**Shadows of Choice: A Drama in Manchester’s Outskirts**
The warm glow from the windows of a cosy cottage on the outskirts of Manchester flickered against the night. James stood by the window, peering into the darkness. A group of lads had gathered to unwind—a bit of stress relief, a sauna session, a game of pool. But his gaze kept drifting back to the lone car parked by the gate.
“Who’s been sitting out there for an hour?” he muttered, taking a sip of tea.
“That’s Oliver’s missus,” one of the lads chuckled, nodding toward the car.
James glanced at Oliver. The man lounged on the sofa, smirking as he sipped his lager. James had never liked him—arrogant, boastful, always needing to prove he was right.
“Oliver, your wife’s waiting,” James said, biting back his irritation.
“Let her wait,” Oliver sneered. “I’m not done yet.”
“Invite her in, at least. It’s freezing out there,” James pressed.
“I said leave it!” Oliver snapped, his eyes darkening.
James knew arguing was pointless, but something inside him snapped. He decided to act.
—
The cottage was spacious—a sauna downstairs, pool and karaoke upstairs. James had never been fond of rowdy gatherings. After watching his father stumble home drunk too many times as a boy, he’d sworn never to be like that. He wasn’t married yet, in no hurry—he wanted to meet someone who truly moved him.
Tonight’s crowd was a mixed bag. His brother, David, was the life of the party. With his wife, Sophie, expecting their third, he juggled two jobs to keep the family afloat. Sophie never minded his rare nights out, only asking James to make sure David got home safely.
“I’ll meet him outside,” she’d said over the phone, her voice warm. “He’s working late tomorrow; he can sleep it off.”
James smiled despite himself. “What I wouldn’t give for a wife like that,” he thought. Sophie was bright, caring, practical. David often said she urged him to quit the second job, but he wanted to spoil them all.
Oliver, though, stood out like a sore thumb. He’d been invited out of old habit—they’d gone to school together, and his garage gave mates’ rates. But his bragging and rudeness grated on everyone. After brewing tea, James stepped outside.
“Evening,” he greeted the woman in the car.
She looked a decade younger than Oliver, her round face framed by wide, anxious eyes.
“Hello,” she whispered, stepping out. Petite, softly curving, with a smile that drew you in.
“How is he?” she asked, accepting the mug of tea.
James shrugged. “You should go home. He won’t be done anytime soon.”
“I can’t,” she sighed, staring at the ground. “What if he comes out and I’m not here? The kids are alone—Jack’s eight, Emily’s four. I’m scared they’ll get into trouble.”
“Go to them,” James said firmly. “He can take a cab.”
She stayed silent. The gate swung open, and Oliver stumbled out, swaying.
“Who the hell are you chatting with?!” he roared, snatching the mug from her hands. It shattered against the fence. “Get in the car, now!”
She flinched, scrambling into the driver’s seat. Oliver rounded on James.
“What’s your problem?” he growled.
One word led to another, and soon shouts erupted. The lads spilled outside, pulling them apart, bundling Oliver into the car. As it drove off, someone sighed.
“Poor Lucy, tied to a bloke like that.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have let her leave with him,” James muttered.
“They’ll sort it,” another dismissed.
Everyone went back inside, but James didn’t hesitate—he got in his car and followed.
—
“Did I say you’re mine? Huh? Where’s your place?” Oliver snarled as Lucy helped him to their door.
James didn’t hear her reply. The door slammed. He drove home, but his mind wouldn’t settle. How could anyone live like that? Why did she stay? And her eyes—full of fear, yet so alive—haunted him.
The next morning, unsure why, he returned to their flat. He just needed to know she was alright. But sitting in his car, he realised how daft it was. How would he explain knocking on their door?
Then Lucy stepped out with Jack and Emily. She held the little girl’s hand, the boy walking beside her.
“Where are they off to on a Saturday?” James wondered, stepping out. “Lucy, hi!”
She startled, recognised him, and glanced nervously at the third-floor window.
“Don’t—you can’t be here,” she whispered, quickening her pace.
He followed. Around the corner, she stopped.
“Jack, take Emily to the swings,” she told her son. “I’ll be right there.”
“What do you want?” she asked when they’d gone.
“Just wanted to check you’re alright,” James admitted.
“Now you know. Go,” she said sharply.
“Lucy, if you need help—”
“I don’t,” she cut in, turning away.
“Stupid idea,” James muttered.
“Stupid?” She whirled back. “You know nothing about my life. What happens if I leave?”
James stayed silent. She walked off.
“Where are you headed?” he called.
“My friend’s,” she relented. “Lying low. He’ll be out all weekend.”
“Need a lift?”
“The kids’ll talk,” she sighed.
“Say it was a taxi.”
In the car, Lucy read the children a story to distract them. They curled into her, listening. James watched her in the rearview mirror, saying nothing.
“My number,” he said when they arrived, handing her a slip of paper. “Call me. Anytime.”
Lucy tucked it into her pocket without a word.
—
Why Lucy had lodged in his heart, James didn’t know. Pity? Her eyes? But she filled his thoughts all week. Ten days later, she called.
“Hi,” her voice trembled. “It’s awkward, but… could you lend me a hundred quid? Oliver’s been gone a week; he’s got the money. My card’s nearly empty—the kids need food. My friend’s away, and there’s no one else.”
“I’ll bring it,” he said simply.
An hour later, he stood by her flat with grocery bags. Lucy emerged, her eyes red.
“Here’s food, and this,” he said, passing the bags and pressing notes into her hand. “Got what I could.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll pay you back when he turns up.”
“Don’t,” James said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Later,” she nodded, slipping inside.
That night, she called again. Once the children slept, Lucy told her story.
—
She’d grown up in a Yorkshire village, one of six siblings. Her parents drank; the kids fended for themselves. Food was scarce. Her eldest brother left for the city at eighteen and vanished. A sister never came home one night—their parents never searched. Another brother ran away at sixteen and died; Lucy found out years later. She was alone.
One summer, selling berries by the road, she met Oliver. Confident, charming, he overpaid, kept returning, sought her out. She thought he cared. Maybe loved her. She left with him without a second thought.
At first, it wasn’t bad. She didn’t love him but felt grateful. He seemed steady. Jack was born a year later. Between nappies and feeds, she didn’t notice Oliver changing—short-tempered, disappearing for days. She knew about other women but stayed silent. Where could she go with a baby, no job, no qualifications?
Then came Emily. After the birth, Lucy gained weight, and Oliver threw it in her face.
“Be glad I stick around,” he’d sneer.
He banned her from speaking to other men. Threatened to take the children if she left. She endured, seeing no way out.
James listened in silence.
“This isn’t living,” he finally said. “There’s a way out. My aunt Margaret lives in the countryside. Pack what you can; I’ll take you there. You’ll help her; she’ll help you. Oliver won’t look there. We’ll figure out the rest.”
“What about school?” Lucy worried.
“Get Jack’s records, say you’re between schools. He’ll catch up.”
She hesitated but agreed. The next day, Aunt Margaret welcomed them with open arms.
“Don’t fret—I’ll send money,” James murmured as Lucy settled the children.
“We’ll manage,” his aunt waved him off. Lonely and childless, she adored the company.
“Make yourselves at home,” James said, leaving. “Two years later, as James rocked their newborn son in the quiet warmth of the countryside cottage, Lucy’s laughter drifting in from the garden where Jack and Emily played, he knew they’d finally found the peace they both deserved.
