know the couple behind us as well, in
which case he could go and have a quiet word with the guy. I didn’t necessarily
think it likely that Rich would be on close terms with someone who would beat
up his girlfriend, but you can never tell.
“No,” he replied, after
he’d looked around.
“He’s been proper laying
into his girlfriend for the last 20 minutes,” I told him. I doubt it had
actually been 20 minutes since I’d noticed, probably closer to 10, but that was
the number I’d thought of so that was what I’d said. Rich took another look,
and we’d both noticed that the girl was in tears at this point. He looked
around at me with a troubled expression on his face. He then did what, in
retrospect, I should have done all along – told the bar staff.
The lady behind the bar
looked over to where Rich had indicated, and saw that the girl was in trouble.
“Babb, are you alright?” she called out to her.
They both looked up, and
the girl said “Yeah,” quite clearly.
That wasn’t the end of the
matter and the lady behind the bar knew it. She crossed the bar to find another
member of staff; a stocky lad called Dan, and told him what was going on. Dan
kept an eye on them, and as soon as he saw the man hit his girlfriend again he
shouted “Oi! Out.”
At this point, my fear of
getting the shit kicked out of me wasn’t without merit, as the guy stood up and
gave Dan both barrels. It’s not easy to remember word for word what he was
saying, but broadly he didn’t like being told what he could and couldn’t do,
and was willing to prove that point by fighting anybody in the bar. He did call
me out at some point, and some others, but it was mostly aimed at Dan. Dan
rather admirably held his ground, doing nothing but telling the man to leave.
The girl had already slipped out quietly behind them.
Once the guy had left, he
was banging on the windows trying to get people’s attention – most of them were
having none of it – and I understand also smashed a glass on the outside
seating in the bar. I asked the lady at the bar if we should call the police,
and she said yes, but I don’t know if she ever did. I rang Hannah and Chloe,
who were coming to see the jam night, to tell them that there was some trouble
kicking off and to give me a ring when they get there, but it was all over by
the time they arrived with Leeanne. Relieved, and slightly shaken, we all got
on with the night.
Where the lad and his
girlfriend ended up, I don’t know. But I did feel desperately sorry for the girl, if she was going home to that kind of behaviour.
So what do I think about
all this? Obviously we’re all aware it happens – how many stories in the paper,
magazines and documentaries on TV do we see on a yearly basis – but seeing it
for yourself is an unsettling experience. The approach of the bar staff,
thankfully or perhaps not, suggests to me that they’re not unfamiliar with
situations by this, and much respect to them for not allowing it to continue.
But all the time since
then, I’ve been thinking: Could I have done more? Should I have? Should I have
called the guy out myself? Should I have intervened as soon as I realised
something was wrong? Because it was a good 10 minutes at least before I did.
Should I have told someone other than Rich? Who knows. Should I have followed
the girl to make sure she was OK? Possibly, I doubt she’d have thanked me for
it. Should I have called the police myself? Well, no one seemed to be in any
danger once the bar staff had taken action…
Excuse after excuse after
excuse, and I don’t like the way it makes me sound. I knew I should do
something and all I could think of were reasons not to. This resulted in a lot
of passing the buck on my part, and I think that situation gave rise to far
more decisive action than that. That having been said, I’m glad I told Rich in
the end, as that started the chain of events that ended with the guy getting
thrown out.
But here’s the thing: I
didn’t know the guy. Or his girlfriend. Now if I had – if that had been one of
my friends laying into his girlfriend, or if it had been Hannah, Chloe,
Leeanne, or my sister or my girlfriend being attacked by a man – what would I
have done?
I’d like to say he’d have
been unconscious before he’d hit the floor.
But I actually don’t know.
I just don’t know.
