From the deepest desires often come the deadliest hate
Socrates (469 bc-399 bc)
Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope of a fool than of him
Proverbs, 26:12
1985
'It must be love, look at his hair!'
Phillip Murphy laughed good-naturedly; his father was the proverbial wind-up, but funny with it.
He knew he looked good and was attractive to the opposite sex. Women and girls had been giving him the glad eye since he was fourteen years old. It was his size; he was what his mother termed 'a fine figure of a man'. Broad shouldered, he stood three inches over six feet. His thick black hair coupled with his dark-lashed blue eyes spoke of the Irish in him. His thick-lipped mouth made him look amenable, friendly, hid the steel that lay beneath his easy smiles. He always got what he wanted, it was a mantra with him. He believed his mother's advice: if you want something, you'll get it, you just have to want it badly enough. Well, he wanted better than his parents, he wanted better than everyone around him, and he was determined to get it.
Phillip liked Christine Booth because she was clean; clean and innocent in every way. She looked at him as if he was a god, and actually to her he was the next best thing. The thought made him smile again.
His mother Veronica watched her favourite child as he grinned with happiness. She knew this was serious all right; he had never brought a girl home before, not like this anyway. He had brought them to his bed, late at night, and hustled them out with the dawn, assuming she was too dense to work out what had gone on.
This one was different. All she had heard lately was Christine this, and Christine that. But, as pleased as she was that he was in love, she also knew the girl was only fifteen years old. Phillip was twenty-one, that was a big age difference to most people. But then again, five years from now, the difference between them would be nothing. It was the 'schoolgirl' tag that she was bothered about, and there was no getting away from it. Veronica knew that Christine had to be home by nine every night – not that that meant much in the grand scheme of things, people could have a bit of the other at five o'clock in the day. Early nights didn't guarantee anything, she knew that from experience. Look at her Breda. Veronica loved her daughter but acknowledged that she had a voracious appetite for men. She worried Veronica with her attitude to sex. Breda was what they would have called 'overfriendly' in her day, these days she was just called 'oversexed'.
Veronica had met her husband at the Shandon Bells Irish club in Ilford when she was fourteen years old; he had been eighteen and working on the buildings. Fresh over from Dublin Phillip Murphy had danced with her, seduced her, and married her three years later. Her father had not been thrilled but he had come round eventually, especially once her belly started to grow, and her mother had hastily arranged the wedding to save everyone embarrassment. The priest who had married them had christened their child four months later. Her father grew to love her husband Phillip and she had been blessed with a very happy marriage and a lovely family with her three boys and Breda.
These days it was different: girls were looking older, acting older than their years, but were still treated like children in their homes. In her day, a fifteen year old was out working and looking for the man of her dreams; a father for her children. At fifteen, she was assumed to be on the brink of womanhood.
This Booth girl worried Veronica. She was from a good family, well-to-do in comparison with her lot – Catholic too, so that was a bonus as far as Veronica was concerned. But she also knew that Christine's mother was a hard-faced harridan who thought she was better than everybody else. To be fair, though, the father seemed nice enough. Veronica had been to his shop many times, and he had always been very pleasant to her.
Now her son was talking engagement rings and lifetime commitment. Veronica smiled; the way young people talked about their lives today was laughable. Not like in her day. Then, you married in the eyes of God and you took what came your way: the good, the bad and the indifferent. What else could you do? There was no divorce, not for Catholics anyway, not real ones.
Veronica Murphy surveyed her home; it was gorgeous. They had bought their council house and built an extension, so now the kitchen was huge. All melamine units and shiny work surfaces. The floor was her pride and joy, black and white tiles that looked like marble. She was proud of her home, and rightly so. In comparison to the houses around her, it was like a palace. And she had made a good dinner for them all that night. A big roast, with Irish pork and honeyed parsnips. She'd also made roast tatties like the boys loved, along with colcannon and buttered peas. The aroma coming from the oven was mouthwatering. The gravy was all she had left to do, and she knew just how her tribe liked it – thick and dark. A bit like her youngest son, God love him and keep him.
As Phillip Junior began singing along to the radio, Veronica smiled to herself again. He was smitten all right.
Christine Booth was sick of her mother's voice, it was like a constant stream of irritating nothingness. The woman talked just for the sheer hell of it. She dreamed of the day she could leave home, the day she could finally shut the front door on her mother's constant nagging. Eileen never stopped, her topics of conversation ranged from what Christine was wearing, to how she sat, to what she ate. Or more to the point what she didn't eat. Her schoolwork, her future, her lack of decorum were constant causes of criticism. It was as if Eileen hated her only daughter, was already disappointed in her at just fifteen. Every day of her life, Christine Booth had never felt she was good enough, had always felt she had failed somehow.
Even as a little kid she had been aware of her mother's determination to better herself and, in the process, better the life of her daughter, whether she wanted it or not. Christine had never felt comfortable in her own home, always had to make sure she was what her mother wanted her to be. Needed her to be. Which was polite, intelligent, hard-working and, above all, respectable. Her mother made the word 'respectable' sound so important it frightened Christine at times. All her friends wore make-up, went out with their mates and had a good time, but not her – she was monitored constantly. It was like living with a huge burden, the burden being that she must never make her mother feel ashamed of having her. But from the way Eileen talked, the way she acted, it was obvious Christine already had.
She felt that she had already let her mother down, so she always felt as though she was having to make amends, even though she had never intentionally done anything to make her mother feel like she did. As her friend Joanie said, it was her mother who had the problem, not her. It was Eileen who read filth into the most innocent of conversations, Eileen who was so convinced her daughter was already gone to the bad, as she so succinctly put it. Was it any wonder Christine lied and cheated to get away from her? All she wanted was to be a normal teenager.
Christine looked at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table; she knew she was pretty, knew she was sexy even, desirable. Phillip Murphy made her feel like she was the only girl on earth, like a woman. He was the only person to ever make her feel she was worth something, other than her dad, of course, but he didn't count. He was her dad. He had to love her. But, like her, Dad was also under her mother's thumb, he couldn't have an opinion in his own home, it was more than he dared. Her mother would see that as tantamount to mutiny: it was her way or no way How many times had Christine heard that over the course of her young life?
Eileen Booth was angry. She was always angry. As she pushed her daughter's bedroom door open, she said in her usual demanding way, 'Are you deliberately ignoring me or have you suddenly been struck stone deaf?'
Christine sighed audibly. She wasn't going to take the bait, wouldn't bite back. That was what Eileen wanted, she always wanted a full-on row, a reason to ground her daughter. Well, Christine wasn't going to play into her hands.
'I'm sorry, Mum, I was miles away.' She was smiling at her, trying to look innocent, trying to make her leave her alone.
Eileen Booth narrowed her eyes in suspicion – was this a piss- take? She knew better than anyone that her daughter would need to be at least fifty miles away to block her voice out when she was at full throttle. 'Where are you off to again?'
'Round Joanie's, we're doing our history homework. The Elizabethan era, I told you last night.' She saw her mother looking her over, determined as always to find fault. But there was none. She made sure of that.
Christine had on the minimum of make-up, she wore a plain black dress that ended below the knee and American Tan tights. She also wore her school shoes – black, clumpy school shoes from Clarks. She looked awful in comparison to her contemporaries, and she knew it. She saw her mother battling inside herself to find fault.
'For crying out loud, I'm only going to Joanie's! When have you ever had cause to doubt me, Mum? When have I ever let you down?' She had the hurt and misunderstood look down to a T.
'Well, make sure you're home by nine, and I'm ringing Joanie's mum so don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes, all right?'
'Why would I bother, Mum? Answer me that one, eh?' Picking up her schoolbag off the floor, Christine kissed her mother on the cheek dutifully and walked sedately from the room.
Eileen Booth listened to her daughter's retreating footsteps and sat down on the bed. Why couldn't her daughter see the danger her looks and friendly nature put her in? She was a nice girl, Eileen knew that better than anyone, but it was the nice girls who got caught out. She didn't want her daughter to have a life like hers, making do. Christine was worth so much more than that, but she was too young to see it.
One day, Eileen was convinced her daughter would thank her for her love and the interest she took in her life. Until then she consoled herself with the knowledge that not only was her girl too shrewd to be caught out, but that Eileen herself was far too vigilant to let her daughter get into any position that could ruin her future. Her Christine was going to have every advantage, every chance to make something of herself. Whether the ungrateful little mare wanted it or not.
Breda Murphy opened the front door wide with a smile that was even wider and eyes that were merry. Christine liked her at once.
'You must be Miss Booth.'
Christine smiled shyly, she had got this far so she was determined to make a good impression. 'And you must be Miss Breda.'
Breda laughed, but it was a derogatory laugh. 'Oh Jesus, he'll eat you for breakfast. Come on in anyway. You're expected.'
Christine followed her, disconcerted by Breda's greeting.
Phillip's street, she hadn't been able to help but notice, was very run down. It was part of a typical council estate and it was alien to her. Her home was a large semi in a nice neighbourhood. It was quiet, and people kept themselves very much to themselves. Here though, there were kids hanging around in the street and curtains were left wide open so anyone could look in and see what was going on. See their lives as they really were without any kind of pretence.
Even Phillip's home, which she knew he was proud of, and was nicer than all the others in the street with its double glazing and obvious extension, would only fit into the ground floor of her own home. She saw the house as her mother would see it, and that annoyed her. These were nice people, friendly people, and they had invited her into their lives without hesitation. She knew her mother would have a full-on coronary if she knew where her daughter was, and she didn't care. For the moment, she didn't give a monkey's.
Christine had to admit, though, that walking up the road had been like walking a gauntlet. She was new, she was suspect, and the people there had made her aware of that. When she had walked in the gate that was the entrance to the Murphy home, she had seen the young lads hesitate, watch her closely. She knew they were wondering what she was there for.
But now she was inside, she was amazed at the warmth, the size and the sheer goodwill that seemed to emanate from everyone and everything around her. This was a home alive with people and sounds. There was noise coming from every room and, as she saw Phillip in the kitchen doorway, his handsome face smiling and his obvious nervousness at her visit, she felt herself relax. She knew then that he was as scared as she was, and that made it suddenly all right.
Breda pushed her gently from behind and, laughing, she walked through to the enormous kitchen that was so obviously the pride and joy of Phillip's mother. Smiling shyly, Christine looked around the table at his whole family but before she could utter a word his mother bustled towards her shouting, 'Jasus, Phillip, she's gorgeous and far too good for the likes of you.'
It broke the ice, and Christine Booth, for the first time in her whole life, felt like she had finally come home.
'It's only twenty past nine, are you sure you have to get going, child?'
Christine smiled nervously, embarrassed at her predicament. 'To be honest, I'm already late, Mrs Murphy.'
Veronica grinned, her round face thrilled at the girl's obvious decency. Her Phillip had chosen a good girl and, in this day and age, they were few and far between. She only had to look at her Breda to know that. And if not her Breda, then the papers. Young girls were like men these days, sex was everywhere, and girls were bombarded with so-called choices. The world had gone shagging mad, as her mother would have said.
'My mum is a bit of a tartar about me being home on time. She worries about me.'
Veronica laughed easily. 'And who could blame her? Sure, you're a dote, that's what you are, Christine, a dote.'
Veronica glanced at her husband for support and he winked at the girl, as thrilled as his wife with his son's choice of mate. Like his wife he knew that his son was serious. Phillip had been attracting girls, and women, since he was a lad, and he'd got away with a lot over the years. Seeing him with this little one and knowing that if he had brought her to his parents' house he had to be serious about her, pleased Phillip Senior as much as it did his wife. He knew better than anyone what the wrong mate could cause in a man. His younger brother had married a whore of the first water, and he was doing life for his mistake. She had escaped his wrath – you didn't hit women – but her fancy man had met a knife in the ribs, and none of them thought his brother had done the wrong thing. The whore had produced a child and the parentage had been very suspect. It had been blonder than a Swedish au pair, with nonexistent eyebrows and a harelip. As the old saying went, it was a wise child that knew its own mother, but it was a very wise child that knew its own father.
Who would take the chance on something like that? Why would you put yourself through it? If you chose wisely from the off, got them young and innocent, and never shat on your own doorstep, then you were guaranteed a happy marriage and peace of mind. Women were like horses, you stabled them and gave them a stud. If you did it right the first time and kept them close, you had a marriage that could only bring you children and lasting happiness. He had told his three sons that from the off, and it seemed his words had struck a chord. With this one anyway. His daughter, on the other hand, lay down for any man she liked the look of. His words of wisdom had seemed to send her in the opposite direction altogether; sure, she delighted in her loose ways. But she was his only daughter so he overlooked a lot in that respect. In any case, he saw it as his wife's job to keep Breda on the straight and narrow. And he wished Veronica good luck with that. Breda was like his own mother: strong, capable and able to have more fights than John Wayne in the course of the average day. Plus, if he was really honest, he felt a small iota of respect. Breda's voracious appetite for men, sex and adventure came from his side of the family. Strong women the lot of them and proud of it.
Phillip admired his daughter's sense of self. She was eighteen, full-blooded and full-figured – a real beauty, and every man knew that beauty and brains were a lethal combination. His Breda was as savvy as any man he had ever known, and therefore he wanted her to have the same chances as his sons. He knew what was in store for his Breda if she wasn't careful, and though he was quite happy to see the likes of Christine get trapped by love, he still wanted a bit more for his own wayward daughter. She had already had one child, at fifteen no less. Who the father was no one knew – she refused to tell. He suspected she didn't know, but he didn't allow himself to dwell too much on that. Young Porrick was a handsome, strong boy and she loved him.
However she chose to love, Breda was his daughter, and that was enough for him. After all, if he didn't look out for his own who would?
The hammering on his front door broke Phillip Senior out of his reverie and, like his three sons and his wife, he expected the worst. It was what was termed in their street 'an Old Bill knock'.
As the Murphys crowded into the small hallway, Christine hung back in the kitchen, fearful of the way everyone had assumed it was trouble coming. In her home, a knock on the door was considered normal, no one would be worried about it or assume it was something dangerous. She was really scared. She wished suddenly that she was at home, and safely tucked up in her own bed.
This banging was sinister, and Phillip and his family's reaction made her fears seem valid. All the things she had heard about his family were crowding her mind: that they were dangerous, that they were Faces. That no one messed with them, they were a law unto themselves.
That they were capable of all sorts.
Veronica opened the door while the rest of the family stood together like a human wall; the Murphys knew instinctively to stand close to each other, and make sure that nothing or no one could get past them. Each was determined to protect the others around them no matter what.
But it was only Joanie, Christine's friend, and her presence on the doorstep gave rise to a general sigh of relief. She peered around the Murphys to see Christine.
'Your mum's looking for you round ours, Chris, you better get a move on.'
Everyone turned to look at her then, all amazed that this little girl could have been the cause of so much fear.
Grabbing her coat and bag, Christine slunk from the house with a muttered 'thank you' and a heartfelt goodbye to Phillip, aware of the tension her friend's presence had inadvertently caused them all. She hated her mother anew for making this night such a bloody abortion. She had been really enjoying herself but, as always, her mother had managed to ruin it. Christine was more determined than ever to get away from her.
'Fucking hell, Phil, did you break into a nursery? She's jailbait.'
Phillip Junior, who was normally very good natured with his sister, turned on her then, and everyone in the hallway was shocked at his words. 'Shut your fucking trap, Breda, just because she ain't a dog like you. She's only fifteen, of course her mother is looking for her. We all looked for you at the same age if you remember. Not that it did us much good.'
Breda being Breda was not about to let that go. 'What do you mean by that, Phil? Are you having a pop at me then? I was making a joke…'
Phillip turned to her and, poking a finger in her face, said quietly, 'Well, I ain't in the mood for jokes. So take my advice, and keep them to yourself.'
They were interrupted by the sound of crying coming from upstairs. Phillip looked at his sister and said sarcastically, 'You better get up there, Bred, sort your boy out. Let's face it, it ain't like his father's gonna turn up and help out, is it?'
'You nasty bastard, how dare you talk to me like that! Just 'cos your little girlfriend done a runner with her mate. Don't take it out on me.'
James, the youngest of the Murphy boys, stepped in then, seeing the hurt that Phillip's words had caused not just his sister but also his mother.
The father of Breda's child was what was commonly known as a wonderer – everyone wondered who he might have been.
Breda had never let on, and now at two years old, young Porrick was the darling of the household.
'He don't mean it, Breda, he's on a love job.'
Phillip looked at his sister and felt ashamed at his words, even though he knew that there was a bit of him that believed she was in the wrong. Deep down inside he thought she was a fucking slag. A baby at fifteen, and no fucking answer to the who-did-it question? It was hardly rocket science. He knew what people were saying about her; it was only his reputation that stopped them saying it to her face.
His family loyalty, though, was stronger than his bigotry and, whatever he might really think, he would defend her to the death if necessary. Opening his arms wide in a gesture of forgiveness, he said seriously, 'Come on, Breda, give me a break, me bird's just run home to her mother, how do you think I feel? I'm sorry, mate, you know I don't mean it…'
Breda wasn't to be placated though and, shaking her head slowly, she said heavily, 'I'll give you a heads-up, shall I? Sister to brother. Christine is a lovely girl, but she will be trouble, Phil. You'll never believe that, you will only ever see the good girl, the wilting virgin. How you were first in, and last out. Well, do you know something, bruv? We women are not as different as you all seem to think we are. And that child up there will always mean more to me than any fucking bloke. You lot included. He is my flesh and blood, so fuck the neighbours, and fuck you for your narrow-mindedness. Unlike men, we women know exactly what we have produced, and we do not have to rely on someone else's honesty to convince us of our children's paternity. So, next time you have a go at me about my baby being fatherless, remember this much. I know and he will always know who his mother is, there can never be an argument about that. And he will also know that he was more important to me than my reputation. You see, that's something none of you ever quite got. At fifteen years old, I chose my own flesh and blood over the neighbours and their gossiping. Over you lot, and your fear of what people might think. So anything you have to say to me is pointless. I made a decision against everything you all believed was right.'
'Stop this now, Breda, it's gone far enough,' Veronica interjected, visibly upset.
Breda shook her head again, her lovely face smiling amiably, the hurt she had kept inside for so long hidden, until she said sarcastically, 'Oh, Mum, how did it go when I told you I was pregnant? Oh yeah, I remember, "get an abortion, no one will ever know, you're ruining your life, no one will ever want you if you have a baby". And you hammering the door of the church down every Sunday. I nearly swallowed your crap and all. But you see, you never allowed for me and the love I already had for my child. None of you thought about me and what I might want. You had to get married, Mum. I chose not to.'
Breda pushed past her eldest brother, shoving him angrily out of her way. 'I had my baby, I kept my baby, and for you to give me a tug because your little schoolie had to go home to her mum and dad's… I ain't your whipping boy, and you better get your head around that. And now I am going up to settle my little boy, and you can go and fuck yourselves.' She walked from the room then, her back ramrod straight and her animosity almost tangible.
'What the fuck was all that about?' Declan, the middle brother, was genuinely shocked at the night's turn of events.
Veronica Murphy shook her head in despair.
Watching his sister mount the stairs, Phillip looked at his father and said honestly, 'She has a point, I suppose.'
Phillip Murphy Senior looked at his sons and, pushing them gently back into the kitchen, he said loudly, 'Well, that needed to be said. She did a brave thing keeping the child. These days you can flush the poor unfortunates away without a second's thought. If she had done that, sure none of you would have been any the wiser and she would still be like your one there tonight, who ran home to her mammy like a good girl. Can you blame your sister for feeling you all think wrong of her?'
Phillip looked at his eldest son in particular as he spoke, and Phillip Junior knew that his reaction to his sister had not only been uncalled for, but had also been seen for the hypocrisy that it was. He was suitably ashamed.
But Christine's goodness, her family's decent reputation, their standing in the small community they had to live in, had shown him just how other people really perceived them all. He knew that his sister's child had been a slur on the family. It was a stigma to have a child and not be married. It was still seen as a terrible thing. Not for the fathers of course, only the mothers of the children. Their lives were more or less ruined. He understood that Breda was telling him this night, without fear or favour, that her child was not going to be apologised for in any way, shape or form. Especially not to the likes of Christine Booth and her family. Breda had tapped into his fear of what Christine's family might think about his sister having a child out of wedlock. She had implied that his taking up with a fifteen-year-old girl who didn't know her arse from her proverbial elbow was the reason Phillip suddenly looked down on his own sister, on his own flesh and blood.
Phillip knew that Breda had perceived his real feelings towards her. He looked at his two brothers, and saw their sceptical looks. They were as aware as Breda of his worries that her child might affect the Booths' overall opinion of him and his family. Phillip was ashamed of his thoughts, and the fact that he had allowed Eileen Booth and her opinions to cloud his judgement.
But in his favour, he loved Christine with a vengeance. Realistically he knew that his family name alone would be enough for her mother to cause them aggro – on top of everything else, his sister's unmarried state would be another thing Eileen would use against him. Already this young girl had made him turn on his own sister, had made him want to be someone different, someone her family would be happy to welcome. Who her family would see as an asset, not as a liability. Christine was not like the Murphys; she was pure, she was good and decent and that meant the world to him.
Christine had never asked for anything in her whole life, not really, and he so badly wanted to be good enough for her he had nearly allowed himself to betray his own family. The strength of his feelings and what they made him do frightened him; he had never wanted anyone this way before, had never felt that kind of anger before. And it turned out Christine had not even told her family where she was going – that spoke volumes to him. That she had come to his home and lied to her parents about her whereabouts had really offended him, even though he understood the reasoning behind it.
But Phillip was going to get his girl, no matter what it took. He was obsessed with her, and he knew there would never be anyone else for him.
'I want to know where you were. And don't you lie to me, Christine, I already know the answer.'
'Then why ask the road you know, Mum?'
The two antagonists stared at one another, neither willing to be the first to look away. They were so alike physically – thick blond hair and dark blue eyes. Both were fine boned, with small hands and feet. Eileen saw herself in her daughter, a younger, prettier version, of course. Christine wouldn't waste herself on a no mark; unlike her mother, this girl would use her looks and her brains to her advantage. Eileen would make sure of that if it was the last thing she did in this life.
She was heartbroken that it had come to this with her only child. A girl who had always done what she was told, who had made her so proud deep inside. Christine couldn't see that her name being associated with a family like the Murphys was something she would one day regret with all her heart. She might be naive, but she was certainly not stupid. Christine had seen the people who frequented their supermarket (Eileen never called it a shop, ever). She had seen how those people lived. She was nearly sixteen, she would be off to the sixth form soon and she would meet a different class of person. She would see that the estate was a dump for transients and no-hopers. She had seen them all her life, queuing up for their family allowance and their giros. She had to have seen that this was no life for the likes of her.
That the post office was a big part of their income Eileen never admitted. She looked on it with disdain as she did everything to do with the supermarket. With her husband's working life. With the place that kept her in the manner she was still not accustomed to as a result of it not bringing in as much money as she would have liked. Eileen was bitter; she had once pictured them with a chain of small supermarkets, and she admitted to herself that if she had been willing to work side-by- side with her husband, a second one would have been possible and then a third. But she was too proud. She had been to teacher training college and had become a part-time teacher at the local primary school. But she now understood that the supermarket should have been a joint venture. That boat had sailed a long time ago though, and she didn't plan to tell her husband he had been right. It was too late anyway, because he didn't want her there any more – she only put off the customers they did have. If it wasn't for him and the tick, the majority would leave and go to the new supermarkets springing up all over the place. Nevertheless, times were tough. They now depended on the giros, the family allowance and the car tax. They desperately needed another income, because they were finding it increasingly hard to make ends meet. The mortgage was crippling them, and Eileen was determined her daughter was going to contribute before she swanned off to marry and reproduce.
'Are you going to answer me, Mum?'
Christine was fed up now. Being questioned every day, every week, so aggressively was not something she was willing to endure any more. She knew her association with Phillip Murphy was now common knowledge, and she had accepted that her mother would eventually get wind of it. She just wished it had not happened so quickly, had not happened tonight.
'I was at Joanie's.' She knew she had said this to her mother too much recently, but it couldn't be helped. 'It's not a crime to go to a friend's, is it?'
'No one said it was, but if it was so innocent why didn't you say that in the first place?'
Christine closed her eyes and counted to ten; she had read a problem page once that said if you took a deep breath and counted to ten before you answered a question, it stopped you from blurting out things you might one day regret. That advice had stood her in good stead over the years with her mother. Not so much lying, as just not telling her the whole truth.
Her mother saw the bad in everything, in her eyes everyone in her daughter's orbit was a potential threat. Even her school- friends and their mothers. Joanie's mum had always sympathised with Christine, had seen the way her mother had demanded total control of her only daughter. Joanie's mum had told her many years ago that she was always welcome to stay there if she needed a break. It had been a watershed for Christine hearing those words. She had known then that her feelings for her mother weren't ingratitude, her mother was genuinely unreasonable.
'Why didn't I tell you? Do you really need to ask me that, Mum? You keep questioning me as if I have done something wrong, and the more you question me the more I don't want to tell you anything. You're supposed to trust me, trust what I say.' Christine was so upset she was visibly shaking, not so much with anger, though that was a big part of it, but with sheer distress. Why was her mother always trying to catch her out? She had been at Joanie's, on the night she was being questioned about anyway. She didn't get to see her friend much these days. Phillip didn't like her for some reason.
Eileen Booth took a deep breath, and looked into her daughter's eyes. Christine noted that her face was the usual mask of heavy foundation. She thought her mother's make-up made her look like a doll. Made her look unreal. She came down to the breakfast table every day in full war paint, and for as long as Christine could remember, she had never once seen her mother without her face on. Eileen never looked natural, had never looked approachable or friendly even. From her blue eye shadow to her pink cheeks she looked like a stranger. Like someone else's mum. She was very attractive, Christine knew that, saw the way men looked at her. She knew instinctively that her mother's make-up was for their benefit, not her husband's. Eileen had disregarded Ted since Christine could remember. He rarely disagreed with his wife, she was far too aggressive, far too overpowering. Christine knew he had given up trying to make any kind of point long ago. He had been worn down by his wife's constant complaints. Christine was determined that she would not have a marriage like that.
As Eileen Booth looked at her lovely daughter she felt the urge to cry. She couldn't bear to see her lovely girl waste herself on a Murphy. And waste herself she would if Eileen didn't step in and steer her in the right direction.
'I've heard a rumour, Christine, and that rumour is that you are trailing after Phillip Murphy. The Murphys are the scum of the earth, darling. Now, put yourself in my position. If you had a daughter, and I want you to think about this seriously, would you honestly want her wasting herself on a no mark like that?'
When she was really angry, as she was now, Eileen resorted to the gutter speak. It showed her up for what she really was. 'No mark' was a common expression, and Christine knew that while her mother might believe she was better than everyone, she had been born over a newsagent's in East London. The shop her husband now ran had been bought with the proceeds of that newsagent's. That she still looked down on everyone around her was a constant source of irritation to her only daughter.
Looking squarely at her mother, Christine asked sarcastically, 'What's a "no mark", Mum?'
Her mother's hand shot out and physically knocked her across the room. Then, grabbing her daughter's hair, Eileen dragged her into the downstairs toilet. Pushing her face against the mirror, she screamed, 'Look at yourself, you stupid girl! You could have anyone, do anything with your life.'
Christine was not going to cry, no matter what, so, pulling herself from her mother's grasp, she said, 'What, like you did, you mean?' The words were quietly spoken, but the implication was there for anyone to hear.
'You nasty little mare. After all I've done for you…'
'That's all I've ever heard, Mum, all me life, what you've done for me. Well, I wish you hadn't bothered, because I want out of here. Sooner rather than later, and I know you don't like Phil, but that's half the attraction. I'd shag a tramp if it got me away from you.'
Christine knew then that she had finally gone too far.
Phillip Murphy was really angry, but as usual he kept his feelings to himself. He understood only too well the value of blandness; in his job, the less people could gauge about you the less they could put away for future reference. Consequently, no matter what he was paid to do, he did it quietly, quickly and, most importantly, without expressing any kind of opinion whatsoever. He was already getting a reputation as a good earner. As someone who took the job on offer and didn't ask questions either way and, more to the point, didn't feel the urge to discuss it with all and sundry.
His attitude was it wasn't any of his business and, for that reason, he had no interest in the history of the people involved. He wasn't in the market for hearing grievances or explanations. He wanted his poke, and he would happily carry out what was requested of him to get it without a prolonged discussion. He prided himself on his knack for not caring about the people involved – not the people who paid him, and definitely not the people he was paid to visit.
Until now, that was.
It didn't mean he wasn't aware of the situations he had been asked to deal with. He always knew exactly what the score was, he just never asked the person concerned why they wanted his services. The fact that he expected a very nice fee for what he did spoke volumes. His price told the person who needed his expertise that he knew exactly what was going on, but that he didn't let it cloud his judgement in any way. If he wasn't told anything it was assumed he did not know anything. It was simple economics. He just wanted his money, he was not a fucking agony aunt. This endeared him to people because they knew he never discussed his work, and never felt the need to prove himself by running off his mouth. And his brothers were the same. But most petty Faces were banged up because they couldn't resist opening their traps. They needed people to know who they were and what they were capable of. Liked to name-drop the people they were working for, liked the fact that they felt a bit of reflected glory. Real Faces were too shrewd to let anyone know anything, no matter how big or how small. It was enough for them to know they had done it and got away with it; they certainly didn't feel the need to broadcast it to the fucking nation.
Now here he was, standing before Stan Barclay, a man he had grown up respecting, a man his father had always spoken of in hushed tones, and he was asking Phillip to do something that was not only against the grain, but an insult to boot. There wasn't much Phillip wouldn't do, but even he had his limit. He knew that Stan was relying on his reputation for discretion, and he understood that it was that reputation that had brought him to Stan's attention. But he was not about to be used by him. Being given a job that Stan would be chary of giving to his regular workforce said it all as far as he was concerned. Even though it would enable Phillip to step up into the world of serious villainy, as Stan had repeatedly pointed out to him. What Stan didn't realise, however, was that Phillip knew that Stan would make sure what he was asking him to do was never made public. That meant that Phillip himself would be a target once the job was completed. Stan was betting on his greed and that he would be too dense to work out the bottom line. Phillip was young and he was hungry, but Stan Barclay had made a mistake in thinking he was also stupid. This was a poser, this was a real dilemma. But he had to ask the question.
'Are you sure about this, Stan?'
Stan Barclay nodded his huge head; he looked like an oversized shelf stacker, not a criminal mastermind. He had a huge workforce and a large slice of the pie that was London. He also had an Achilles heel, and now that Phillip knew what it was he knew he had to act quickly. Stan Barclay was not going to wait around for him to put two and two together. Even Phillip was secretly impressed; if Stan had him removed, who would even suspect he was a part of it? It would be assumed he had upset one of the powers-that-be and had been taken care of. It would not be seen as important. He was a young pup, and the word would be put round that he had upset the wrong person.
'This is not something I was expecting. How much after the job's done?' Phillip said the words with the arrogance he knew Stan would expect. He was well aware that Stan had no intention of paying him a fucking brass razoo. Any front money would be reacquired after his demise.
Stanley Barclay smiled slightly as he opened his arms in a gesture of open-handed generosity. 'Thirty grand after, ten in cash today.'
Phillip nodded, his face didn't betray his real thoughts. 'Where is she? Where's the best place to find her?'
Stan grinned, happy in the knowledge he had sorted out another problem with the least amount of aggro and the maximum amount of camaraderie. He was sorry in a way; this kid was good but, like all good generals, Stan had to understand the term 'collateral damage'.
Veronica looked at her son's girlfriend, saw the bruises on her face, and the sorrow in her eyes. If she was honest, she didn't blame Eileen Booth for her reaction; she was truthful enough to admit she wouldn't want her daughter to come home with men like her sons.
But Phillip loved this girl. Trouble was she was only fifteen. And now, she was on the doorstep refusing to go home.
Christine was battered and bruised, and she needed someone to look out for her. Eileen Booth was an eejit, she should realise she was driving the girl away. Everyone knew about Christine and Phillip. They were the talk of the estate.
Christine's parents were well known too. Ted Booth's supermarket was just down the road. Ted treated everyone with respect. He allowed tick to some people, and he had a knack of refusing others in a way that didn't cause them to retaliate. He had always had a Christmas Club, and everyone knew he was meticulous about the money that was paid in. She herself had been a part of it for longer than she cared to remember. It was his wife that people had the problem with. Eileen Booth made a point of lording it over everyone who came into what she referred to as 'her establishment'; she made sure that everyone knew she thought they were beneath her. So Veronica could be forgiven for finding a small measure of satisfaction in having Eileen's daughter in her front room, determined not to go home for love nor money.
She made Christine a cup of tea, and held her hand until Phillip came home. She knew this girl didn't have any idea of just how deep her son already was in the criminal world, didn't know how deep they all were in that world. Herself included. She also knew that, like her at fifteen, this girl looked like a woman but, unlike Veronica, Christine didn't have the brains she was born with. She had been too sheltered all her life, and as much as Veronica was fond of her, she knew Christine was far too naive for her own good.
'Are you all right, Phil?' James was not the most vocal of men, but even he had sussed that Phillip was not right.
Phillip shrugged. 'No, not really, Jamsie. I think we need to talk to Billy Bantry, he's usually at his gym about this time.'
Jamsie started the car, uneasy now. Billy Bantry was seriously big time, and no one went to him unless they had an invitation. He was not known for his light-hearted banter or his friendly personality. He was, however, known for his short temper, and his unwillingness to suffer fools gladly.
As they approached the gym in North London, Phillip said gently, 'Park round the back, I don't want to be seen going in the front door. Then I want you to go home and wait for me there, OK?'
Jamsie parked the BMW neatly then, turning to his brother, he said, 'I ain't going nowhere without you, Phil.'
Phillip smiled, pleased at his brother's loyalty; Jamsie wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was someone you could depend on and he appreciated that.
'This could all turn pear-shaped, Jamsie. I warn you.'
Jamsie shrugged easily 'Whatever. You're me brother, I ain't about to let you walk in on your Jack Jones, am I?'
'I appreciate that, Jamsie.'
'So what's this all about?'
Phillip grinned then. 'I can't tell you. You'll have to trust me.'
Jamsie didn't even think about what had been said. He answered immediately, 'Fair enough.'
Phillip took a deep breath, then opened the car door slowly 'Wish me luck, bruv.'
As he spoke the back door of the offices opened and two of Billy Bantry's minders walked towards him. He was impressed by their speed. They had to have been looking out for someone acting suspicious, or more to the point someone who had the nerve to park in the car park and, even worse, who wasn't invited, let alone welcome.
'Is Mr Bantry about?'
The older of the two men answered him with a sneer. 'Why, who are you, the fucking police?'
Billy Bantry was not a big man, but he was heavy-set and possessed what was known as an uncompromising personality. He was frightened of no one, and that came across within ten seconds of meeting him. He was a dour, dark-eyed Irishman. Unlike his compatriots he rarely drank, and he rarely had a tale to tell. His life revolved around his work and his family. He was a dedicated family man. His eldest son was halfway through a degree at Oxford University, and his eldest daughter was married to an idiot on daytime TV. He had two more children by his long-time mistress, and they went to Ampleforth; unlike him, the mistress was a devout Catholic.
As he stared now at Phillip Murphy he seemed devoid of any emotion whatsoever, and Phillip realised that this man could teach him more in a week than most men could in a year. Billy Bantry was that rare breed, the serious loner. He needed no one at all, except the people he employed, and they were paid far too well to ever be tempted away. Plus Billy would never forgive them leaving him, no matter what the circumstances. He owned them.
Bantry regarded young Phillip Murphy through slitted eyes. He had heard good things about him, and he was intrigued as to why the boy had come to him like this. He was not known as an approachable man, he had made sure of that over the years. He had no interest in small talk or gossip. Anything he needed to know he found out with the minimum of fuss and, if necessary, the maximum of pain. So this boy coming to him like this out of the blue had to mean something. He hoped he wasn't going to waste his time asking him for a job, but from what he had heard about Phillip he was too shrewd to try that old fanny.
'Can I speak to you in private, Mr Bantry?' Phillip was nervous, and he was sure the others in the room would pick up on it.
Billy Bantry looked at the lad; he was a lump, no mistaking. But he also seemed a decent enough kid in many respects. He didn't sense any fear or skulduggery emanating from him. In fact, the boy seemed genuine. He was apprehensive, that much was clear. But Phillip was still there, and he had the balls to ask him for his time. That alone impressed Bantry. He waved his two henchmen away, and they left the small office quietly and unquestioningly. Phillip liked that, understood clearly they thought Bantry could take care of himself should the need arise. He knew he was lucky to get this far, but that was the chance he had taken.
'So what do you want, Murphy, and make it quick. I have a notoriously low threshold for boredom.'
'You know a girl called Lisa Mercer, right?'
Billy Bantry didn't move a muscle. 'So what, what about her?'
'She's five months pregnant by Stanley Barclay.'
'And?'
'He wants me to take her out, her and her baby. Offered me forty grand in all. Ten up front, I have that in the car, and thirty afterwards. But I know I wouldn't live long enough to get the rest of the money. I also have no intention of murdering a woman, especially not a pregnant one. I didn't know what to do, then I remembered that she had been rumoured to have had a friendship with you. Just a rumour, mind, and I wondered if you would be kind enough to give me some advice. I keep everything close to my chest and Barclay is relying on that. But,
Mr Bantry, I will do a lot of things for a lot of money, but murdering babies ain't in my resume.'
Billy Bantry was nodding his head; Phillip hoped it was in agreement with what he was saying. Bantry sighed heavily. 'Barclay's scum, always has been. Five months gone? She tried her hardest, but was never going to score the big one. Good- looking girl, though. Nice natured. You did the right thing, Phillip. Women and children have no real place in our world. They are off-limits. So you assume your reputation for never questioning a job was what he was relying on?'
Phillip nodded.
'He must be desperate if he's giving you ten grand up front. Have you ever killed anyone before?'
Phillip shook his head. 'Not yet, no.'
'Do you think you could?'
Phillip nodded, which made Billy Bantry laugh. 'Keep the ten grand, you've earned it. I'll sort out Barclay, the treacherous cunt. Lisa's old man's in Dartmoor, she had no real father figure, so I've always kept an eye out for her in me own way. But you knew that, that's why you came to me.'
Phillip didn't say a word in response. Bantry liked that the boy didn't try and explain himself. He had heard good things about this kid, and he was happy to give him a helping hand.
'Report to me here on Saturday morning, seven o'clock and don't be late. I think you are worth a chance, son, but remember, with me, you only get the one chance.'
Phillip was thrilled at the turn of events. He had taken a big risk, and had known that it could have gone either way. But for all that, he was never going to kill a pregnant woman. Especially one who had friends in high places.
Ted Booth heard the bell in his shop, and walked casually out of his small office in the back. As he entered the shop he saw Phillip Murphy locking the door and turning the sign round to 'Closed'.
'What are you doing? It's only six, I have another five hours yet till I close up.'
Phillip smiled at him as if he had known that all along. 'Sorry, Mr Booth, but I need to talk to you.'
Ted Booth felt his heart sinking inside his chest, and for one split second he wondered if he was on the verge of a heart attack. It wouldn't surprise him. He never felt one hundred per cent. His life was a series of minor irritations, the only things he cared about these days were his daughter and the shop. His daughter had her name up with this one here, and he wondered how long before it would all turn sour. He heard everything in this shop; it was part of his job to talk to the customers, listen to them, know their lives. He was frightened, but he tried not to show that. 'What do you want? Make it quick, I'm losing money.'
'It's about your daughter…'
'I worked that one out for meself.'
'She's round my mum's, refusing to go home. Mrs Booth gave her a clump; she's bruised and battered and determined that she ain't going home.'
Ted didn't know what to do. This boy, and he used that term loosely because he was a man in all the ways that counted, was the reason his wife was nearly out of her mind, and why his daughter was happier than she had been in years.
'She's a child. Fifteen.'
'She will be sixteen in three weeks and, Mr Booth, I need to tell you that she ain't in the frame of mind for going home. I told her to, me mum and dad have told her to, but she's adamant.'
Ted sighed. This man, this boy-man, had a hold over his daughter that he knew he would never be able to break. It had already gone too far. He could offer her freedom and excitement, and that was a heady mixture for his Christine. She craved love, craved attention, and the Murphys would give her that in abundance. He knew there and then that he couldn't compete with them on that score, but he had to try.
'I want her home, she's still legally in my jurisdiction.' Ted felt foolish even saying the words. He knew and Phillip Murphy knew that it was only a matter of weeks. Once Christine hit sixteen her life was her own. And the worst thing was that, in a strange way, he didn't blame her for what she'd done. Eileen had suffocated her all her life.
'Well, Mr Booth, that's your prerogative. But I just want you to know that she's safe. I would want to know that if it was my daughter.' Phillip smiled his amiable, friendly smile. Then, shrugging his shoulders in a man of the world gesture, he said to change the subject, 'This is a big space, ain't it? Just out of curiosity, where do you get your alcohol? Only I know a bloke, and he could guarantee you a much better return for your money. He supplies most of the pubs and clubs around here.'
Teddy Booth felt his heart sink even further; he knew exactly where this conversation was going.
'You're bright and early.'
Phillip was smiling at Billy Bantry, thrilled at the chance to work for a real crew. He knew he was on a winner; Billy didn't offer his time to wasters, he was a man who only employed the best. Well, Phillip wanted to be the best, and if that meant he had to be a gofer for a while then so be it. He was willing, more than willing, to learn at the knee of a master, and Billy Bantry was a master.
'I can't believe I'm here, Mr Bantry. It's an honour, and I mean that.'
He was sincere, Bantry knew that. He had done his homework on Phillip Murphy and had been proved right. The lad was willing and he was able, more than able, in fact, to take care of himself. He was a lump, but that in itself meant nothing to Billy Bantry. He had taken on bigger men than Phillip and won the war. It was never about size, physical strength, that is. It was about mental strength. The determination to harm your opponent no matter what. Bantry had always been possessed of a cold streak, even as a kid, and he had a big presence, which was more important in his line of work than anything. He was amazed to find that he actually liked this kid, liked his heart. He appreciated that he had come to him quietly and with the least amount of fuss. Lisa Mercer was a nice enough girl, but for Barclay to even think about taking out her and the child was beyond the pale as far as he was concerned. His own child and all! Barclay had had no qualms about offing his own fucking baby. Well, he was now the proud possessor of a pair of cement boots. His disappearance might cause a stir for a few weeks, but unless someone decided to dredge the North Sea, he wasn't likely to be turning up any time in the near future. It suited Bantry; Barclay was becoming a pest anyway, a nuisance, so a valid reason to remove him from the arena was always going to be handy. Plus he had the added bonus of doing his old mate a favour. Lisa's old man would never forget what Billy had done for him, and he wouldn't let him either. Everyone got out one day, and they were always welcome so long as they had something to bring to the table.
'Aren't you going to ask me what happened, then?'
Phillip was too shrewd to fall for that old fanny, but he kept his face neutral and feigned surprise. 'I don't care, Mr Bantry, it's nothing to do with me, is it?'
Billy Bantry laughed, a rare, real laugh. 'You'll do. I want you out collecting with Keith Kenton. He's big and quiet and he knows more about the grab than anyone else in the Smoke. He's expecting you at the Bricklayers' Arms in Hornchurch. Be there by lunchtime.'
He saw the confusion on Phillip's face and he laughed once more. 'Rule number one, son. Always sort business out on neutral ground. Never talk money on the premises. Demand the money, yes, but never drink in a place you're earning from, it causes bad feeling. Can often be misconstrued as a piss-take. Let's face it, going in and collecting is one thing, sitting around all day on the piss and reminding them of your primary function is something else entirely. That causes bad feeling. I like it all to be low key: in, collect and out. Now, have you any questions?'
Phillip shook his head.
'Good. Now fuck off and get on the earn.'
Veronica heard the hammering on her front door, and sighed heavily. This time she knew exactly who it was going to be. She walked up the hallway slowly and opened the door as if it was a normal caller, someone she wanted to find on her doorstep. Instead, she looked into Eileen Booth's face and smiled sadly. 'Come in quietly, let's leave the screaming and the shouting for the young ones. Don't be making a show of yourself for the neighbours. I'll make a pot of tea.'
Eileen Booth was so furious she thought her head would explode. This woman was acting as if this was normal, as if young girls walked out on their families and their lives every day of the week. Was she mentally deficient or something? Couldn't she see how her heart was broken with it all? Did she think that to lose your only child to a family of heathens was not something she should be worried about? Couldn't she understand the fear a mother felt when a teenage child made such potentially devastating decisions without realising the consequences of them? She rounded on the culprit standing before her, the person she saw as responsible. The woman she felt was taking her child from her.
'Have a cup of tea! Are you having a laugh with me? All I want is me daughter.' The refined voice was gone, all pretence washed away; she was showing her East-End roots. Eileen Booth wanted her daughter and was determined she was not leaving without her.
Veronica Murphy looked her antagonist over slowly, deliberately, and with hate in her heart at the woman's assumption that the Murphy family was not good enough to mix with her brood. She took a deep breath and said haughtily, 'Come inside, woman, for Christ's sake. Don't do this on the doorstep like some old slapper. My neighbours are very respectable people. They don't need to be subjected to this. Have you no shame?'
Eileen was so incensed at Veronica's words that she drew her arm back to strike. It was the worst thing she could have ever contemplated. Veronica grabbed her adversary by the throat, her hand like a vice, and dragged the taller woman into the hallway none too gently. She kicked the door shut behind her and, pushing the distraught woman roughly towards the kitchen, she shrieked, 'As God is my witness, you have driven me fecking demented! One more word and I'll annihilate you where you stand, lady. No wonder your daughter doesn't want to be around you! On the few occasions I've met you, it's took all me willpower not to knock your fucking brains in meself. You think you're better than everyone else, don't you? Well, I have news for you, you're not. Now, I think you had better relax, lady, before this gets out of hand. Believe me, I am two seconds away from giving you a serious clump.'
Veronica wasn't sure who was shocked the most, Eileen Booth, who was suddenly very quiet, or she herself at her reaction. She still felt the urge to wring Eileen's scrawny neck, really lay into her. This wasn't like her at all; Veronica had mellowed with age, there was a time when she would have wiped the floor with this one from the off and never given it a moment's thought. But it was good to know that she was still capable of a fight should the need arise.
'I want my daughter, and I am not leaving without her.'
Veronica was tired suddenly. She could see Eileen's dilemma better than anyone; after all, she had been there herself. 'Well, in that case you should have packed a bag, because you'll be here for a while. She won't go home, and it's not for want of us lot trying. I know she should be with you, I ain't a complete fool, but if you can't see how your actions have driven that child away then I don't know what to tell you.'
Veronica understood Eileen Booth's complete bewilderment. But she also knew that this woman had not exactly helped the situation. If anything she had only made it worse. If she had just tried to give a little leeway, but that was not her style. Like Veronica had believed with Breda, this stupid woman thought she could tell her daughter what to do. Well, those days were long gone, girls these days had choices. And like many a girl before them, their age practically guaranteed they would make the wrong ones. Always the wrong ones. It was a pattern that seemed to come with hormones and breasts. Overnight they looked like women, but that didn't mean they were.
The two women stared at each other for a long moment. Eileen Booth knew that she was beaten. Knew that this woman had her daughter's trust, her daughter's respect. Her face crumpled, her hurt and fear for her daughter shining through her heavy make-up. 'I only ever wanted what was best for her, that's all. I wanted her to have a chance in life. The chance to make something of herself. The way you all act you'd think I was trying to fucking hurt her. She's still a child.' It was the plaintive cry of many a woman before her. It was the cry of a woman who was not only at the end of her tether, but also of a woman who had finally run out of options. She was defeated, and she knew it.
Veronica brought her through to the kitchen and sat her in a chair. She made the pot of tea quietly, aware that the best thing she could do now was let this woman get it out of her system. Let her have her say, let her expend her hatred on her, a stranger. Veronica didn't care, knew this had to happen at some point, and personally she would rather it happened sooner rather than later. It was pointless delaying the inevitable.
As she listened to the vitriol of the woman before her, her mind wandered to her own feelings for Breda who had been uncontrollable at thirteen, let alone fifteen. It was hard to admit, but Veronica knew it was not something she could have ever prevented. It was just Breda's way, she had always been a law unto herself. She had seemed unaware of how her actions affected the people around her, nor had she cared how her behaviour was received. Whereas Eileen's daughter was only rebelling against her mother- nothing else – but Veronica wasn't about to say that just yet. With Breda it had been different, she had just wanted her own life, her own sex life anyway. Veronica placed a mug of tea in front of the woman she knew she would never find it in her heart to ever like.
Eileen was looking around the kitchen, impressed despite herself at the grandeur of the surroundings; it was the last thing she had expected, if she was honest with herself. In spite of her anger she felt a grudging respect for Veronica Murphy. The place was spotless, well decorated and had top of the range appliances. In Eileen's world that was all that mattered. Top show, as her mother used to say. Well, as far as she was concerned, how you lived was important; she knew that from years of being ashamed of her home, of her parents and their preference for drink, bingo and the attitude that it was enough just to make a living. She had wanted far more than that. And yet her dream of respectability had not made her any happier. How ironic was I hat?
'Look, Eileen – can I call you Eileen? – Christine is terrified of you and what you did to her. She's at school now, she hasn't missed a day, but you have to believe that this was her choice, not mine. I never wanted this on my doorstep, why the feck would I? My Phillip might not be what you want for your daughter, but he's what she wants, and she seems to be what he wants. If you want my advice, swallow your anger and try and talk her round. Try and see it from her point of view, like. Kids have all sorts of rights these days, didn't I find that out meself with my Breda? The shame and degradation of that one, up and pregnant and still at school, and the social workers behind her, all on her side, acting like what she had done was normal! I didn't even have a say in the end. I watched her nearly destroy herself, but my opinions counted for nothing. So you are preaching to the fecking converted. What I want is for you and Christine to sort yourselves out.'
Eileen felt she could sympathise with the woman now. She could hear the genuine sorrow in her voice. Coupled with the knowledge that Veronica was capable of giving her a serious clump should she feel the urge, Eileen Booth felt it best to retreat on this occasion and try and make some kind of concession. After all, this was the Murphys they were talking about, and their name was a byword for villainy and assertiveness around these parts. So sipping the tea she said sadly, 'I only wanted what was best for her, Mrs Murphy, and this is how she repays me? The treacherous little mare.'
This was more like it, this was language she could understand. Veronica flapped her hand in agreement. 'Sure, they all think they know what's best for them! But I tell you, if they only knew the truth of love and marriage, they would think twice about it. I know I would.' She was telling the woman what she wanted to hear.
Eileen Booth latched on to the woman's words as if they were a lifeline. 'That's what I've been trying to tell her. There's plenty of time for all that. She has a brain in her head, my Christine. She could make something of herself, make her life worth something. Ten years from now she could have the job of her dreams, the qualifications to take her anywhere she wanted to go in the world. But at the moment she just wants him, can only see him, him and his handsome face. And I mean that with no disrespect, but she wants him before she understands what life is really about. Before the disappointment and the regrets set in.'
Veronica sighed, suddenly sorry for this woman, so deeply sorry 'Those two seem intent on doing what they want. He thinks the world of her, I can tell you that much. I've never seen him like this before.'
'She'll be tied down with a posse of kids before she's twenty, and by twenty-five she'll be worn out with child-bearing, and her future will be settled once and for all. But will she listen to me? 'Course not. When she's got a belly full of stretchmarks, and she's robbing Peter to pay Paul to get from one week to the next, she'll wish she'd listened to me, but by then it'll be too late.'
Veronica Murphy didn't answer her, she didn't know what to say. The truth, as she knew herself, often hurt. And this was one of those times.
Keith Kenton liked Phillip Murphy, and the knowledge surprised him. Not a man to be easily influenced, he normally took his time sussing people out. But this young lad had impressed him with his quiet demeanour, and his natural affinity for the work in hand. Every now and then, you were lucky enough to find a Phillip Murphy, and if you used your loaf you took them onside. Phillip had the rare ability to hurt people without a second's thought; he wasn't a fool, he just saw it for what it was, a job. Keith felt the boy's natural aptitude for the game, and he was willing to nurture it. Get them young, and you could shape them properly. It was the law of the pavement.
Keith was a big man, in stature and in personality. He was known for his ability to fight his way out of any situation, for being, like Bantry, a loner and, most of all, for his reputation as a ladies' man. Keith liked the fairer sex, and it was fair to say that they, for some unknown reason, liked him. Not the most handsome man in the world, he had over the years perfected the gift of the gab. He could talk a girl round in under fifteen minutes, and he had the respect of every man who knew him because of it. Women fell for him; his charm, his generosity, and his sense of humour never failed to get him an in. He was always on the lookout for a bit of strange. A new conquest. It was part of the game of life as far as he was concerned. Unfortunately, the women concerned all assumed they were the only ones in his life, and it was only a matter of time before they realised that he was a romancer. Until then, though, he made sure they had the time of their lives. Consequently, Keith was always trying to avoid some female. More often than not that person was his long-suffering wife Lorna who, for some reason, always ended up forgiving him and taking him back.
Phillip Murphy was impressed despite himself; some of Keith's birds were well fit, and so obviously out of his league looks-wise, you could only bow to the master. He could charm the proverbial birds out of the trees and, in his case, into his bed. Trouble was, once they had landed there, he lost interest in them. It was the chase that got him going. The capture, unfortunately for the girls concerned, was the beginning of the end.
So Phillip was getting an education that was two-fold: he was learning the pitfalls of juggling more than one bird at a time (something that in all honesty didn't appeal to him) and how to collect protection money with the minimum of fuss and the maximum of goodwill. Keith made the people he collected from feel that he was doing them a favour and, in his own way, he was. After all, if they still didn't pay up when he turned on his good-natured patter, he was capable of killing them if the need arose or if he needed to set an example. Any trouble in the premises he earned off was sorted within twenty-four hours, if not sooner. And the perpetrator was given a lesson that would stay with them for a lifetime.
Scars, according to Keith, did that to people – especially cowards. A cut face, or the loss of a few teeth, were a constant reminder of their stupidity and made sure that the offender never saw fit to repeat his actions. Keith had a way of making it perfectly clear that a second offence would not be tolerated. As he explained to Phillip, it was the principle as far as he was concerned; he would not allow anyone to cause him the aggravation of having to look for them more than once. By then all his goodwill was used up, and all that he had left was the need for retribution.
Phillip Murphy was soaking it all in like a sponge. This was a whole new world to him, and he loved it. Every second of it. As his father said, he had started at the top, with the best, and there was only one way for him to go, and that was up. He liked Keith and his attitude towards life, and he liked working with him. He knew that Keith respected him. He also knew that Keith understood his association with Bantry, and respected it. Keith did not suffer fools gladly, so his relationship with his mentor could only enhance him and his chosen career.
Life was pretty good. Things were going well with Christine too. This feud with her mother couldn't be better; he was sure that if he sat it out Eileen would drive her daughter even further into his arms, thereby giving him exactly what he wanted. It was criminal really, how easy it was. He had her dad onside now as well; he was providing him with certain alcoholic beverages that were making him a very good profit, which made Phillip indispensable to him.
She was going nowhere, his Christine, she was his, and he would make sure that everybody knew that eventually. She was the only one he wanted and he had his pick of strange. But he had no feelings for anyone else. Unlike Keith, now he only had eyes for his Christine. He mustn't hurt her, or chance driving her away. She was his all.
Christine was, in actual fact, like an illness with him; without her in his life he didn't know how he would cope. She was like a cancer, eating away at him, and he knew deep inside himself that it wasn't natural to feel so strongly, and so intensely, for another person. It wasn't natural to want someone so desperately, but he would happily kill to keep her beside him. His feelings for Christine were so overpowering they even frightened him at times. The thought of being without her was enough to make him feel suicidal, not that he let those emotions show. He knew only that she was his, would always be his, and he would ensure that she stayed by his side – no matter what.
Christine Booth was in her element. She was loving the attention she was getting from all and sundry. She was the envy of her friends, and she had been catapulted overnight into the role of most popular girl in the school. Of all the girls they would have imagined having had the guts to move into her boyfriend's house at fifteen, Christine knew she would have been classed as the rank outsider. Now it was common knowledge that she was actually living with Phillip Murphy, in his parents' house. And he was not just any young lad either, that would have been shocking enough in itself. But she was living with someone whose family was synonymous with villainy. Christine was suddenly being treated like a movie star. People wanted to be friends with her now, wanted to be seen to be friends with her.
Christine didn't give a toss who knew about it, it was like she had been let out of prison. She loved the Murphy family, even Breda, who was a hardcase. Loved the way they rallied round to help each other out. Loved the sheer enjoyment of life that his family seemed to embrace on a daily basis. Loved that Phillip was so protective of her, and agreeable to what she wanted.
But most of all she loved the way he crept into her room of a night, and made her feel like a real woman. The first time he had come into her bed was because she was crying and he had come in to comfort her. He told her he would always be there for her, and that he loved her. Now he came in because she wanted him to. Needed him to. It was as though she had been let in on this great big secret, and now she could cope with anything the world threw at her. She was without fear, she lived for Phillip, and his touch, his words of love, and the feelings she was now unable to do without. She knew instinctively that he wasn't using her in any way, that he felt the same as she did.
His taking her had given her a new persona: she was suddenly sure of herself, suddenly she was different. She knew what she wanted in life, and what she wanted was him. His name gave her cachet, made people treat her with respect. He wanted her and wanted to marry her, and marry him she would, as soon as possible. She was determined to shrug off the Booth name, and become a Murphy. She wanted to be a part of that family so badly, to be free of her mother's constant criticism and constant vigilance. She would finally be her own woman.
Woman being the operative word. Christine felt taller, slimmer, prettier now than she had ever felt before. She wore make-up, and the clothes that she liked, not what her mother thought was appropriate. She looked forward to going home, to his home, for the first time in her life. Having had this taste of freedom she knew she would never go back to being a nobody again. She was Phillip Murphy's intended, and becoming his wife was now the height of her ambition. If her mother didn't like it, then she knew exactly what she could do.
She hugged herself mentally, thrilled with the turn her life had taken when she had met up with Phillip Murphy outside the off-licence on that dark winter's night. It was fate, they both knew that then, and they had both accepted it. Now it seemed, her mother would have to accept it as well.
'You think she'll be all right then, do you, living with that scum?'
Teddy Booth looked up as his wife spoke and felt a deep sorrow for her. It was the same sorrow he felt inside himself. His daughter had been like a lamb to the slaughter, and it was because of this woman before him. She had forced them into this situation, and now they would pay the price for it, one way or another. This alliance his daughter had made would cost them all, and cost them dearly. He knew more about their daughter's future in-laws than Eileen did; he had watched Phillip Murphy grow up, as he had many of the boys on that estate. Ted had been there for over twenty years. Unlike Eileen with her part- time teaching job and her belief that she was too good for the estate that they earned their living from. Unlike her, he knew everyone's pedigree on that estate, it was how he had survived so long, if only the silly bitch had bothered to see that. Between them they could have really got on and made a real difference to their lives; all it would have taken was some effort on their part. Well, her part, anyway.
How the mighty had fallen, though! Ever since she had arrived home two weeks previously, scratch marks on her neck, and her head drooping with defeat, Ted had listened to Eileen's complaints, had comforted her as best he could, but he had known that she was beaten. Well and truly beaten. Her daughter's behaviour was now common knowledge and there was nothing she could do about that. In fact, she wasn't even asking him his opinion, she was simply talking out loud. She had never really expected an answer from him. Not for a long time anyway.
Ted wanted to help his daughter; he missed her and, even though she popped into the shop occasionally when she knew her mother wouldn't be there, he found the house empty without her. He loved his girl, his only child, and he wanted to see her happy. He understood why she was doing what she was doing, even though it broke his heart. So despite his true feelings he said brightly, 'He seems to be doing well for himself though, Eileen, he's already helped me enormously with the shop.'
His wife narrowed her eyes, suddenly interested in what he had to say. 'In what way? How could he have helped you?' It was an accusation.
Teddy took a deep breath before answering. 'Since the balloon went up, people who've been avoiding paying me have suddenly found the money, and he has put me on to a supplier for the off-licence that has doubled the profits. I don't have any aggro from the teenagers any more either, it's Mr Booth this, and Mr Booth that. They even put their rubbish in the bin outside. I don't have to sweep the pavement half as much as usual.' He smiled. 'Even the Martins are all sweetness and light. Now, I am not saying that we should forget what's happened, but in light of what has happened, we should think twice about pushing Christine further away.'
Eileen Booth was staring at her husband as if she had never seen him before. His words seemed to have penetrated her brain for once.
He carried on talking, determined to make her see the positives instead of the negatives. She needed to find a reason to embrace her daughter's new-found family and he was willing to give her one if it meant he could see his little girl again. 'For the first time in twenty years, we don't have to ask anyone to pay up, Eileen. I pulled in three grand this week alone in outstanding payments. It's like people can't be seen to owe us money any more. The off-licence pulled in another two grand profit, and people who normally go to the Tesco down the road are suddenly availing themselves of our little establishment. So all I am saying is that Phillip Murphy, love him or loathe him, is going places and we are feeling the benefit. If this carries on, we'll be out of the woods in no time.'
'Five thousand pounds in one week?'
Teddy smiled wryly at the incredulity in his wife's voice. He nodded, hating the avaricious glint in her eye as she worked out their potential earnings. 'He has a lot of contacts, Eileen, and they are people I wouldn't normally dream of being able to deal with.'
That much was true anyway, the money was nothing to him really. Ted wasn't happy that it took a thug like Murphy to get him all paid up, but that was how it worked in this world. Also the suppliers he had always wanted to deal with were now phoning him with lucrative deals, were now courting him as a potential customer, and he would be a liar if he didn't admit that it felt good to be so in demand.
'What, you think this is all because of Phillip Murphy?' Veronica demanded.
He sighed. 'Think about it, Eileen – in twenty years they ain't returned a call. Now I am being given produce on a sale or return basis. Fresh, frozen and processed foods. Phillip said he would put the word out and he has. He works for Bantry, and that means he has access to all the suppliers in the vicinity. Bantry controls everything that goes on round here, as we both know. So all I am saying is, it could be worse, Eileen. At least Phillip Murphy has the means to give our Christine a good life.'
'But she's only fifteen, Teddy. A baby.'
He nodded once more. 'A baby who has grown up and away from us. All we can do now is try and bring her back into the fold. If we aren't careful she'll stay away for good and I for one couldn't live with that. I could cheerfully strangle her for what she's done but, at the same time, I love her and I miss her, and I know that you feel the same. She's sixteen on Friday, we can make our peace with her then, if you will just calm yourself down.'
But Ted had already won Eileen over, he knew that; she was a slave to money and everything it could bring her. She had already forgotten that she was Mrs Respectable School Teacher, had conveniently forgotten her big fear about how her so-called friends would perceive her daughter's liaison with a budding criminal. She was now picturing the upside of being a part of the Murphys' world. He knew that the Murphy name would now be seen as an asset as far as she was concerned. Money-wise anyway. If it could give her everything she had dreamed of then so be it – even if that meant her daughter would be sacrificed to achieve it.
He knew Eileen better than she knew herself. She was looking for an out, an excuse to let her daughter have what she wanted without losing face. Now she had it, and he had given it to her, just to keep the peace. Just so his child could once more be a part of his life. He missed her so much – she alone had made his life bearable. Christine had made his marriage worthwhile, she gave him a reason to get up in the mornings and a reason to work late into the night. He would do anything to get his daughter back into his life, even if that meant he had to talk his wife into accepting the Murphys and all they stood for. He only hoped he didn't live to regret it.
Veronica loved it when the house was full of people, and tonight it was packed to the rafters. She had been baking for two days, and she stood happily watching all the food she had prepared being wolfed down by her sons and their friends. The music was loud and the chatter was louder, everyone was there, even that fucker Bantry, which showed just how much her son was esteemed. And why wouldn't he be? He was a man in the making. But for all that, he respected his mother and wasn't afraid to show it.
Young Christine looked gorgeous, and Veronica smiled sadly as she watched the girl being the belle of the ball. She wanted to tell her that she should enjoy it while she could. It wouldn't last. Life wasn't that good to females – once they produced children that was enough for the likes of her Phillip. She felt such a sorrow at the girl's inevitable demise. After all, Veronica had been Christine's age when she had married and, like this child, she had been happy about it. But a small part of her knew that Christine Booth would one day regret her alliance with her son, would live to rue the day she had snatched the chance of freedom, the chance to leave her mother's claustrophobic love behind her. But Veronica wouldn't say any of that, of course; this wasn't the time or the place. It was the girl's birthday party, and that was why they were all there in the first place.
She observed her son Phillip as he looked at his young lady, saw the desire that almost burned his eyes out, saw the way she affected him. It was unnatural, his need to be with her – it would result in his needing to control her. For the first time she admitted to herself that it wasn't healthy. Her son had always been far too determined for his own good, had always got what he wanted no matter what the price. Veronica had a feeling he would never change. She liked this little girl of his, but she was frightened for her because she sensed Christine wasn't strong enough to look after herself, especially now Phillip had set his cap at her. He was as controlling as Eileen, only the girl couldn't see any of that yet. All Christine saw was Phillip's handsome face and the novelty of her first sexual encounter. She was mixing up love and lust, and she wasn't the first girl to do that. She was enjoying her party and the freedom that being with Phillip now afforded her, but she didn't understand that this freedom was not real, that she only had it because he chose to give it to her, because it brought her closer to him and what he wanted. It would come at a price, a price she would eventually have to pay.
The doorbell went and Eileen Booth was welcomed into the house, followed by her husband. As she walked towards her daughter, all smiles and heavy perfume, an expensive present in her well-manicured hands, Veronica knew that the young girl's fate was well and truly sealed. Now that Eileen had accepted the situation, warning bells were sounding inside Veronica's head. She felt guilty though for the thoughts she was having about her son and his impact on this young girl's life. She watched the proceedings with a sick feeling inside her gut, but she knew it was far too late to do anything about it.
As her son slipped the diamond ring on Christine's finger and beamed happily at the people gathered around, she turned away abruptly and went out into the garden. Her lovely home was suddenly alien to her, she saw it for the pretence it really was, and she saw the truth of her own situation in stunning clarity. As she smoked a cigarette she wondered at what had come over her. Questioned her thoughts and the disloyalty of them.
'You all right, Mum?' Phillip's voice was quiet. She hadn't noticed him follow her out.
She forced a smile on to her face.' 'Course I am, I'm just hot, son, hot and tired.' She could hear the forced joviality in her voice, and it saddened her even further.
'I'll look after her, Mum, don't worry about it. I know we're young, but this feels right. I'll never hurt her. I couldn't.'
Veronica smiled gently. 'Oh, Phillip, you're a good lad, but as my mother used to say, don't make promises you can't keep.'
'How can I be pregnant? It can't be right.' Christine's voice was soft and the fear was already making her light-headed.
Phillip laughed gently beside her in the bed. 'It happens, Chris, especially when you start having sex.'
'But we used protection, Phil, you said we were safe.'
Phillip sighed. Secretly he was over the moon at her news. He would never tell her that he had often slipped the condom off during their more passionate encounters. That he had deliberately set out to get her pregnant. He knew that she was not in the right frame of mind to understand his reasoning. So instead he said soothingly, 'It happens, love, and if you think about it, I ain't running away from the news, am I? I ain't leaving you to your own devices like my poor sister Breda was left. I am going to stick by you, Christine. I want to marry you and give my child a name. It'll just be sooner than we anticipated, that's all.'
Christine didn't know how to answer him, she was still terrified out of her wits. If he left her now she would be destroyed. But he was reassuring her of his devotion, so why wasn't she happy?
Phillip could feel her indecision, had expected it. He knew she would be disturbed by a pregnancy; although this was the eighties, she was still a girl who wanted to do things properly. But he wanted her for himself and this would guarantee that happened sooner rather than later. Her mother would have the marriage arranged in nanoseconds, she would not want her baby having an illegitimate child. By marrying Christine he would become a hero overnight as far as that old bitch was concerned. Inside himself he knew that he had forced this decision on her, but he overlooked that by telling himself this would have happened at some point anyway. His feelings for Christine overrode everything else in his life. He had taken her virginity and he had sworn to keep her beside him no matter what. No other female could make a dent in his heart, he didn't want or need anyone other than her. She was his all.
He hugged her to him again, almost suffocating her with the strength of his arms, his embrace. He understood her fears. She was only sixteen; a baby was a serious event at any age, let alone for someone so young. 'Look, Chris, I know you wanted to go to college, or university, whatever. But you are having a lovely little baby. Our baby. Like the Bible says, when I was a child I thought like a child, when I became a man I put away childish things. I have to look after you and the baby now, don't I? It's not like we can do anything about it, is it? We're Catholics, we have to make this into something good. I'll marry you, and we'll be happy and so will our baby. We'll have a great life, the three of us, you wait and see. We'll buy a little house and we'll show the world that we are meant to be together. That we can give our kid a good life.'
She nodded then, unable to speak with the emotion inside herself. The enormity of what had happened to her was suddenly crushing down on her. The knowledge that her life as she knew it was finished overwhelmed her. All her so-called independence had just been wiped out as if it had never happened. She was too young to have a baby, too young and too frightened. She wanted to have a life first, have some real freedom. She had wanted them to have a few years together, go abroad, experience the world. Now she was just another girl who had got caught out, another teenage mum dependent on everyone around her again. It was so unfair. There was no abortion for her, and she wouldn't, couldn't do something like that even if it was possible. She would never be able to live with herself; after all, this child had a right to life. It was what she had been brought up to believe, and believe it she did. Phillip's attendance at Mass was all her mother had ever found in his favour. He was a good Catholic, everyone in his family was, even Breda in her own way.
But Christine was not happy about this child at all. She had wanted to marry Phillip more than anything in the world until now, until this second. Now she felt trapped.
Maybe the hormones were affecting her already. After all, she had given up everything and everyone in her life for just this moment, and now it was here she was plagued with doubt. Her terror was so real it was almost physical. She actually felt sick with apprehension, but that could be the result of her pregnancy. Women felt sick in the early stages, that was how they knew they had a child inside them. It was the morning sickness that had alerted her to her predicament in the first place.
Christine felt Phillip squeeze her once more until she was almost melded into his body. He always held her to him with a strength that until now had made her feel safe and secure, but suddenly his embrace felt claustrophobic; it reminded her that she was now his, wholly and for ever. The intensity of his feelings for her felt wrong somehow, felt unnatural. She had a deep sense of foreboding that his love for her would overpower everything she wanted. And guarantee she would never again be her own person.
As if he was aware of her sudden reluctance, Phillip tightened his hold on her and she felt again the sheer power of his physical strength. His arms felt like a steel band. He and this baby had ensured that any hopes or dreams its mother might have been harbouring were long gone from her. A child growing inside you soon made you wake up to just how one-sided childbirth really was. Phillip's life wouldn't change, not one iota. Whereas her life on the other hand, would change out of all recognition.
She would be a mother before she was even legally eligible to vote. She would be tied to a child before she had left her own childhood behind. She almost hated Phillip then, for his male- ness, for doing this to her even though she had been a more than willing participant. She hated her disloyalty towards him, but a baby, she knew, would ensure that she would never be able to walk away from him. Phillip Murphy would never allow that to happen.
But why was she thinking these things? Why would she even consider leaving him? What was wrong with her? She was crying, and she had not even realised it.
Phillip laughed gently in the darkness. The smell of him permeated the small room; the aroma of their bodies, of their joint sexual encounters was so strong Christine felt as if she would never get the stench from out of her nostrils. He seemed almost sinister to her now, and she knew at that moment that he had wanted this to happen, had made it happen. She had been too naive to see what he was doing.
Yet, this baby had been created with love. Their love, which was real, and surely that had to mean something? As Phillip's lips found hers in the darkness and his tongue probed her mouth with its usual determination, she felt herself responding to him as she always had since the first time they had slept together. Christine forced away the dreadful thoughts that were crowding her mind, forced away the fear that she was already into something she couldn't control. She reminded herself that he alone had made her life exciting, and he alone had made her feel alive for the first time ever. Once he was inside her, deep inside her, she didn't have any doubts about him, all she had was the knowledge that she couldn't live without him, without this – his touch, his tongue, his physical presence. She loved him, and he loved her, that was what mattered at the end of the day. It was the pregnancy that was making her doubt him, doubt herself. She knew she had to get her head around what the child would mean to them both. She might feel scared at having a baby, but she had to grow up and, as he said, put away her childish thoughts. She mentally shrugged; she was being silly. They were going to get married anyway, and it was natural for a girl to feel overwhelmed about something so huge, so life changing at such a young age.
As she succumbed to his embraces, Christine convinced herself that her fears were just the result of her hormones. If she was being honest with herself, she wasn't looking forward to her mother's reaction once she heard the happy news either.
She would go ballistic.
'I told you this would happen, didn't I, you stupid little mare!'
Christine looked into her mother's eyes and saw the disappointment there, as well as the pleasure her mother got from being proved right. That was how it had always been, ever since she could remember.
'Sixteen and already in the club. Do you realise just how bloody stupid you are? Do you understand what this really means to you? You personally? Your life's over before it's even begun – his ain't. Men never have to take any responsibility, not really You're the one who'll be stuck at home with it. Not him, his life won't bloody well change. If you had any sense you'd get rid of it.' She put her hand to her mouth.
Eileen could cry with the shock, with the unfairness of it all. She had given this ungrateful bastard everything a girl could want, and for what? For her to be taken down by the first good- looking bloke who had given her more than a second glance. Eileen knew she had said something terrible, she was being unfair to her daughter, but she didn't care. This girl should have had it all. Now she had a belly full of arms and legs and the honour of becoming a Murphy. She wiped her hand across her face, as if the action could erase the knowledge of her daughter's spectacular fuck-up. And fuck-up it was, only this silly cow wouldn't realise that until it was too late.
Christine looked at her mother and marvelled at the woman's hypocrisy and her complete lack of loyalty, not just to her, but towards her future son-in-law. Phillip had made sure that her dad's shop was finally paying off. Her mother would be enjoying the benefits of his interference, of his putting money in their pockets. She had previously acted like she was, if not exactly pleased about their relationship, willing to accept it. Her duplicity was too much for Christine to bear. The fact that her words were a bit too close for comfort didn't help either.
'We're getting married, Mum, but I need your consent to do that. We love each other and we're going to make something of ourselves, whatever you might think to the contrary. Now, I have come round here to ask you to sign the papers. If you don't sign them, then my Phillip will be forced to come round here himself and, believe me, Mum, he won't be as amenable as I am, do you get my drift?'
Christine could see the fear that her words had caused, could feel her mother's discomfort and, despite herself, she found herself actually enjoying it. The two-faced old bitch was finally getting her comeuppance.
'Are you threatening me, Christine, your own mother?' Eileen's voice was low, almost inaudible, as she realised that her daughter now held all the cards, was the stronger of the two, and all through her liaison with Phillip Murphy.
'I'm not threatening you, Mum, I'm just stating a fact.'
'Well.' Eileen shrugged, resigned to her daughter's fate. 'You know what they say don't you, Christine? Be careful what you ask for, you just might get it.'
Christine grinned then, and for the first time she felt superior to this woman. Placing the papers that would allow her to get married on the kitchen table, she said happily, 'I've got exactly what I asked for, Mum – I got away from you, didn't I?'
Eileen sighed. Seeing her husband's signature already there she swallowed back the urge to cry, and said brightly, 'Well, whatever you might think of me, Christine, I only ever wanted what was best for you. One day you will understand that. When that baby you're carrying comes into the world, you'll finally understand why I was like I was. You always want better for your kids, better than you had. It's called being a mother.'
She turned away from her daughter, and busied herself making a pot of tea. Christine watched her quietly, saw the drooping of her shoulders, heard the defeat in her voice, and wished with all her heart that things could have been different. Her mother was an avaricious, demanding and deeply unhappy woman; this, coupled with her snobbery and her unwavering belief that she was better than everyone around her, had guaranteed that she would always be incapable of ever experiencing any real happiness. Consequently, those within her orbit were also denied the chance of any real happiness as well. If Christine had any doubts left about marrying into the Murphys, this woman had just removed them. She would rather die than become like her mother. Her discontentment with her lot, and with her family, had eventually bled into every aspect of all their lives until none of them knew how to be happy. The Murphys had welcomed her with open arms and she saw that, no matter what, they were there for one another. They loved each other, and it showed.
Thinking of the life inside her, she put her hand on her still- flat belly, and for the first time since she had found out she was pregnant, she actually welcomed the child. She was young and healthy, she had a man who loved her, and a new family who had taken her into their lives and made her feel welcome and wanted.
Just ten minutes in the house she had grown up in had made her realise how lucky she was.
The pub was packed, and the heat was overwhelming. It was noisy and it was scruffy, and Christine loved everything about it. The pub was their local, this was Phillip's domain now. People came here to pay him money owed, or to ask favours from him, and it was where he showed the world he lived in how much his reputation had grown and how his name was becoming synonymous with Billy Bantry's and Keith Kenton's. In this world he moved in, reputation was everything, as was the female beside you.
As Christine saw Keith and Phillip talking together across the other side of the room, she felt a surge of pride. People were deferential to them, to her as well. It was a whole new world. Joanie was smiling at her happily – Christine could tell she'd had a few drinks; she made a point of having them frequently. But Christine couldn't begrudge her that; if she wasn't pregnant, she'd be doing the same. Unlike her friend though, she wouldn't have drunk so much so quickly – Phillip would have made sure of that. He wasn't a drinker, not really. He didn't like the feeling of being out of control, he had told her that on more than one occasion. He believed that alcohol, like drugs, was for mugs. He said that when people were drunk they opened themselves up for stupidity. He only drank with her, and that was because he trusted her enough to let himself go. He didn't like to see a woman in drink, and his arguments with his sister Breda over her drinking were frequent and passionate. Breda was the antithesis of Phillip; she drank, drugged and fucked with a passion that was almost unbearable to witness. She was like a man in that respect, she did what she wanted without any thought for the consequences. She didn't even attempt to try and get herself a steady bloke, she went out, she got drunk, and she got laid. End of story. Christine knew that it bothered Phillip. Even though it was what Breda wanted, was what she enjoyed. She made no secret of her lifestyle, and even though it wasn't unusual in this day and age for a girl to live her own life in her own way, Christine knew that Phillip saw his sister's antics as a reflection on him personally. Breda was an exemplary mother to her son, and she adored him, but her attitude was that when she went out, she went all out, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Tonight Breda was hanging all over a heavily built Greek- looking man, with cheap shoes and thick curly hair. Christine was aware that her Phillip was keeping an eye on his sister, only he was watching her antics surreptitiously. Breda was pretty, but she was already hard faced, her delicate features obscured by her heavy make-up and her constant frown. She talked too much and too loudly. Her conversation was peppered with profanities and innuendo. As Phillip had screamed at her one night, she was one step away from charging for it. And Christine understood his fears. Breda was self-destructive once she had a few Bacardis, she seemed to almost enjoy the reaction she got from her brothers and the people around her. The worse she behaved, the happier she seemed to be. It was like a game she played, as if she was just seeing how far she could push them. But tonight Christine sensed a new undercurrent to Breda's behaviour, this man she was all over was a stranger, he was not her usual type of conquest. Breda had a few blokes on the go, and she made a point of seeing them on the quiet. She didn't usually pull total strangers in full view of her brothers and their assorted friends and acquaintances. That was a definite no-no in anyone's books.
The man in question was with two other Greeks, and all three were happily hitting on Breda. Breda, for her part, was loving the attention she was getting from them. Like a lot of the Greek men in East London, they were only in England to get out of their national service. They came over and worked as waiters, or attended college, until such time as they could go back home. Their families paid for them to come over, and that money guaranteed that they could swerve the army, and at the same time learn a trade. These men were obviously so new to the area they didn't realise the girl they were all so enamoured of was far more dangerous than anything the Greek army might have thrown at them. All they saw was an available English girl and, in their limited experience, most of the English girls they had met were not only available, but happy to oblige in any way they could. For Greek men from small villages, this was heady stuff indeed.
Christine, young though she was, knew all of this instinctively and she could feel the animosity coming off Phillip in waves. She saw the nervousness of the people around him. How they were waiting to see his reaction to his sister's outrageous behaviour. She looked around for Declan and James, but they were nowhere to be seen. Declan was one of the only people capable of talking Phillip round, one of the only people Phillip would listen to. She moved closer to Phillip, pushing her way through the throng of people until she was by his side. He looked at her and smiled happily. She knew that whatever people might say about him and his temper, he was not a lecher, she knew deep inside that she was all he wanted or needed. He was so staid in that respect. His sister's antics were all the more unsettling to him because he had no understanding of why she could be like she was. Christine knew that Phillip would never betray her, as well as she knew he would kill her before he would let another man into her bed.
Breda was so drunk she was unaware that her dress was slipping off her shoulders and that, consequently, she was showing a lot of breast, and her loud raucous laughter was even drowning out the jukebox. The three men seemed mesmerised by her abundance of naked flesh, and the promise in her eyes for all of them.
Perry Croft, the landlord – a short stocky man with a bald head – had the unenviable task of having to serve the men he knew were aggravating the life out of his most important customer. As Breda demanded another drink, he looked over at Phillip, and Christine saw him nod almost imperceptibly in response, his handsome face dark with barely suppressed anger, but unless you knew him as well as she did, the true extent of his annoyance would not be evident at all. The landlord served the drinks without a word, and Christine sipped at her orange juice, worried for Breda and what she was doing.
'How you doing, Chris?'
She smiled at Phillip, at the genuine concern in his voice. 'Fine, Phil. You OK?'
He shrugged nonchalantly. Then, taking her elbow, he steered her through the throng of people and behind the bar itself. She walked through to the back room with him happily, glad of the quiet once the door was shut behind them. It was a heavy oak door, specially designed to keep the noise of the pub out, and any noise made inside the room inaudible to the pub's clientele. It was a very expensive but very necessary fixture. It also had some serious brass work: two mortice locks, two heavy-duty bolts and a steel bar that slipped easily into the wall cavity. It would take a battering ram to open it should the need ever arise – for example, if the police came sniffing around or a rival of some description took it into their heads to come visiting mob- handed. Neither of these scenarios was unheard of in Phillip's world, and he was ready for them.
'Are you sure you're all right, Phillip?'
He sat her down on the black leather sofa and, placing himself gently beside her, he said honestly, 'No, no, Christine, I'm not all right. Breda's gone too far this time.'
His voice was flat, there was no emotion in it whatsoever. Christine searched his face for some kind of clue, for something to tell her what he was feeling inside. He had placed his arm around her shoulders and, though the gesture was a loving one, she knew that as far as he was concerned, she didn't exist for him at this particular moment in time. She turned into him, forcing him to look into her eyes. 'She doesn't mean it, Phil, you know that as well as I do. She just likes to have a laugh, likes to get out and be a young girl again. Please don't fight with her, not tonight. I'm having such a lovely time.'
He looked at her, and she knew it was no good, he would only humour her. His eyes were hard and his handsome face was expressionless. She knew the signs now, knew his moods. When he was like this he scared her, even though she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would never hurt her.
'I can't swallow this, Chris, she's undermining my credibility by the day. If I can't fucking control my little sister, how can I be expected to control the people who work for me? It's not about her, mate, it's about how her actions affect the people around her. She's out there, out of her fucking nut, with three fucking chancers. This ain't about her any more, it's about me.'
Christine knew he really believed that. In a strange way, she even understood where he was coming from. She understood that his world was a dangerous and unpredictable one. That he was only as good as his reputation. He was young and on his way up, and, for the moment, he had the backing of some serious names. She had learned an awful lot, things she had never thought she would have to know about. But she was with him now, for better or for worse. He would be the father of her child, her children, and she had accepted his way of life because she had no other choice. She guessed that he shielded her from a lot of it but seeing him like this was something she wasn't used to. This was the Phillip Murphy people talked about, not the Phillip Murphy who she was going to marry in one week's time, who treated her like a queen, and smothered her with his love.
'Please, Phil, don't start. Leave her alone, she doesn't mean any harm.'
Before he could answer her, the door opened and Perry Croft popped his head inside. 'Breda just got in a cab, Phil, I thought she needed to get off home.'
Phillip smiled. 'Thanks, mate. We'll be out in a minute.'
Perry was gone without another word. Christine felt her body relaxing, felt the tension leaving her and the lightness of the relief as it washed over her.
Phillip hugged her to him, kissing the top of her head. 'See? You were worried over nothing.'
'I'm sorry, Phil, I overreacted. I just didn't want you to start a row with Breda, she thinks the world of you. And those blokes she was with, they didn't know she was your sister, they didn't know the score. They couldn't believe their luck that she was giving them the time of day!'
Phillip laughed with her then, and she instinctively rubbed her hand across her belly; she was just starting to round out a bit, as Phil's mother so succinctly put it. Her normally flat belly was beginning to grow outwards, and she caressed it happily. She was inordinately pleased that Phillip had listened to her, had taken her feelings into consideration. She knew that Breda's performance had made him angry, angry and ashamed. Her behaviour was anathema to him. But the fact he had put her feelings first really meant a lot to her.
Christine was becoming more comfortable with her situation by the day, she was growing up fast, and that was not a bad thing considering she would be a married woman in one week's time, and a mother in six months' time. Instead of fearing the change a baby would bring to her, she now welcomed the child. It was already the love of her life after Phillip; now she had accepted its existence she felt a deep and abiding connection to it. She hoped it was a boy, because Phillip wanted a son so badly. He didn't actually say that, but she just knew that was the case.
As she settled once more into his arms, she wondered at how she could ever have questioned her feelings for him. She was lucky, a very lucky young woman. Who would soon be a bride and a mother, and who was not yet seventeen. But as Phillip had said to her on more than one occasion, they were young all right, but they were still old enough to have kids and they would enjoy them. Give them a good life, and love them with a vengeance.
Breda walked into the kitchen to her father shouting merrily, 'The dead arose and appeared to many.'
They all laughed at his words, especially Christine.
'Jesus, Breda, you look like you've just been exhumed,' quipped Declan.
Breda didn't say a word, but she looked at Declan and her expression told him everything he needed to know. She poured herself a cup of tea and, sipping the hot liquid noisily, she sat down heavily at the kitchen table. Her son was sitting on his grandmother's lap, and he grinned saucily at his mummy as she put out her hand and caressed his hair.
Christine looked around her. She had never experienced anything like this in her life. Breakfast in her house had always been a solemn affair – no chat, no camaraderie, no radio blaring in the background. She loved the mornings now, looked forward to them.
'How's the morning sickness, Chris? Shall I get you a couple of cream crackers?' Veronica's voice was filled with concern for her. She had been great about the baby, about the wedding, about everything in fact.
'I'm fine. Really, I feel great.'
Veronica lifted her grandson from her lap and placed him on her chair. Going to the cooker, she put the frying pan on to the hob, saying cheerily, 'How about a bit of sausage and egg? Could you manage that?'
Christine shook her head, pleased at the attention she got from this kind and caring woman. 'Honesty, I couldn't eat a thing yet. I still feel a bit queasy. I'll have some toast later.'
Veronica frowned, her eyes almost disappearing inside the sockets as she surveyed the young girl with mock severity. 'Mind that you do, that child you're carrying needs fuel. Food is fuel for humans. It's what keeps us going. I reckon you've a boy there. Morning, noon and night sickness usually means a son. Girls are easier to carry. No trouble at all really.'
Breda laughed then, a scornful, hateful laugh. Christine saw that whatever ailed Breda, it was much more than a hangover. 'Is that so? Your boys have never caused you any trouble of course, have they, Mother?'
Christine looked at her soon-to-be-sister-in-law's bloated face, and saw the way she looked around the table at her brothers. She watched as Phillip stood up abruptly and walked out of the room, his back ramrod straight and his hands clenched into fists. Sometimes she hated Breda for the way she casually lashed out at her family, her cryptic sarcasm delivered with such venom it made everyone around her as unhappy as she was. Christine picked up her mug of tea and sipped it anxiously; the atmosphere was heavy with dread now. Breda's son was looking at his mother intently, even he was aware that something was suddenly amiss.
It was Declan who spoke first, playing the peacekeeper. He rounded on Breda, not allowing for her son's presence as they usually did. Pushing his face almost into his sister's, he spat at her, 'You're a bitter pill, Breda. You are a vicious, bitter bitch of a woman, and one of these days you'll go too fucking far.'
Veronica walked quickly to where her son sat and, slapping him heavily across his shoulders, she said in a low voice, 'That's enough, Declan. I won't have another word said.'
Declan stood up then and, looking down at his mother, who at just five feet tall was over a foot shorter than him, he answered her, with a loud and angry sneer, 'That's right, Mum, you keep defending her. But she needs to know that all any of us are guilty of is looking out for her. Whore that she is.'
Christine was shocked at the turn the morning had suddenly taken, but this kind of confrontation was par for the course in this house. The rows were as easily forgotten as they were easily started. These people said what was on their minds and, as much as it could be upsetting, like it was now, it was also their way of getting things off their chests and out into the open. After all the years in her own home, where nothing was ever really resolved, she loved that the Murphys felt comfortable enough to say what they needed to without fear or favour. They cleared the air and then forgot about it.
Spandau Ballet were playing on the radio, and Jamsie was eating his breakfast as if nothing was going on around him. Breda was staring at her son, Declan's vitriol for once subduing her usual argumentative personality, and Veronica was shaking her head sadly in despair at her children's need to fight each other.
Declan walked from the kitchen, and Christine knew he would be going to Phillip, would make sure that his brother was OK. Phillip often seemed to take the brunt of Breda's disaffection with her life, and Christine admired him for the way he accepted it from her. Breda, though, was rarely cross with her. In fact, Breda was very kind to her personally. But that could be because she wasn't a blood relative.
Christine waited a few minutes and then, picking up her tea, she excused herself and left the kitchen. She hoped the house Phillip was buying for them went through soon. She decided they needed to put some space between him and his sister.
As she went up the stairs to the bedroom she shared with Phillip, she heard the low murmur of Phillip and Declan's voices coming from the small front room.
'He's a bruiser all right, Chris. Just like his brother.'
Christine grinned with pride at the praise. Breda was genuinely thrilled with her nephews. Phillip Murphy the third was a handsome child, who delighted everyone around him. Even her own mother had succumbed to his charms; the woman who had taken her daughter's pregnancy and marriage as a personal insult to herself was mad about her grandsons, especially the first-born. His thick, dark hair and his sparkling blue eyes which were so like his father's hadn't put her mother off him one iota. In fact, everyone worshipped the ground he walked on.
And walk he did; at ten months he had taken his first tentative steps and by thirteen months he was running around the house like Roger Bannister on speed. He was talking by eighteen months, not just words, but whole sentences. Now at nearly three he could chat with the best of them. Even the arrival of his little brother a year earlier had not fazed him; instead of the jealousy predicted by everyone around her, Philly, as they referred to him, had taken one look at his new-born brother, his handsome face concerned and rapt with interest, and declared loudly and confidently, 'I like him, Mummy, can we keep him?'
The newly born Timothy Murphy had taken to his older brother with the same zeal. Christine was thrilled at their closeness, it made her life much easier because they were so happy in each other's company. Each kept the other amused and they thrived on the closeness that being together brought to them. They looked alike, had the same mannerisms, and they were both possessed of an easy-going nature, that is unless they were crossed about something: a toy another child wanted, or being denied a favourite sweet. Even then, they tended to gang up together, the one-year-old Timmy following his brother around like a faithful puppy. Young Phillip would charge around the house, his loud voice cutting through all the adults' conversation. He was a natural leader; even Breda's child Porrick didn't have the strength to overpower him, or his dominant personality. Philly, as they called him, had the knack of making older children bend to his will. Christine was thrilled to bits with her two handsome sons, and at how easily she had slipped into the role of a mother. All the fears she'd had about being responsible for a small human being had turned out to be groundless in the end. Even though she'd had a bit of a hard time with Timmy, she was a natural nurturer, a born mother, even her own mother remarked on it, and coming from her that was high praise indeed.
Veronica had, as always, given her the support she needed, but without butting in too much. From the very beginning she had praised Christine loudly and often for the way she cared for her children. She blossomed with the birth of her sons. All the fears that she had trapped herself with her pregnancy and had lost the chance to make something of her life had disappeared with her first glance at her elder son's angry red face. From the moment she had delivered each of her boys she had been besotted with them.
Phillip was proud of her and of his new family, and she knew that he adored them with a passion. She was aware though that he saw her as the primary carer, but it was a role she was more than happy to fulfil; after all, Phillip made sure they wanted for nothing. She simply had to mention something she desired, and it was provided for her. She knew that her mother envied her the easy life she seemed to have fallen into. Her mother's warnings about Phillip and his family were silenced, she now seemed to think he was the dog's gonads, as Phillip himself would say It was a real pleasure to prove her mother wrong, and she knew she would be a liar not to admit how good it felt to see her mother proved so spectacularly wrong about everything. It was odd just how much her mother had changed towards her husband, she treated him like visiting royalty these days and Phillip, for his part, found her about-face amusing. As he said, money did that to people – either the lack of it or the offer of it. He made sure her parents had the means to live in a way they had only ever dreamed of. The boys had been like the icing on the cake for her parents. Phillip Murphy had become a man to be reckoned with and she was proud of that.
Christine thanked God every day for her idyllic life and her beautiful home. At nineteen years old she had not only two perfect sons and a husband who was as attentive to her now as he had been when they first met, but she also had a lovely detached farmhouse in two acres of land, which they were gradually renovating to ensure they had the home of their dreams. It had been hard to find the money at first, but they had managed it. Now they were like any other young couple, saving up every spare penny, and then when they had enough, they would get another room finished, or another bathroom brought up-to-date. It was a labour of love, and indeed she loved this house. Had done since the first time she had seen it. Heavily pregnant with her elder son, she had stood in the entrance hall with her husband's arm around her shoulders and the newfound confidence of a married woman, and known that this was the house they would grow old in together.
It didn't occur to her that her husband's presence had made the owners of the house nervous, that the price they eventually paid had been well under the market value. That she was living in a house that was only theirs because her husband had wanted it so desperately for them. She was still naive enough to believe everything he told her. She didn't understand property and its worth, didn't see the acreage and the potential that Phillip recognised. All she saw was somewhere they could build a life together and bring up their rapidly expanding family. All she thought of were her and the kids' wants and needs. And if there were any whispers about the intimidation and the paying of gambling debts, she ignored them. That was none of her business. She honestly believed that it was all meant to be, that she and Phillip were meant to live in this house. She was so contented with her wonderful life, so happy and involved with her perfect family and her adoring husband, she wasn't ready when the truth first came knocking at her freshly painted front door.
'Poor old Declan, eh, if it wasn't for him these boys of yours would be fatherless now.' Breda was speaking to her.
Christine refused to get into this conversation. 'Come on, Breda, you don't mean that. Not really.' Christine's voice was soft, determined to ward off any arguments that Breda might decide she wanted to start.
Breda picked up little Timmy and she hugged him to her again for a few moments before she said frankly, 'Are you for real, Chris? Are you telling me you honestly don't know the truth about the court case?'
Christine shook her head; her pretty face was well made-up, her thick blond hair was cut so it framed her face, highlighting her high cheekbones and deep-set eyes, yet still hanging down her back like a curtain. It occurred to Breda suddenly that Christine was seriously beautiful; she was also, it seemed, seriously thick.
'Don't you read the papers, Chris, or watch the news?'
Christine shook her head once again, she didn't want to pursue this conversation any further, in fact she was determined not to hear any more about it. 'I don't care what the papers say. I don't care about any of it. So can we just drop the subject, Breda?'
Breda snorted in annoyance, her eyes searching her sister-in- law's for some kind of reaction. The exasperation in her voice was evident as she said, 'You can't keep burying your head in the sand, mate. One day you are going to have to accept the truth of what's going on around you. My advice to you is to do it now, sooner rather than later. Declan is going away, and Jamsie and Phillip, your husband, are only out and about because Declan took the can for them. He was grassed – they were all grassed up. If it wasn't for Declan the whole fucking lot of us would be in clink. Me included. None of us are exactly choirboys, or girls, as the case may be. Getting nicked is what's known in our world as an occupational hazard. The difference is, we accept that as a truth, and so should you.'
Waves of fear washed over Christine. She refused to listen to anything that might have a detrimental effect on her and her world. As Phil had always promised her, it was her job to look after the boys, and he would look after everything else. She didn't want to hear her sister-in-law's poison. Breda was a troublemaker, everyone knew that, she found aggro in the unlikeliest places. This wasn't the first time she had hinted at Phillip's involvement in serious criminal activity. It was as if Breda was trying to force Christine to admit that her husband was a villain. Well, her Phillip wasn't a villain, not a real one, not like Breda was trying to insinuate anyway, and she would not allow her to force that opinion on her, in her own home. Breda didn't really frighten her any more, not like she had in the beginning. Since the birth of her boys, Christine felt she had become tougher, had become hardened to the outside world and all its dangers. Phillip looked out for her, he always looked out for his own, and that included his sister. Though the treacherous bitch was forever trying to undermine him at every opportunity she got. Christine heard the rumours about him, and she had dismissed them for the crap they were. He had explained to her that people were always going to talk about him and his lifestyle. That she was to expect it, while at the same time ignore it. As he had told her from the off, he wasn't a choirboy, and he would never be a nine-to-fiver. But he would never put her or his children in any danger. They were his priority and they always would be. All the talk about him was nothing but exaggerated rubbish, and she would not listen to any of it. Especially not when it came from his own sister.
Christine had already had her mother on the blower that day, asking her what the truth of it all was and, predictably, questioning if her father's usual deliveries were going to be affected by the court case. Declan was the one who ensured her father's shop was filled with cheap merchandise, and consequently that her mother had the wherewithal to live her life in the luxury she had quickly become accustomed to. She had finally put the phone down on Eileen, angry at being pulled into things she had no intention of getting involved in. Now here was Breda trying to do the same thing. Trying to make her be a part of Phillip's other life.
'Stop it, Breda, and I mean it. I won't hear another word about it.'
'Jesus, Christine, you can't not know the score… Declan has taken the can for everyone. He's put his hand up to keep the Filth away from everyone else. But whoever grassed him in the first place is on a death wish; they won't last the fucking week, and right and all, the treacherous cunt.'
Hearing the hate in Breda's voice, Christine felt the fear overwhelm her once more and she was sick with apprehension. She despised this feeling that she was walking on quicksand, that her life, and her sons' lives, were hanging in the balance. That at any moment her world would disintegrate before her eyes. It was her nightmare, the truth was more than she was willing to bear. Couldn't Breda see how the knowledge terrified her? Couldn't she understand that her constant insinuations only served to make Christine feel more and more paranoid about the foundations of her marriage, and her relationship with her husband and his family?
Breda looked down at the child she was holding in her arms and, sighing gently, she handed him back to his mother. Christine grabbed him as though she was rescuing him from imminent danger. Almost snatched him from her arms.
Breda spoke softly now, her words full of genuine remorse, sorry for the distress she had caused this young girl. 'I ain't trying to hurt you, Christine, I'm trying to help you, love. You're not a fool, you can't honestly think all this comes from legitimate means?' She waved her arms around, encompassing the house. 'I'm just trying to prepare you. God knows we all have to face up to reality at some point. Even you, love.'
Christine didn't answer her, instead she busied herself with little Timmy. She could feel herself beginning to shake, her whole body trembling so violently it had to be apparent, even to someone as thick-skinned as Breda, the effect her words had caused. She was already taking antidepressants, had been since the birth of Timmy. The second pregnancy had exhausted and overwhelmed her towards the end and now she needed the tablets to keep her on an even keel. They helped take the edge off her fears, convinced her she could cope with her life.
Breda watched her silently, and her heart was heavy for this girl's stupidity, she couldn't understand why Christine deliberately chose to overlook what was, in essence, right under her nose. It wasn't that Breda wanted to hurt her in any way, she just wanted her to understand the reality of her situation. Phillip had walked away from it this time, but it had been at the expense of his brother's freedom. Christine had to accept that her sumptuous lifestyle came with consequences. All Breda really wanted was to make sure her brother's wife wouldn't crack if she came under any undue strain. Phillip might think she was too delicate to know the score, but he didn't see the big picture.
His wife needed to understand that if the worst happened she would be expected to keep her trap shut, and if she didn't know what she was meant to keep quiet about, then that could only make her a liability. Plus, Breda, if she was honest with herself, resented the way Christine was treated by everyone; they acted like she was made of fine china, as if she was too fragile to be told the truth about her life. Phillip was a dangerous fuck, and that was being polite about him and his business tactics. He was not going to swallow his brother's incarceration without a serious amount of violent retribution, and that could well lead to them all being dragged even further into this mess. She felt Christine should understand the pitfalls of being a Murphy as well as enjoying the perks. The trouble with the Christines of the world was they were the ones who eventually suffered more through their chosen ignorance. Because if and when the bomb dropped into the middle of their existence they were the least able to cope.
But now, looking at Christine's terrified countenance she suddenly wondered if she was right; she felt the same need to protect her as the rest of the family did. Breda lowered her voice, trying to make the silly girl understand the seriousness of what was going on around her. 'Look, mate, I'm not trying to hurt you deliberately, I just think you should be aware of what's happening around you. I think you deserve to know the truth.'
Christine shrugged her shoulders, and turned away from her sister-in-law as if the action would negate what she had been trying to tell her. 'You can see yourself out, Breda. I have to get my kids ready. We're going to your mum's for dinner. She'll need us there with Declan being away.'
As Christine walked up the newly decorated stairway, with its expensive wallpaper and freshly painted woodwork, to her baby's bedroom, she could feel her body rebelling against her sister-in- law's words. Her younger son was crowing with contentment in her arms, unaware of what was happening to the people closest to him. The complete devastation his uncle's incarceration had brought on the rest of his family.
Breda was always trying to undermine her, and make her feel like her life was not as rock solid as she believed it was. She felt that Breda took pleasure in making her feel insecure and nervous that her idyllic life could be over with at any moment. She was always trying to force that point home, as if it would make some kind of difference, would make her accept it as a truth. Breda terrified her with her truths. She didn't want the truth, didn't need it.
As she opened her blouse and settled her son on to her swollen breast, she forced herself to calm down and focus on her boys. As the terror of her situation slowly abated she looked around her at all they had achieved, and reminded herself once again just how lucky she was to have her Phillip.
Veronica Murphy was heartbroken about her son's situation, but she was also a realist. She knew that it had had to happen to one of them and, really, it had to be the son with the least to lose. Phillip had a family and he was the main earner, so even though she was upset about Declan's situation, she accepted it. What else could she do? Whoever had grassed had to be a name of sorts, otherwise the Murphys would have found out who it was before it had come to this. She wasn't a fool, she knew that Phillip had probably tracked down the person responsible by now, he would have their name, address and social security number. She knew him better than most. Even though he was seething, he would not make a drama out of a crisis. Unlike the police, he would make sure he had all the facts and the correct culprit before meting out any kind of punishment.
Her husband was, as always, without any real opinion on the subject, and Phillip had assured her that he would see to it that Declan was well taken care of. In effect it was all over, and now they all had to carry on as best they could.
It was Breda who worried her. Breda was very upset about it all and, typically, was being very vocal about it. She could never keep her trap closed. It would be the ruination of her eventually. Not that she would listen to anyone's advice. But one day her big trap would bring her trouble of Olympian standards. She never considered how her actions might affect the people around her. It would always be her weakness, and it would surely be the thing that would eventually lead to her own downfall. She didn't have the brains to keep herself and her business private.
As Veronica opened the oven door, and took out the huge forerib of beef she had been roasting for the best part of the day, she heard the front door open. She was basting the meat when her youngest son came into the kitchen. He smiled craftily as he said to her, 'That smells handsome, Mum. How long until dinner?'
Her James, her Jamsie, was big and good-looking, and had the brain capacity of a gnat. She could see that it was better for Declan to go away than this eejit, even though she knew that Declan was worth ten of his little brother. Unlike Declan, Jamsie wasn't cut out for prison, though in reality who was? But the difference was, of course, that Declan could cope with the confinement, would do his time in relative comfort, and with the minimum of fuss. He would get himself settled, and make use of his time there.
None of them thought that much of poor Jamsie. He was a bit of a loose cannon. Unpredictable. He had been like that since a small child. Jamsie wouldn't have been able to do the time quietly and patiently. It wasn't in his make-up; he was a brawler, unable to control his emotions, or contain his temper. Without one of his brothers guiding him, he would make a serious fuck-up within days. She smiled at him sadly. 'Not long now, Jamsie, go and get yourself washed up. I'll make you a cup of tea.'
He nodded absent-mindedly, and she realised he wasn't thinking about his brother's confinement; all he was interested in at this particular moment in time was filling his belly. The knowledge disturbed her more than she would ever admit. She busied herself with the meal, but her heart wasn't in it any more. She made a pot of tea and waited patiently for the rest of her family to arrive. She knew that they would descend on her as usual; it was Friday night, and that was family night in this house. Normally she lived for these occasions, it was what kept her going. Tonight though would be the first real Friday night without her Declan and she was feeling his absence acutely. He was her second son, the sensible son. He was away, really away, not on remand any more, but with a proper prison sentence hanging around his neck. All hope of an acquittal was gone now.
Seven years he had been given, seven long years for the possession of firearms; it should have been much longer she knew that but the knowledge didn't help her any. It broke her heart to think about it. She knew he wouldn't do the whole stretch, only two thirds of it, and with his time on remand it wouldn't even be that long. He would be out in less than three if he didn't play up or, more to the point, have a tear-up with someone in there and add to his sentence. But it still hurt her deeply; she hated that her child was locked away from society, locked away from her. Whatever the courts might think about him, he was still her boy, her flesh and blood. He would always be her baby. That was the cross that women had to bear; no matter what your children did, they were still your children, and you loved them no matter what.
Unlike her husband, who had gone to the pub as usual, who saw his son's prison sentence as an occupational hazard, Veronica felt Declan's loss deeply. But for all that, she also knew she had to carry on as usual; they were a family, and as a family they were stronger. As a family they would cope with Declan's absence, and ensure that he was well looked after. Phillip would see to that. He was the main earner and the one they turned to for guidance. It was what he did, looked out for each of them one way or another and, in all fairness, he did it very well.
'Come on, Chris, get a move on. Me mother will be panicking. You know how she loves the Friday night dinners, how she depends on the boys coming round. Now more than any other time.'
Phillip was trying to act as if nothing had really changed, as if everything was normal. Christine watched him as he changed his shirt, and combed his hair. She knew he wouldn't let his real feelings show, he would see that as a weakness. He was holding it together for all their sakes. Especially hers. He still had the power to make her want him more than anything or anyone in her life. Except for her boys, though even then she wouldn't want that to be put to the test. But she couldn't escape the fact that Breda and her words had depressed her, frightened her. There was a naked truth to them that couldn't be denied.
'I don't really feel like it tonight, Phil. The boys are tired, and your mum must be devastated about Declan. I think we should give it a miss.'
She saw Phillip smile, but the smile had no real warmth to it. She had encountered this smile before, every time that she had gone up against him. Not that she had done so often, there had never really been any need to. But the few times she had that smile had told her that he was humouring her until she backed off and did exactly what he expected of her.
'My mum will need us there tonight, Chris. Think about it – she's just lost one of her sons, she'll want her family around her tonight more than ever. The kids will take her mind off her loss. She adores them.' He stared at her for long moments before saying quietly, 'I need my family around me as well, I've lost me closest friend, as well as me brother.'
He sounded so sincere, and looked so inoffensive and surprised at her demeanour and her refusal to accompany him to his mother's house, that she knew anyone witnessing this exchange would not think he was being at all unreasonable. And he wasn't, not really. He had every right to expect her to go along to his poor mother's with him. So why did she feel she was being coerced into going? Because she knew, deep down inside, that if she didn't do as he wanted, he would not let it rest. She was expected to do as he wanted; refusal wasn't an option. She knew that somehow he would make sure she accompanied him to his mother's house. She could see the confusion on his face, his shock that she might even contemplate defying him, and she knew she was already beaten.
'You're right, Phil. What was I thinking? You've lost Declan.'
She saw him physically relax and, realising that he was under immense pressure because of his brother's prison sentence, she felt ashamed at her actions. Breda had once more made her doubt her husband's loyalty. Breda might think she was a fool, but Christine knew she needed this man and all that he stood for. He had given her his name and his children. What more could she ask of him?
'Me mum is the one I'm worried about, she'll be bereft. It was a gutter, but we can't change it, we just have to swallow our knobs, and get on with it.'
That would be his last word on the matter. Like her, he felt the less said at times the better.
'Come on, Christine love, chop chop. We ain't got all night.'
Phillip was laughing as he hurried her along, but she could still feel a slight atmosphere between them. It always appeared when she questioned their lives, when she felt the uncertainty of their future. She knew he saw it as a reflection on him, on his ability to take care of his family. And she hated herself for doubting him. But it was at times like this, when real life forced its way into their home, that she sensed just how precarious their life and all it entailed really was.
Ten minutes later, as they were settling the boys into the back of the Land Rover, Phillip grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his arms. She felt his tongue forcing its way into her mouth, and she accepted the kiss willingly. He held her tightly to him, whispering into her hair, 'I feel bad enough as it is, Chris, me mum's fucking destroyed with it, don't you make me feel worse. I'll sort this, darling, I'll sort this before you know it.'
Her heart went out to him. She could hear the desolation in his voice, knew then that he was feeling the loss of his brother far more than he was letting on. She was thrilled that he was willing to show that to her, and her alone. He would never let anyone else see how he was really feeling. She wished Breda could see this side of him, could understand that this was why she didn't need to listen to gossip or know too much about what went on in her husband's life. She was just glad that it wasn't her Phillip doing seven years, she would rather it was anyone but him. Now they had to go and face poor Veronica, and that was going to be very hard for Phillip to bear. He felt responsible; they all worked for him in one way or another. He kept each of them financially, even his father was on the payroll now.
She saw little Philly watching his parents closely; his handsome face seemed to understand exactly what was going on around him and, for a split second, the fear gripped her once more. It was as if he had inherited his father's ability to look inside her head and pick out her thoughts. Breda always made her feel like this too, with her friendly warnings, and her insistence that Christine should know more than was good for her always left her nerves in tatters. She knew that she had to be strong for Phillip now, knew that he needed her. Anyway, what was a few years in the grand scheme of things? Declan would be out and about before they knew it. Phillip had done everything he could to help him, and he would have to look out for them all on his own now Declan was banged up. He needed her to be strong for him. She was determined not to let him down.
Eileen Booth sat at the table and watched her daughter warily. She knew that having slammed the phone down on her earlier in the day, Christine might well decide to continue the argument in front of her in-laws.
It was the first time Eileen Booth had ever felt nervous of her daughter, in fact she couldn't remember ever feeling this nervous about anything in her life before. She was determined to make her peace with Christine, she was not about to let anything ruin the life she had become so fond of.
Eileen felt almost ashamed at how grateful Veronica had been at her coming round. Veronica had been touched because she had truly believed Eileen was coming over to show her support at this awful time when, in reality, she had not even thought about how Declan's going away might affect anyone other than herself. She was only there because her daughter had finally had enough of her, and she was desperate to try and build some kind of bridge between them in case she and Ted were cut out entirely from the Murphys' orbit. Even Phillip seemed to think she was here to show her solidarity, and that told her that Christine had kept their argument to herself. She was unsure what she was supposed to say, but she was not going to leave until her daughter was once more back onside. Ted might not feel the need to be here, but she did; someone had to look out for their future earnings.
Other than James, who had wolfed down his dinner as usual, the food Veronica had prepared had pretty much gone uneaten. It sat on the plates, gradually drying out as they all discussed the day's events. Phillip was putting a good spin on it, and no one was brave or foolish enough to contradict him. Breda was keeping a low profile tonight, and Veronica Murphy was secretly glad about that much anyway. She wasn't sure she could have coped with any kind of conflict this night. And God Himself knew, her Breda wasn't exactly renowned for her tact. She was heart-sorry for Phillip, he was obviously as distraught as she was at the turn of events. Getting up, she went to the cupboard above the sink and she took out a bottle of Paddy. Opening it with a flourish, she said loudly, 'Get the glasses out. All this moping around isn't going to get our Declan home.'
Christine watched as her mother-in-law tried to make the evening almost bearable, and was impressed at how the woman suddenly lifted the atmosphere until it was almost jovial.
'Before we know it our Declan will be back amongst us, regaling us with stories about his exploits inside.'
It was as if Veronica had given them all permission to stop worrying. Christine knew that this was how things were dealt with in this family, you accepted the bad and you made a point of not letting it get the better of you.
Phillip Murphy Senior looked at his wife and smiled for the first time in days. 'Pour me a shot, love, it's not the end of the world. He's lucky he hasn't been captured before this. Fuck me, he's lucky it was only a seven! Three sawn-off shotguns and an assault rifle in his boot! They could've thrown away the fucking keys.'
Breda chipped in then with, 'Not to forget the conspiracy to murder charge that was miraculously dropped at the last minute. Fucking Filth couldn't pin the tail on a kiddie's donkey with a miner's lamp and a detailed map!'
Everyone was laughing now, joking about it, the whisky was flowing and the tales of Declan and his exploits over the years were coming thick and fast. The evening had taken on a party mood. Declan's brothers and sister were all pleased to celebrate him and their obvious love for him. They could pretend he was with them now, a part of them once more. Now that the shock of his sentence had worn off they were able to see that in actuality he had got off lightly. He would do his time, and be back among them soon enough.
Christine was pleased at the change in the atmosphere, and she felt herself relaxing; this was what had made her want to be a part of the Murphys, this love that they had for each other. This loyalty that they all had in abundance. The way they could be fighting one moment, and in the next lined up together against the outside world.
Eileen Booth was frankly bewildered. How could they laugh and joke about something so awful? How could they not see that they should be ashamed of their son's predicament? It was as if they thought what had happened was acceptable. Normal, even. But, then again, she supposed it was to people like them.
Philly ran through the kitchen then, pretending to shoot his little brother. He screamed out at the top of his voice, 'Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!'
Jamsie shouted out, 'He's a fucking Murphy all right!'
As Eileen watched her only daughter laugh along with them, she knew then that she had lost Christine to this family, and she would never get her back.
Christine was aware that whatever her husband was up to was serious. He had closeted himself in the office block he had created for himself in what had originally been outhouses and stables, and now there were men she'd never seen before visiting him at regular intervals. Normally he had the same people come to the house, and even they didn't come often enough for her to really notice their presence. The last few days though, the drive was like a council car park, and men were coming and going at all hours of the day and night.
It made her feel nervous, but she knew this was all part of Phillip's world, and that she had to stop worrying about it. She felt it was her youth that let her down; she didn't understand the economics of her husband's lifestyle, and she was annoyed with herself for worrying about what he might be up to.
As she made a pot of coffee she heard the back door open and she smiled as her husband came into the warmth of the kitchen. The seriousness of his expression vanished as he saw her and she felt the pleasure his presence always brought her.
'They're going home, darling, you'll have peace and quiet in a minute.'
She smiled at his words. He knew she hated the constant noise of the cars on the gravel drive. It was loud, and it often woke the kids up as it could go on into the night.
'That grub smells handsome! You're really getting to be a good little cook – even me mother said that you're a natural and she don't like anyone else cooking for her lot.'
Christine almost beamed with pride at his words; if Veronica had actually said that, then it was high praise indeed. 'I try, but I've a long way to go yet!'
She knew she was doing well, she liked cooking these days, enjoyed the simplicity of it. The chopping, the peeling – she liked the combination of manual labour and the unknown. She was forever trying out her own recipes, new combinations of herbs and oils. As they had an orchard and plenty of land, she was learning about growing her own vegetables, and had even planted a small herb garden. The gardener Phillip had employed had been more than happy to explain the intricacies to her. She was surprised at how much she enjoyed it. And the boys just loved being out in the dirt trying to help her dig and sow.
Phillip laughed, then, looking into her eyes, he said seriously, 'I got rid of everyone for a reason, Chris. I've got a couple of blokes coming to the house – they're Old Bill, and I want to see them in the front room here, not in the offices. Is that OK with you?'
She smiled happily, deliberately overlooking the serious tone of his voice. "Course. You don't need to ask my permission.'
He always looked too big for the kitchen, too tall and too wide. Though it was a large room, it had a low ceiling, and that made him seem huge in the confined space. Today he looked almost sinister in the late afternoon twilight. She knew he was gently warning her about something, and that he expected her to understand and comply with whatever he wanted to do.
'They're here on the quiet, Chris, they are going to tell me who served up my Declan. You can't ever let on you saw them here, or spoke to them, to anyone. Do you understand that? Not even to your mum, or my mum, not to anyone. 'Specially not Breda.'
Phillip could see the confusion in his wife's eyes, and he was genuinely sorry for having to do this to her, but he had to make sure she understood the importance of what he was saying to her. But she was a good girl, his Christine, she understood the value of keeping her nose out of things that didn't concern her. Unlike most women he knew, she didn't feel the need to be involved in every second of his life; she accepted him without questions of any kind.
She was a wonderful wife, a wonderful mother, and a fantastic lover. She kept his home spotless, and she still had a good body. He was thrilled with her, and he hated having to bring her into all this aggravation. But she needed to be aware that what occurred this day had to be kept as quiet as possible. He knew he needed to impress this information on her, but that she would heed his warning. She was nothing if not sensible.
'When you find out who it was, what are you going to do, Phil?' Her voice was quiet, matter-of-fact.
He shrugged, his smile once more without warmth. 'I'll mark their card, Chris, that's all, darling.' He opened his arms in a gesture of innocence, as if he was completely unaware of what she really meant by the question. It was like a game they played where he told her blatant lies and she accepted them as truths. 'What do you think I'm gonna do? I need to know for the future. Fuck me, Chris, this is my brother we're talking about. Even the Filth think he was stitched up. That's why they are coming round here, to set the record straight.'
She turned away from him, and poured them both out a mug of coffee, the strong aroma of the freshly ground beans heavy in the air. She knew he was bullshitting her but, then again, that suited her down to the ground. Someone had once said that knowledge was power, but, as far as she was concerned, in this world she lived in, knowledge caused nothing but trouble. So she turned the other cheek as always, pretending she was happy to go along with her husband's lies and subterfuge.
'OK. Whatever you say, Phil. I never discuss anything with anyone anyway, why would I?'
He slipped his arms around her slim waist and hugged her to him, enjoying the slightness of her frame, and the familiarity of her body. He felt himself getting hard, and she smiled at his reaction to her.
'You're a blinder, Chris, do you know that? Together me and you will go places. We'll fucking own the world.' He spoke to her in a hoarse whisper, but she could hear the determination in his voice, and she wondered briefly what the price would eventually be for their good fortune. Everything they had they got at someone else's expense, so there had to be a price eventually, she was convinced of that much. It kept her up at night, was the reason she popped her happy pills as Phillip called them.
But she didn't answer him, instead she turned and pushed herself tighter into his embrace, kidding herself that what she didn't know couldn't really hurt her.
Breda was angry. She had heard the chatter about Phillip and his cronies, had seen that he was more than aware of his brother's incarceration being through a grass, and knew that he was moving heaven and earth to find out who the said grass might be. She also wondered why she was not party to the investigation – that really rankled. She understood Jamsie being sidelined, he was a prize cunt in most respects. But she saw herself as a valid and important member of the family businesses. After all, she brought in a serious earn, and that alone should be enough to include her in everything that was going on; if she was a bloke, of course, there wouldn't be a problem. So being overlooked like this pained her. She worked as hard as any of the men around her, harder in some ways because she had to constantly prove herself worthy of her position. Well, she was determined that this time she would prove her real worth.
She had never wanted the married and pregnant life, she had too much go in her to settle for some bloke. She wanted to be someone in her own right, achieve things through her own graft. It was the eighties, women were running the country now, and were more than capable of making their own lives, their own luck. She knew she should have moved into her own drum by now. But, in all honesty, her mother's house suited her these days. She had a babysitter on hand, as and when she needed one, and she had all the perks of a family life and none of the hassle of the bills and the loneliness living alone would incur. Besides, her mum needed her at home – Veronica Murphy had trouble letting her daughter go, and Breda knew that worked in her favour. She was still blessed with an almost-single life; her parents allowed her the freedom she craved, and in return she allowed them unrestricted access to their first grandbaby. That was something no one could put a price on. That her son took second place these days to Phillip's offspring she didn't let bother her too much. She had what she wanted and that was enough for her.
As she drove along a dark country lane in Upminster, she looked out for a dark-green Land Rover. Spying it, she slowed down and then parked neatly behind it. She sat in her silver BMW and waited patiently for the man she was meeting to slip into her passenger seat. Smiling slightly, she watched him as he walked slowly towards her – this was a man she had bedded on more than one occasion. She hoped that there might be a bit of sexual palaver after they had talked. She remembered he was well endowed – not exactly possessed of any finesse in that department, but what he lacked in technique he more than made up for in willingness, and that, as she always said, more than compensated for the lack of small talk.
As he slid into the seat beside her she was aware of him in every way. The excitement of what she was about to find out only made her feel more powerful sexually. It was about power with her. Always about the power.
Peter Knolls was dressed for work. As a nightclub doorman, he wore an expensive suit and hand-made shirts, and God help anyone who came within two feet of his attire. He was big in every way and he knew it. His sheer brute strength had made him feared and that was a big help in his chosen profession. The rougher clientele of certain establishments were much less likely to kick off when Knollsy, as he was known, was on the door. He was also a dyed-in-the-wool racist, and unafraid to use a firearm. He had all the natural accoutrements his job required, and then some. Add to that his fascination with the female form, and his reputation for shagging till the crack of dawn if he could stay up late enough, and his job was made for him. He spent all night watching strange and collecting phone numbers, while deciding who could deal in his club and who couldn't. He earned a serious wedge and he loved hurting people; all in all it was his dream job. He also listened to everything around him, and his natural quietness made people forget he was there. This stood him in good stead; he was happy to pass along information for certain monetary rewards. Which was what he was about to do now, only this time he was worried about what he had heard whispered. Not that it affected him as such, but because it was such an explosive bit of knowledge, worth a good deal to the right people.
'All right, Breda? You look well, love.'
He was staring at her ample breasts as he spoke and she laughed at his audacity. She lit a cigarette, the blackness around them was comforting somehow. It was funny but the dark didn't bother her, she had always embraced it. It hid a lot, and it encouraged you to think. The darkness of this lane was enveloping them, making them invisible to the world. Peter Knolls opened the window; he hated smoking, especially women smoking. It was a filthy habit and he loathed the way his suits stank after a night in the clubs. Breda, knowing this, blew cigarette smoke right into his face. 'What you found out, Pete?'
'How much you got on you?'
She sighed. 'Enough. Or would you rather I got Phillip to talk to you? Only he's the one who is moving heaven and earth to find out the score about our Declan. It's up to you.' She was cold towards him now, the hardness of her eyes evident even in the dimness of the car.
'All right. Fucking relax. No need to get out of your shopping trolley.'
He was offended and she knew that. It was a calculated gesture. She wanted him annoyed, she was making him aware of who was boss. She knew he could play the game, so she wasn't bothered about it. She had rattied him more than she thought and that was evident when he said quietly, 'You swear that you'll never let on I told you this, not to Phillip, Declan, anyone?'
She frowned slightly at his words. 'Phillip will give whoever spills his guts the fucking Victoria Cross. I don't know where you've been hiding but he's given word that anyone with any kind of knowledge only had to let him know.'
Peter Knolls shook his head sadly. 'He might not want to know though, have you thought about that? Neither might you when you find out, did that ever occur to any of you?' He was looking at her face now, staring into her eyes. 'I'm only talking to you now because we're mates.'
She didn't answer him, she was already working out what he was actually saying to her. Or more to the point, what he was trying to say to her. It wasn't rocket science. She looked him in the eye as she said, 'Before we go any further, how did you come by this information?'
Peter sighed again. He wished he had never come now, he was in well over his head already. Breda was one thing, but Phillip, he was a different entity entirely. Whereas Breda was all action, quick words, and hasty decisions, Phillip was the opposite. He thought things through, so not only did he make the right decisions, but he also made them at the right time – generally a time that was very advantageous to himself. Always his justice was swift and without any preamble. It was all very easy to Phillip Murphy. He never troubled himself with what ifs, or if onlys. You fucked up, you paid the price.
Peter's worry was that Phillip might turn out to be one of those people who felt the need to shoot the messenger; after all, this wasn't something he would want broadcast to the nation.
'You've come this far, you must know you can't go back now. Is it Jamsie, is that what you're trying to tell me?' Breda was screwing up her eyes at the incongruity of it. James was a fucker, a fool, but he wasn't a grass – was he?
Peter Knolls shrugged. 'Jamsie was caught with three keys of cocaine and a fifteen-year-old girl in his car; he was out of his nut. He was caught over by Heathrow, and the Filth there were convinced he was part of an importing ring. You know how thick they are on the airports, like anyone would try and bring it that way! He offered a deal to get out of it. Sorry, Breda, he might be your brother, but he's a fucking waster. Anyway, the Filth took it and one of them is on my payroll, he bounces for me on the side. A big cunt, all brawn and no brain. He let it slip one night when he was in his cups, so to speak. Jamsie was playing up and they had a bit of a confrontation. I heard the gist of it, and now I don't know if I'm doing the right thing or not. On the one hand, if he was my brother I would want to know, on the other hand, if he was my brother I'd rather not know. So there you have it.'
Breda was quiet for long moments, her heavy breathing the only sound in the car. 'Who's this Filth? What's his name and where does he live?'
'What are you going to do, Breda, go round there and knock on his front door?' His voice was slightly mocking and that fuelled Breda's already gathering anger.
'I ain't scared of the Filth, I ain't scared of no one, and that includes my brother Phillip. He'll want to know what you told me, you do realise that.' She threw the last bit in to frighten Peter, to pay him back for his disrespect of her and her reputation, a reputation that was gaining momentum by the week. She would not be treated like a second-class citizen by anyone, especially not nightclub doormen whose only job requirements were a broad chest and a penchant for fighting drunks. She wasn't going to let him have his wicked way either. He could kiss that goodbye and all.
Jamsie was stoned – not just mellow, he was stoned out of his nut. As he rolled himself another joint he wondered at how easy life could be if you just had the good sense to plan everything down to the last detail.
June Pines was lying in the bed watching him languorously. Say what you liked about Jamsie, he could fuck for England, stoned or not. He was a waster, as her mother was constantly reminding her, and she knew that well enough. It didn't stop the attraction though, in fact it only enhanced it for her. He was good-looking and she liked the danger of him. She liked the knowledge that his name was feared around their way, and she got a kick out of the fact that her mother was more than aware of it. If she was honest, she would admit that it had been a big part of his initial attraction for her; now it was developing into a genuine romance, at least she hoped it was. She had been round the turf more times than a greyhound, and she knew that there were not many who could satisfy her like Jamsie Murphy. Christ Himself knew, she had tried out enough blokes in her lifetime. In fact, she was considering a move if this thing with Jamsie didn't work out. Her reputation was preceding her these days and only being with someone like Jamsie could hold the remarks in check. She had a cousin who lived near Birmingham who said that she was welcome to come and share her flat with her; she had a baby and, by all accounts, the talent up there was for the taking. It was something to think about anyway.
She took the joint gratefully from Jamsie and pulled on it deeply, letting the grass envelop her mind and iron out any problems she might foresee. She loved the feeling of floating above herself. Feeling the fluidness of her own body. Jamsie was noisily trying to clear his throat and, as he coughed over and over again, his eyes caught hers and they both started to crack up laughing, as if it was the funniest thing they had ever heard. Really laughing, their eyes running with tears.
The peculiar buzz that grass produced had reduced them to hopeless wrecks of laughter, but now they were quiet again, both engrossed in their own thoughts. Jamsie was lying beside her, and she was tucked under his arm, enjoying the feel of him, the smell of him. Somewhere outside a car went past and the familiar sound of Bob Marley was wafting up the stairs. 'Redemption Song' was one of her favourite tracks. She closed her eyes and let the music wash over her, she felt so relaxed again. The sound of feet on the stairs didn't bother either of them at first, but the door being kicked in alerted them both to the fact that something serious was about to occur.
Breda Murphy's red, furious face told them that it was trouble. As Breda and her henchmen dragged Jamsie bodily from the bed, screaming obscenities at him all the while, June was relieved that the woman hadn't come looking for her. She looked angry enough to commit murder.
As June scrambled into her clothes and ran terrified from the chaos in the bedroom, she decided there and then that Birmingham was suddenly the high spot of the universe. She was packed and on a train north within two hours. She had a feeling she should get out of Dodge, as her father was always remarking, his penchant for the cowboy films of his youth always spattering his daily conversations. She liked Jamsie a lot, but his family, especially his sister, seemed to feel differently about him. She didn't know what had caused the commotion but she was sensible enough not to hang around to find out.
She didn't know that much about the gangster lifestyle, but even she knew that when your own sister and three men with baseball bats set about you, it was a serious breach of familial etiquette. She repaired her make-up, got herself a coffee and sat back in the train seat with a sigh of relief. This was just the push she needed to start her young life anew. She had no intention of being pulled in as a material witness by the Old Bill. As far as she was concerned her life in the Smoke was well and truly over. She sighed with relief; it had been a close shave all right, and she wanted to put it as far behind her as possible. She wondered briefly if Jamsie was OK, then she forced him from her mind. She knew that whatever happened, she would be the furthest thing from his mind, and she was determined to return the compliment.
Phillip was seething, only now the anger was directed at his sister. How dare she take this matter into her own hands! Who the fuck did she think she was?
As he drove towards his mother's house he could feel black fury consuming him. Not that anyone looking at him would see that of course, at least no one who wasn't really close to him. He knew his biggest strength was the fact he never look harassed about anything. He always looked cool, calm, and, as his mother often joked, collected. But inside he was a writhing mass of hate and that hate was right now directed at Breda. She had gone too far this time. Fucking baseball bats in public, letting the world know their fucking business. He had already received three calls about it before he had left the house. What did she think, that her little escapade would be overlooked? She had just advertised to the world that their brother was a fucking grass, and she thought that would help them in some way? Why not go the whole hog and have it advertised in the fucking Romford Recorder and the London Daily News? The silly, stupid bitch. And as if that wasn't bad enough he now had to go and sort out his fucking mother, who was terrified of what was going to happen to her only daughter, let alone her fucking battered and bemused son! It was like living in a circus, they were all fucking clowns of one type or another. He was already trying to minimise the damage that dozy mare had caused; the Filth were being weighed off, and that wasn't fucking cheap at any time. Breda had made them look like a bunch of muppets. Incapable of getting their own house in order in a private and dignified manner.
Well, he was going to take her down a peg, and she would remember this fuck-up until the day she died.
'What possessed you, girl? Your own brother!'
Veronica's voice was thick with tears, she was still unable to comprehend what had taken place in her own family.
'He grassed up Declan, how many fucking times, Mother!'
Veronica screamed back at her daughter, her thick Irish accent even more pronounced with her anger. 'I don't believe it! I won't believe it! James Joachim Murphy might not be the brightest star in the constellation but he wouldn't be that fecking stupid. Use your head, Breda! He'd have to be halfway to the county home to even dream of doing something that fecking stupid.' She looked to where her husband was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a large Scotch. He shook his head at her then, refusing to get involved.
'Will you talk some sense into your daughter, Phillip, not just sit there like the fecking village idiot.'
There was dread in her voice now, fear that all she had heard was true. If it was true her Jamsie, the biggest eejit this side of the Irish Sea, would indeed be safer in a mental institution than in his own home. Breda was bad enough, but Phillip, her eldest, he would be like a man demented. There was no way he would let Jamsie walk away from something like this; it was inconceivable that it could even have happened. Surely they had it wrong and some begrudger was telling them lies to try and cause trouble between them all? Wasn't it bad enough she had lost her lovely Declan without them taking her Jamsie away from her as well?
'Phillip will kill him stone dead.' Her voice was higher than ever, the terror making her feel faint.
Phillip Murphy Senior got up slowly and went to his wife. Veronica allowed him to pull her into his arms, to hold her – she knew she needed holding at this moment. She had to calm down, get herself sorted so she could talk to her eldest son, make him see that it was all a load of old shite. That his brother wasn't capable of such skulduggery, that he wasn't bright enough to do something so underhand, so treacherous.
For the first time ever, Veronica saw her family as other people saw them: violent criminals with no scruples whatsoever. She could hear the talk now as if the voices were in the room with her. 'Look at them Murphys, even their own flesh and blood aren't safe. Their own brother!' It would never be forgotten. It would be dragged up and remembered on regular occasions. They would be seen as animals, wild animals with no care for anyone – not even their own. She knew that they were talked about now – their lifestyles, their way of going on, but that was normal, that was just gossip. There was even an edge of respect for them in it, but there wouldn't be any more. The tight-knit Murphys were no more. They would now be seen as people who turned on their own.
Breda had caused more trouble than she realised with her actions this night. And now they had to wait and see what the upshot was going to be, because it was Phillip who would decide the outcome, and Breda should have understood that from the start. As she watched her daughter, trying to pretend she wasn't bothered about the aggravation she had caused, she was filled with regret for what her family had been reduced to. No one knew her children's faults better than her; after all she had birthed them, each one, she knew their weaknesses, as well as their strengths. But for all Jamsie's stupidity, unlike this daughter of hers, he honestly didn't have the sense to work out that every action had a consequence. Her Phillip, on the other hand, had known that from a very young age, he didn't shit unless he had planned it down to the last detail. Breda should have used her loaf, thought about what she was doing. Her youngest son was fighting for his life in hospital and she couldn't even go to his side until she had sorted out the situation here first. She daren't leave Breda alone with her brother – otherwise the chances were she would be visiting two of her children in intensive care instead of one. How had this happened to them? It was as if overnight her family was being decimated before her eyes; their closeness which she had been so proud of was gone and her children were suddenly enemies. Everything she had worked for since their births was destroyed.
Breda was sitting on the kitchen chair defiantly, looking at her mother as if she was the one who had done something wrong, as if this was her fault somehow. Veronica left her husband's embrace and walked slowly over to her. Then, taking her arm back, she slapped her daughter's face with all the energy she could muster. It said something for Breda that she didn't retaliate, that she took the blow without a word. She looked at her father, but he didn't react in any way. He had sat down again quietly, and resumed sipping his whisky. As if he knew exactly what was going to happen and there was nothing he could do about it. Or wanted to. And it was that, her father's reaction, or rather his lack of it, that finally convinced her how much trouble she was actually in.
'I did it for our Declan, for his being banged up. I did it for the family!'
Veronica shook her head sadly; the fight had left her now. 'No, you didn't, Breda, you did it for yourself, like you have always done everything for yourself.'
Breda looked at her father again and, when he deliberately avoided eye contact, she said with bravado, 'Phillip doesn't scare me, the man ain't been born who can scare me.'
Veronica laughed mirthlessly. 'I wouldn't be too sure about that, Breda. I think that man just pulled up outside.'
Phillip stood outside his mother's house for a few moments to gather himself together. He knew that he was still angry enough to let his sister have it. He could really hurt her badly if he wasn't careful.
This was the first public problem he'd had to face where the family was concerned. And it didn't come more fucking public than this. All his hard work keeping them on a low profile, making them part of the inner fabric of their world quietly and unobtrusively, was gone now. Thanks to Breda they were like the local fucking bully boys. He could hear his heartbeat crashing in his chest, even though outwardly he looked perfectly calm. The evening air was welcome, he gulped it into his lungs, enjoying the darkness and the solitude for another few moments before all hell was let loose.
The worst thing was that this confrontation with his sister had been on the cards for a long while – he just hadn't thought it would be over something this serious, over something so personal. He was frustrated that he hadn't seen something like this coming; it was, in reality, typical Breda, sticking her nose in regardless of the consequences. He knew she was stupid enough to think that people knowing what she had done to her own brother, and why, could only be good for the family. That's how fucking far from reality she actually was. Breda thought they should live like some kind of gangster film; she walked the walk, talked the talk, and looked a complete prat because of it. The reason he was so successful was because he didn't feel the need to become a parody of himself He had his businesses and they were legitimate – any moody enterprises were well hidden from the public face of the family. It didn't suit him to have Jamsie and Breda tearing around like the Krays on amphetamines, it drew unwanted attention to him. It was the old guilt by association – the fact the whole neighbourhood knew didn't augur well for the future. It was simple logistics. He had sussed all that out at an early age having worked for people with a measure of decorum and sense. He had learned and learned well, that people only knew what you told them – ergo, keep your trap shut and you'll be safe.
Now he had Declan to protect, and as for Jamsie – well, he knew exactly what was going to happen there. Thanks to Breda it had all come on top a bit too soon. Breda had gone too far – how dare she take this on herself. How dare she think she could get away with this as if it was nothing! As if he would not have anything to say about her actions. Who the fuck did she think she was?
There was a large part of him that believed she needed a serious fright, to understand, finally and irrevocably, that her behaviour was totally unacceptable. She needed a kicking, a real fucking hiding to show her just how serious he was. He automatically smoothed his hair, wiped his hand over his face, and straightened his clothes. He liked to be in control but, more to the point, he liked to look it.
As he made his way into the family home he felt the atmosphere and he was glad of it. He walked into the kitchen quietly, the reassuring smells of his childhood reminding him that this was his family and, no matter how great his ire, he had to keep this as low-key as possible. The raw terror on Breda's face told him that his sister finally understood the enormity of what she had done. It was a shame the silly bitch hadn't worked all this out earlier – none of this would have been necessary. But that was by the by now, he had to sort this and then get to the hospital, try and smooth over the cracks as per usual.
His instinct was to take Breda by the scruff of her neck and throttle her. But, of course, that wasn't an option. Not at this particular moment anyway. He could feel her eyes on him, feel the arrogance mingled with fear, as she stared at him.
Veronica ran into her son's path, her arms held out as if to stop him in his tracks. 'Now come on, son, calm down, she realises she's been a fool…'
He knew that his mother was terrified for her daughter; the fact she wasn't at the hospital with her son who was lying in a coma spoke volumes. Like any mother, she was trying to protect her young no matter what they might have done. He frowned at her then and, moving her gently from his path, he addressed his father. 'Get her down the hospital, to Jamsie. He needs his mummy at a time like this. Also, it will be damage limitation when the Filth start sniffing round.' He looked at his mother and, smiling gently, he said seriously, 'And they will start sniffing, Mum, so we have to box clever, eh?'
He was stroking her down, they all knew it. His father was already out of the chair and putting his jacket on.
'Listen to me, Phil,' Veronica tried one last time. 'I've lost Declan, and Jamsie never means the half of it, you know what he's like… He's a coward. And as for her…' She flicked her head towards her daughter. 'She's sorry. She knows she did wrong.'
'Come on, Mum, get yourself off, I need to talk to Breda alone.'
'You won't… Promise me, Phil…'
He could hear the tears in his mother's voice and was shocked to realise that she actually thought he was capable of killing his sister; seemed his mother knew him better than he thought. That was certainly something he needed to think about at some point. The main thing now though was to get his mother and father out of the house, and off to the hospital as quickly as possible. Only then could he talk to his sister without hindrance, and he used the expression 'talk' very loosely.
'Mum, will you just watch the boys for me? I promise I won't be more than an hour or so.'
Eileen Booth was astounded; for her daughter to turn up out of the blue with her sons bundled up in blankets, white-faced and obviously agitated, was a first by anyone's standards.
'What's happened, Chris?' Eileen's voice was all interest now, and thick with feigned caring and worry. 'You can tell me, darling.'
Christine sighed heavily. 'Look, Mum, I don't ask you for much, do I? Now will you just take the boys for me? I don't need a fucking government White Paper on it – a simple yes or no will suffice.'
If Eileen needed any more proof this was serious then her daughter swearing provided it. 'Is this about Breda and Jamsie? Everyone's talking about it…'
Ted Booth took his daughter's arm and, walking her to the front door, he said quietly, 'Do you want me to drive you, love?'
Christine nodded gratefully and they left the house then and there, much to the chagrin of Eileen who was hoping for some first-hand gossip on what was, after all, going to be a nine-day wonder.
Breda had always understood that Phillip was dangerous, only a fool could have failed to see that over the years. What she had not seen, however, was that he was as dangerous to people inside his family as he was to those outside it. As she looked into his handsome face now she saw, not for the first time, that he had dead eyes. He looked at you, he spoke to you, he interacted with you, but it was all calculated, an act.
Phillip had never done anything he didn't want to, not even as a kid. His mum used to laugh at how stubborn he was. They had all laughed. It occurred to Breda now that it wasn't funny really. He wasn't stubborn at all. He was single-minded, selfish, and without empathy; he had no real care for other people's feelings.
'Well then, Breda, looks like it's just the two of us, eh?' He sounded calm, almost relaxed. He took a step towards her and she instinctively stepped back. Phillip grinned, and lit himself a cigarette. 'Oh, what's the matter, Breda? You tired after your energetic endeavours? By the way, Jamsie's in a coma – not that you'd notice, considering he's hardly fucking Einstein, is he? But, by all accounts, you nearly killed him, so you must be really fucking proud of yourself about that. Breda Murphy, the Ma Baker of London.'
'He's a grass…'
Phillip laughed then, a low sarcastic laugh. 'So I heard, before you actually – but then I would, wouldn't I? Considering I was entertaining half the local Filth at my gaff, seems only natural that might have come up in the general conversation, don't you think? You know me, Breda, why smash my way through half of London for what I want to know when I can find it out over a nice brandy in the comfort and safety of my own fucking home.'' He bellowed the last two words and Breda was almost brought from the floor with the force of his anger.
He pulled on his cigarette once more, physically calming himself down. 'You are a prize cunt, Breda, do you realise that? You're a laughing stock, but then you always have been. You only get what you get because I choose to let you have it. Blood is thicker than water and all that old fanny. But this, this fucking abomination, has changed everything. I always thought you acting like you do was a good front, local PR, kept the natives in check. But what did you go and do this time, you publicly hammered your own brother, denounced him as a grass – a fucking grass! An accusation anyone else would have had the sense to keep fucking quiet about, because accusations like that tend to be remembered. But not you, eh, Breda? You couldn't fucking use your loaf of bread just once. You should have brought that information to me, you should have had the sense to realise that it was something / needed to know, and / needed to decide what we were going to do about it. You see, you forgot the main rule of being a Murphy, and do you know what that rule is, Breda?'
She was incapable of answering him, the calmer he spoke the more the fear was growing inside her.
He grinned genially now. 'The main rule of being a Murphy is you don't shit without asking me first. You don't ever have an original thought without running it by me first. In short, Breda, you wait until / decide what you're going to do. It's pretty easy, /tell you what to do, and then you fucking do it.'
Breda was watching him warily, wondering what his next move was going to be. For the first time in her life it occurred to her that Phillip was quite capable of really hurting her, she also realised that it wouldn't bother him to have to do it. In fact, she felt he relished it, wanted the excuse. She was not about to give it to him. She watched as he poured them both a large Scotch, and when he held the glass out to her she moved towards him cautiously. As she opened her hand, the contents of her glass were thrown into her face, and she felt the burn as the neat whisky found its way into her eyes. Two seconds later she was laid across the kitchen table and a serious beating began. It started with slapping, a heavy forceful slapping that after a few seconds had already caused her lips to swell; she could feel the sheer strength of him as he held her down. But she knew the last thing she should do was struggle – that is what he wanted her to do. Phillip wanted an excuse to let rip, and she knew that once he got it she would be lucky to leave the room alive.
The quiet of the house gave the proceedings an almost surreal feel. When she felt his hand in her hair, and her body being dragged up off the table she didn't know whether to be relieved or not. The kick that sent her across the room was vicious, and when she collapsed on to the floor, she curled herself into a protective ball. She could hear him moving around, pouring himself another drink, smelt the smoke as he lit another cigarette. So taut were her nerves she even heard him pull the smoke gently into his lungs. The waiting was the worst, because she knew he wasn't finished with her. He hadn't even started. For all she had heard whispered of her brother, she never realised until now just what a dangerous fuck he really was. The more so because he had no real care for her. This was something he was enjoying and it occurred to her that he had been storing up this anger with her for a long time, it was her own foolishness that hadn't had the sense to understand that. She knew that everything she had ever done to aggravate this brother of hers had been taken onboard and filed away for the moment. She had played right into his hands with her antics over Jamsie.
She saw her own arrogance, heard herself as she talked the big talk, remembered with a terrible dread and fear the times she had spoken disrespectfully about Phillip to his contemporaries. She lay there, hands covering her head and terror enveloping her, finally understanding that everything in life has to be paid for, every time you hurt someone it came back to you at some point, and it bit you right on the arse. She thought of her own son, and wondered if she would see him grow to a man.
Breda finally understood that the world didn't start or finish with her, her wants and her needs. And, more importantly, she finally understood you could push certain people much too far.
Jamsie Murphy was in a bad way, but it was obvious to his mother that he would survive his injuries. As she had always said, no brain no pain, and that was her Jamsie all right. Her husband was refusing to sit in the room with him; as far as he was concerned it would be better if the boy did die, for he was dead to him already.
Veronica sat by her son's bed, listened to the monitors and the night sounds of the hospital ward and wondered what the hell had happened to her family for all this to come over them so suddenly. It had been bad enough with her Declan going away but that, at least, she could understand. He'd had a capture, he'd do his time and come back home none the worse for wear. But all this? Her Jamsie at death's door, her daughter responsible for it, and Phillip, her golden boy, capable of killing them all.
She was worried for Breda. Phillip was not a happy bunny. Oh, she saw his acting for what it was, she knew him better than he knew himself. That was the half the trouble. Phillip thought he had fooled her like he had everyone else, but he hadn't. Not that she had ever let on, of course, but she had guessed even when he was a child that the way her Phillip acted was not the norm. She had watched him struggle to fit into any kind of situation, he had no idea how to react to the most mundane things. She had seen then that he had a distinct lack of feelings; he loved in a way, but it was not love as most people understood it. Phillip loved what he possessed. It was his, he owned it, therefore he loved it. He had no empathy, had never had any.
She remembered years ago, when they were all small, a man had leapt off a local tower block. Other kids had seen the result and, in their own ways, had felt ill, shocked, everything you'd expect. Phillip had not even batted an eyelid – he had been fascinated more than anything. It had been then that she had started to watch him. She had seen him stick up for his brothers and sister, but more because they were his family than because he cared what happened to them. It was as if to disrespect them you were disrespecting him.
When the family's pet rabbit had died he had watched the others crying, and she knew he had tried his hardest to cry with them, but it just hadn't happened. It couldn't happen, because he didn't know how to care. It was as if he was missing something in that department. She had always thought him a strange child, even as a small baby he had not reacted like the others. Quiet, rarely crying and never smiling. He was always detached somehow, and she had done what many a mother before her had done; she had made excuses for him. She had rationalised his behaviour and made it seem normal. Told the school he had always been quiet, that he didn't understand that if you cut someone then they would bleed – it wasn't that he wanted to hurt the other child, it was just that he was fascinated at how things happened. He had always had an inordinate interest in blood and death. He had devoured horror books as a teen and she had seen that as somehow proving her right, he wasn't odd, he was just fascinated by the macabre. His teachers had questioned his behaviour; he had fought like the other boys but, unlike them, he had never known when to stop the fight, had always had to be pulled off the offender before he killed them – and she had no doubt that kill them he would should they provoke him enough. Phillip lived by a completely different set of moral and ethical codes. Codes that made sense only to him.
But over the years he had given himself a polish of sorts; he had learned how to be a part of society, how to blend in. And this had given Veronica a measure of peace – until all this, of course. Now the old fears were back with a vengeance. The terror that he was without real feelings of any kind. She wiped away the tears of frustration and terror that rolled down her cheeks. Now his amazing temper was focused on his own family, and she was not sure how this night was going to end. That her own child frightened her was bad enough, but that she had no real control over him bothered her even more.
She took her rosary beads from her pocket and started a decade of Hail Marys, praying that Our Lady, the Mother of God would see it in her heart to ease the burden of her pain, and save her family for her this night.
She didn't hold out much hope.
Phillip looked at his sister as she lay on the kitchen floor. She was curled up in the foetal position, her whole demeanour now one of fear, repentance – and pain.
He had been holding back his true nature for years now. He knew that his haphazard brand of violence was not seen as the norm by most people, but he felt that his natural instincts were what gave him the edge in his world and he used them to that end. Now, this excuse for a fucking female had made him step out of character; she had forced him to retaliate, and now the genie was out of the bottle he was seriously considering killing her. Get her off his fucking back once and for all.
That she would dare to make a fool of him in front of the very people they relied on for their livelihoods was extremely stupid, and enough to bring the fucking authorities down on them. The Filth would have a field day seeing the Murphys implode, and in spectacular fashion at that. All killing each other, and doing it in full view of anyone who cared to have a gander. That she thought she could get away with it told him he had made a grave error of judgement in trusting her. Well, that wasn't going to ever happen again. He had given her far too much leeway, had let her believe she was in control of her own life, and she had done what all fucking idiots eventually did – she had believed her own press. She thought that her silly little local reputation gave her some kind of fucking swerve where the real world was concerned. She played to the gallery, while he took the money on the door. It was the difference between them and it always would be. Well, now he had to show her just what a mega fuck-up she'd made, not just for herself, but for him and everyone they knew. She needed the lesson of all lessons.
Walking towards her he kicked her, with all his strength, in the small of her back; so great was its power that it forced her two feet across the floor, and she slammed into the bottom of the cupboard doors. The thud was loud in the quiet of the kitchen. He was grudgingly impressed that she didn't cry out, that went a small way towards abating his anger slightly. He admired people who were strong, who were able to take what was coming to them. It was this part of his sister that showed she was a Murphy.
He spat at her. 'I could kill you, Breda, for the grief you've caused me.'
She wasn't about to answer him, she knew he needed to talk now and she was happy to let him. Her eyes were tightly shut, and her instincts told her not to make eye contact with him in any way. Just let him run off his steam. Let him get it out of his system. She could hear him smoking again, the click of the lighter like a gunshot in the quiet of the room. She was in the most precarious position of her life, but there was nothing she could do about it. She had to let this run its course; even her mother had walked away from it, and that alone told her everything she needed to know. But she swore to God and all the saints that if she survived this she would never again take anyone or anything for granted as long as she lived.
Phillip smoked his cigarette slowly, sipping at his whisky occasionally. Sometimes, when he was very angry, like now, he had difficulty keeping his mind concentrated. He pictured himself doing things, right now he could picture himself boiling the kettle and pouring it all over her fucking greasy head. The thought made him smile – that would get a reaction from her all right. That would get her on the move.
He began laughing gently, almost chuckling, and this sound was far more frightening to Breda than anything else she had heard.
'All my fucking hard graft, out the door in five minutes because you couldn't resist showing off could you, eh, Breda? Had to be the hard bird, hard Breda Murphy. A bloke with tits.'
The anger was building in his voice once more. She knew she had to keep quiet and as still as possible, but her back felt like it was broken, and her face was stinging, the swelling was so bad on her lips she was having difficulty breathing. She could taste blood every time she swallowed. Breda knew she was in a bad way, and that she would be much worse before the night was through. She was praying in her head, over and over, begging the gods to help her get out of this situation. She was bargaining with the Lord like many a coward before her, only she feared it was all too late.
As Phillip walked back over to her she held her breath in anticipation, expecting another blow of equally ferocious proportions. As she tensed her body, ready, she thought she was hallucinating as she heard her sister-in-law's voice calling out loudly, 'Phil… Phillip, are you in there?'
Breda heard her brother swearing under his breath, and knew that Christine really was there, had turned up at the house to save her. Breda could feel the tears breaking through her closed eyelids; the relief was palpable now, and her body started to shudder as shock set in.
Phillip Murphy was looking at his wife as if she had just grown a separate head on her shoulders in front of his eyes as he registered the shock and the disgust in her face. He knew that his mother was behind Christine coming here, shaming him further. Oh, would this fucking day never cease to surprise him? Would this day never fucking end?
Christine walked tentatively into the kitchen, and he could sense the fear emanating from her, almost smell it. His wife's fear affected him in a way Breda's failed to, he needed her goodwill, needed her to think well of him.
'What's going on, Phillip…? Come on, Breda, get up off the floor, love, did you fall over or something?'
It sounded silly even to her own ears, but Christine knew in her heart that she had to pretend she had no real idea what was going on here. She knew that her husband was not only volatile, but that he'd had some kind of break with reality. She had sensed this only a few times before, and she had been loath to explore her feelings then. She was even less inclined to think too much about it now.
She bent over Breda offering her a hand, and trying to smile reassuringly at her. The situation was so surreal she wondered briefly if she had stumbled into some kind of twilight dream world. There was whisky all over the floor and Breda looked like she had been flattened somehow, her whole face was swollen and already bruising. But it was Phillip who was worrying her – he looked vacant, unaware of what was happening around him, but she knew that he was more than aware and was watching them both with an intensity that made her feel he could see into their minds. She was pulling Breda's hands from around her head, making her let go, silently trying to impress on her how important it was to get up off the floor and away from Phillip as soon as possible. Once she was out of his sight she would be safe, for a while anyway.
'Come on, Bred, get up, will you? I'll make us a nice cup of tea and we'll all sit down and have a chat. I'm freezing, I need a hot drink.' She could hear the desperation in her own voice, hated herself for her weakness. She knew she needed to be strong tonight in order to get Phillip out of that house without doing his sister any more harm. But she was shaking with terror. This was the father of her children, and the thought that he could have passed this vicious trait on to the boys, along with his good looks, was weighing heavy on her mind.
Breda finally seemed to realise she had to move, and she slowly and gradually pulled herself up into a sitting position, all the time avoiding her brother's gaze and concentrating on Christine's eyes. Eyes that were telling her to keep calm, and do as she was told.
Phillip watched the display as if it was the singularly most fascinating thing he had ever witnessed in his life. His wife, his little Christine, helping foul-mouthed Breda, it was an incongruous situation, and it should never have happened. It wouldn't have happened if Breda had not been the catalyst for all the ills this day had brought him, and now this last humiliation was almost too much to bear. He pictured himself taking the bread knife from his mother's drawer, slicing it into his sister's liver over and over again, saw the pool of blood as it spread pleasingly across his mother's lovely floor.
But he knew that Christine couldn't see that, could never see anything like that. Christine didn't understand the real world, the world she lived in, and he didn't want her to. He didn't want her tainted with it, like the others were tainted. Christine was too good for this, she was far, far too good. In every way.
Phillip turned abruptly and walked out of the house, unable to tolerate the scene before him any longer without retaliating in some explosive and frightening way.
When the front door closed behind him, Christine felt her sister-in-law start to cry. She held Breda to her as she cried loudly, and with absolute abandon.
In intensive care, Jamsie opened his eyes to find his mother sitting by his bed. It took him a few minutes to remember what had happened to him; when he did, he closed his eyes again, wishing he had never woken up in the first place. He heard his mother praying softly, could hear the gentle clicks as she passed the rosary beads through her fingers at the end of each prayer. It was comforting for him, reminded him of when he was a kid and she'd make them all say the rosary in May for Our Lady, Queen of Heaven.
He felt the sting of tears then; everything he had ever known was gone now, everything he had thought would always be there, that he had taken for granted, was gone. He had pulled some stunts in his time, and they were legion, but they were nothing compared to getting Declan put away. He had crossed a line, and there was no going back.
His mother leant towards him; he could smell the mints on her breath and, opening his eyes, he looked at her sadly. 'Mum?'
She stared into his eyes for a long moment before she said gently and forcefully, 'You should have died, Jamsie, you treacherous little bastard.'
Veronica was worried. Phillip had been missing for five days, and she was once more sitting in her daughter-in-law's kitchen, watching her grandsons' antics, and hoping against hope that her boy would walk in the front door as if nothing had happened.
That was how these things usually panned out – after a bout of violence when he was young he would go off somewhere, and she would have the heart across her until he came back home. She wasn't frightened of anything happening to him, she was more worried about him hurting other people. He wasn't able to calm himself down, that was the trouble, and anyone in his path was easy prey. She knew from experience how he could get, knew that he was dangerous and incapable of controlling himself when things went too far. He had to hide away and try to wait out his immense fury. She knew the score, she was only nonplussed now because it was so long since he had experienced an episode like this one she had secretly hoped they were a thing of the past.
Yet if she was honest with herself, she doubted whether it was possible to grow out of that kind of anti-social behaviour. Phillip was, as her husband had once remarked, a complete nut-bag. She had laughed at the epithet at the time, but now it seemed to sum him up perfectly. She had seen Christine as his saving grace, had believed that his feelings for the girl proved he was at least normal enough to love on some level, and the same with the boys she had produced for him. Around his wife, he was a different person, the person Veronica knew he wanted to be. It was all a pretence, of course, she realised that now – his whole life was one big game. She looked around her at the lovely home he had provided for his family, and knew that, like Christine and his boys, this was his proof to the world that he was successful, that he was different to his peers. He saw himself as above everyone else and she knew how much store her Phillip put on how other people perceived him and his.
Now, thanks to Breda and that piece of shite Jamsie, he was back to where he was ten years previously. Between them they had destroyed their own family. She would never forgive either of them.
Her son might not be all the ticket in comparison to most other people, but he was her first-born and she loved him more than all the others put together. He needed her more than they did, even though he didn't actually realise that himself. Phillip was broken: it wasn't anything she had done, he had been born that way, and as such he was her responsibility. That, as far as she was concerned, was what being a mother was about.
Breda was like a caged lion. She sat in her mother's house and waited, feeling like she had the Sword of Damocles hanging over her head. She knew that Phillip would be back at some point, but when? And what kind of mood would he be in when he arrived? She could kick herself for forgetting just how dangerous her brother could be. She had really believed he would have thanked her for her actions towards Jamsie, and she saw now that it was this belief that had caused this terrible retribution to come down on her. She had really overestimated her own strength, and her brother's capacity for coping with serious aggravation. It was years since he had gone off on one; like her mother, she had believed he had, if not grown out of his rages, at least managed to control them.
Seeing how wrong she was had knocked her confidence completely. It reminded her of when they were kids and they had all been terrified of upsetting him. It was an unwritten rule in the household that Phillip and his strange moods, as her mother referred to them, were always given precedence. Her mother had almost made them seem normal, because she had learned to cope with them in a way that caused the minimum of fuss. They all knew, though, that Phillip was her mother's boy – especially her father, he had taken a back seat to him since he had thrown his first violent tantrum.
That Phillip could walk in at any moment and throttle her without a second's thought was forefront in her mind, night and day. Breda looked at her son and wondered if he was to be left motherless. Phillip was more than capable of seeing to that. Veronica would cover for him as per usual, they all knew that. Even if he murdered his own sister, her mother would see it as an aberration, not as a serious event. Where Phillip was concerned her mother could, and would, paper over any cracks, no matter how monumental they might actually be.
Christine had certainly gone up in her estimation, but then she had tried to warn the girl about her husband's capabilities. Still, Breda couldn't help feeling sorry for her; judging by the shock and the horror on her face as she witnessed her husband's handiwork, that night had certainly been a learning curve for her.
Breda had been aware of her utter incomprehension of the scene in the kitchen. It would have forced Christine to rethink her whole life, and she would now be realising she was absolutely trapped. That she had, in effect, married a nutter – a handsome, charming nutter, but a headcase all the same. Christine was sensible enough to understand now that she could never leave Phillip, that he would not countenance it, would see it as a personal affront. He was more than capable of turning on her should she displease him, and the fact that Christine was having to take that onboard saddened Breda. That night she could almost feel the girl's dismay as she saw what she had tied herself to. People wondered why Breda was so set against being tied to someone for any length of time – well she had been brought up with three brothers and she had learned one important thing: men were basically scum.
She watched as her father poured himself another cup of tea and carried on happily reading the racing form in the Sun. She envied him his complete acceptance of his way of life. He had not been affected one iota by recent events – in fact he seemed to hold her entirely responsible for everything. As he said, over and over, you ask for something often enough, and you'll get it tenfold. Like her mother, he felt that Phillip could do no real wrong, and any trouble he caused was because other people didn't understand him. So this was all her fault now, even Jamsie had not suffered as much flak as she had over it all. King Phillip had been upset, and that would never do. For as long as he brought in the wedge her father would see no wrong in him.
Well, perhaps she had asked for this, even she was aware of that much. She had pushed him too far, and that was not a mistake she was ever going to make again. If she survived this she would ensure she never again gave her brother reason to doubt her.
Jamsie awoke to see his brother looking down at him; the eyes were cold and the smirk was clearly evident. He was leaning over him in the bed and, to anyone outside their family, he looked genuinely concerned.
'How are you feeling, bruv?'
Jamsie's mouth was dry, and his heart was crashing in his ears, he was hoping he was imagining this. He looked around to see if Phillip had a knife or box cutter on him, something that could do the most damage in the quietest way. Phillip seemed to read his mind and he laughed softly. Pulling up a chair he sat down easily, his long legs crossed neatly and his arms lying carelessly along the sides of the upholstered chair. He looked for all the world like a man without a care. He grinned. 'She gave you a serious old battering, didn't she?'
Jamsie watched his brother warily, he knew that anything could happen when Phillip was like this, and anything often did.
'Cat got your tongue? Seems a pity considering you can't keep your fucking trap shut normally. A very chatty little fucker by all accounts, especially when it comes to family business or getting yourself out of schtook. All this over a few keys of coke. Amazed there was any left for the Filth to find – you tend to Hoover it up in vast amounts, don't you? Trouble is, bruv, if you'd come to me I could have sorted it, and it would have all gone away, but not you, Brain of fucking Britain. Now, thanks to you, and your grassing, we're all in a fucking muddle. Poor Declan, stuck in stir, as stoic as always, doing his time with the minimum of fuss – can't wait till he hears the latest, can you? His temper isn't as epic as mine, but he can come a pretty close second, don't you think? But I digress. I have sorted it for you and Breda, so all's not lost, as they say. Now what's left for me to do is to decide how best to pay you out, and I can assure you I will be thinking about it long and hard. You will have my undivided attention, not just for the piss-take with Declan, but because you made my wife see a side of me that I would rather she had never known about. You made me look a mug in front of her, and that is a cardinal sin where I am concerned. I deserve to be canonised for the saintly way I have treated that girl, and now, thanks to you, she's frightened of me. She's wondering what she's lumbered herself with. Bless her heart, she doesn't understand the world we inhabit, and I never wanted her to. So, as you can imagine, all that damage is going to deserve some serious retribution, and revenge is basically my middle name.'
Phillip was talking rapidly, his tone friendly, but the manic look in his eyes was enough to tell Jamsie that he was in a very precarious position. Phillip was capable of taking him out now, in full view of everyone. Jamsie kept his mouth shut and waited fearfully for Phillip to make a move.
Phillip was looking on at his little brother as if he was a fly struggling in the bottom of the toilet pan. He was enjoying Jamsie's discomfort immensely, but was sensible enough to know now that he mustn't give rein to his true feelings, not yet anyway. This ponce needed to stay around for a while, just for appearance's sake if nothing else. Plus, he would enjoy making him wait – it would add to the torment.
'Don't worry, bruv, you're safe enough for the moment. I promised your mummy I wouldn't harm you. She's worried about you, see, but then she should be, shouldn't she?'
Jamsie still didn't answer him, but he felt a small surge of relief at his brother's words. His mother would fight for him, he was sure of that, and Phillip would listen to her.
'Oh, cheer up. You really do have a reprieve, bruv. The only proviso is that you never ever find yourself in the same room as me. As far as I am concerned, you're dead. If I go to Mum's – which I will, often – you make yourself fucking scarce. You keep as far away from me as is physically possible and that way me and you will be all right.'
His mocking tone was all too evident to Jamsie and he knew he was getting off lightly. Phillip was warning him in more ways than one, was telling him he was finished with him completely, not just as a brother. He had no job and, without his brother's protection and goodwill, he had no chance of getting one either.
'For all Breda's a cunt, she's a loyal cunt, and that counts for something at least. Overnight, you have helped to destroy not only your own family, but also everything I have worked for, and that is something I will never forgive, Jamsie. I'll get my own back one day, remember that. You are living on borrowed time, you treacherous cunt, and that time is running out every second of every day. But, mark my words, bruv, you're a walking dead man.'
Standing up, Phillip winked at him jauntily and, turning, walked quickly away. Jamsie watched him as he left the ward, his clothes perfect as always, his demeanour friendly to everyone around him.
Jamsie was aware that he really was living on borrowed time. Closing his eyes, he felt the weakness wash over him again, and was frightened that the tears in his eyes were about to spill over and shame him even more.
Christine looked at her sons in their beds and felt the panic rising inside her once more. It seemed impossible that she was looking at such normality, when her life as she knew it had ceased to exist. Since the incident at Veronica's house she had been living on her nerves. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Phillip as he had been that night, but it wasn't the Phillip she had fallen in love with, it wasn't the man who had fathered her children; she saw a monster who had no control over himself whatsoever.
Since that night she had felt that she was slowly sinking into the quicksand that her whole life had been built on. When his mother had rung her and begged her to get to the house, she wasn't sure what she had expected to find – a family argument obviously, but nothing like what she had been confronted with. She kept seeing Breda on the kitchen floor, battered and bruised and, more frightening than anything, allowing it to happen to her. Breda, who normally had a row like other people had a cup of tea, had been terrified and, worse than that, she was completely accepting of her brother's outrageous behaviour. Christine felt that her whole life was a lie; everything she had believed in, and her future, had disappeared overnight.
She thought of the few times she had disagreed with Phil; he would smile at her somehow, nothing violent or intimidating, but something in his face had told her to back down, and she always had. She understood now that a small part of her must have already realised that to oppose Phil wasn't something anyone in his orbit did lightly. That even she was dependent on his good humour, his being happy.
He had looked absolutely demonic, like something from a horror movie; the devil himself could not have been more frightening in the flesh. When she thought of him in church beside her, taking Communion, smiling at the people around him, proud of his family and his beliefs, it was like she was thinking about a completely different person, someone else entirely. She couldn't equate the loving husband and father with the bullying maniac she had seen with her own eyes.
That Phillip Murphy was someone she had never really met, but she knew now that the manic-eyed, vicious man she had encountered was the real Phillip Murphy. He had hidden it well, she had to give him that, he had known how to suppress that part of his personality. But it still didn't change the fact that that was who he really was, and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was stuck with this stranger for the rest of her days. And, more to the point, so were her sons. She had given her boys a father who was capable of literally anything and now she had seen him in his true light, fear was bearing down on her like a lead weight. A part of her hoped he had done something, had been arrested and locked up, and that was why he was missing now. She didn't want him back in her life or her sons' lives. She wanted nothing more to do with him.
Christine Murphy wanted out of her marriage, out of this life, but she knew that would never be an option for her. Phillip would make sure of it.
'Come down and have a cup of tea, child.' Veronica's voice was quiet, and Christine automatically turned and followed her from the room. She had made her mother-in-law promise to stay with her until Phil came back, as she couldn't face dealing with him alone. Veronica had readily agreed, which told Christine just how much danger she and her boys were actually in.
As she followed her mother-in-law down to the kitchen, her beautiful home didn't interest her any more. Now it felt like some kind of prison, somewhere she was being forced to reside, even though she hated it with a vengeance. She felt a wave of sickness wash over her, and knew that if something didn't happen soon she would snap. It was like waiting for a bomb to explode, only this bomb was flesh and blood, and he wasn't going to disappear after the explosion. The boys were laughing and playing, the radio was on in the background, and the smell of chicken casserole filled the house. All these things, such normal, everyday things, just made the days seem more and more surreal.
As Veronica said frequently, like some kind of mantra, life, such as it was, had to go on. You got up, and you got on with it. Well, Christine wasn't sure she was capable of going on. Only time would be the judge of that.
'Fuck me, Phillip, you scared the life out of me creeping in like a fucking burglar!'
Phil Senior had turned and seen his son standing in the kitchen doorway, and it had given him a serious fright.
Phillip grinned, and his father was relieved to see he looked more or less back to normal. 'Sorry, mate, any chance of a cup of tea?'
Phil Senior was already putting the kettle on, pleased his son was back and even more pleased to see him acting normally. Phillip could be the proverbial handful, but he was a good boy for ail that, he just needed to be handled gently; if you respected his nature you were all right.
'Where's Breda?'
Phil Senior looked at his son now and, sighing, he said gently, 'Not again, Phillip. She's took it on the chin, she's been waiting to see you, but think of your mother…'
Phillip chuckled. 'She upstairs?' He walked out to the hallway calling loudly, 'Come down, Bred, Dad's making a cup of tea.' He sounded jovial, full of the joys of spring. It was as if nothing had happened. Phil Senior made the tea happily now; the storm was over, for the time being anyway.
Breda came down slowly and, as she walked into the kitchen and faced her brother, she was white-faced with fear. Phillip looked at her for a long moment, as if appraising her, then, opening his arms widely, he said in a choked voice, 'Come here,
Breda. Fucking hell, girl, what the fuck has that Jamsie caused us…
He was being magnanimous, the big man, he was all forgiving, all loving. This was benevolent Phillip; she had experienced this man before, it meant he was over his ire, he was going to let it all go. Basically she knew she was safe, and that meant the world to her. This was Phillip at his best, this was the Phillip she loved more than anyone else in the world, even her own child. She went into his arms without hesitation. She was so relieved she started to sob, her whole body shaking with the intensity of her emotions.
Phillip held her to him tightly, as if protecting her from harm. She could smell the particular smell he had – a mixture of healthy sweat and expensive aftershave. It was unique to him and, at times like this, it made her feel safe, made her feel needed, wanted. Cared for. She was still part of the family, and that meant more to her than anything.
'I've seen that treacherous cunt Jamsie, and put the hard word on him. I appreciate you were only doing what you thought was right, Bred. I see that now.' He pulled her away from him and looked deep into her eyes as he said seriously, 'You caused me a lot of fucking hag, but I forgive you. You thought you were doing good and I see that now. I've smoothed over the Filth and sorted out everything. We'll talk no more about it. But, in future, you don't ever take anything like that on yourself again, do you understand me?'
She was nodding furiously now. 'I'm so sorry, Phil, I lost it a bit… I didn't think it through…'
Phillip smiled and hugged her. 'You were doing what you thought was right, and I appreciate your loyalty to me and the family. As will Declan when I tell him. You are a fucking diamond, Breda – a bit quick off the mark, but a diamond all the same.'
Phil Senior poured the tea, filled with relief. It was over,
Phillip had decided he would allow his sister to carry on in the family business. Phillip wasn't a fool, she was a grafter old Breda, they all knew that. He was just relieved it was over. He wasn't too worried about Jamsie – he would have to swallow whatever came his way now – he had asked for it, and he had got it. He was on his own now.
'Where's the little fella? Go and get him, I ain't seen him for ages. Any cake to go with that tea, Dad? I'm fucking starving…'
Breda went upstairs to get her son, she could feel her legs buckling underneath her with the relief. As she picked up her son and hugged him to her, she thanked God that she had escaped her brother's wrath, and she swore that from now on she would never take him or his moods for granted again. It was all about Phillip now, and that suited her down to the ground. She had come close to losing everything, and she was not about to make that mistake again. As for Jamsie, he had made his bed, he had better get used to lying in it. Now that Phillip had blanked him, he was as good as a dead man. No one in their right mind would give him the time of day without Phillip's say- so. Jamsie was out, and she was back in; life was suddenly good again.
'He'll be here soon, Christine, go and tidy yourself up, child.'
Since the call from her husband, Veronica had been like a young girl. Phillip was back home, happy as a sandboy, so all was right with the world. Christine actually found that even more unnerving than anything else, if she was honest. They seemed to think that because Phillip was happy that was enough. No one appeared to take onboard what he had done, what had happened that night, as if his behaviour didn't warrant discussion.
Veronica looked at the troubled countenance of her daughter- in-law and her heart went out to her. She understood how hard this had been for her, but Christine was going to have to learn how to tackle this husband of hers the hard way. Because he was not going to change, and she needed to accept that.
'Look, Christine, I love you like me own, but you have to understand that Phillip… well, he's not like other people.'
Christine laughed derisively then. 'You don't say! I would never have worked that one out for myself.'
Veronica immediately felt worried. Christine was about to make the mistake of a lifetime, and she had literally thirty minutes to get her into a different frame of mind. Phillip would not tolerate any kind of criticism, especially not from his wife. If he loved anyone, it was this girl. Her questioning him while he was vulnerable would only set him off again. If Christine would just use her loaf, she could have the life that most young women dreamed about. Veronica knew it was time to get tough.
'Listen to me, Christine, and listen good. When my Phillip walks through that door, you smile and you looked pleased to see him – act like you were worried something had happened to him. Do not, and I repeat, do not ask him where he's been for the last five days. Do not question him about anything. When he's like this, it is all about him. You feed him, you love him, and you accept whatever he tells you without any kind of questioning. That is the main thing here – you ask him nothing. Now, I know how this sounds, darling, but believe me, if you do question him, you really won't want to know the answers. I've lived with this side of him since he was old enough to crawl. He's strange, but he's still a good man, and he loves you. He adores you. But for all that, if you push him, he'll retaliate, and I know what I'm saying when I tell you you do not want that in your life.'
Christine was staring at her mother-in-law; she knew the woman was deadly serious, that Veronica thought she should hear all this about her husband and would meekly agree with her and her home diagnosis about the lunatic she had given birth to.
'Strange? He's strange you say? I mustn't question him, so what exactly am I to do, then? Come on, Veronica, I'm fascinated now.'
Veronica closed her eyes tightly, and shook her head in sheer desperation. 'He's your husband and there'll be no divorce, he won't countenance that – you know it, and I know it. What you do now, darling, is what many a woman has done before you. You learn how to live a good life, you learn how to overlook his foibles, and make the best of what you've got. Look at me – I married a fucking waster, but he's my husband, and I made a life as best I could.' She grabbed Christine's hands in hers then and, pulling them to her chest, she said sadly, 'Listen, Chris. People like my Phillip can't cope with being crossed in any way. When he's like this you have to humour him. These episodes don't last long, and it's been years since he had one. He'll feel bad that you witnessed it. You have to act like you don't care about it all. You have to pretend that everything's fine. You don't want him fretting, and you certainly don't want him going off again. Think of the boys, think about your lovely life – and you have got a lovely life, darling. Look around you at your home, at how well you're doing, how well you two are doing together. When he comes in, you treat him like visiting royalty. I promise you, that's how you cope with Phillip's nature.'
'But he frightens me… I'm frightened of him…'
Veronica could see the terror in her daughter-in-law's face, and her heart genuinely went out to her, but she also knew that this was not something the girl could show her husband. He wouldn't be able to cope with it.
'And so he should! You wouldn't be human if you didn't feel afraid. But I'm trying to tell you, darling, you have to act like you're not scared of him. He needs you to try and understand him now, and that's what you are going to do.'
They heard the car pull up on the drive and Veronica hugged the girl to her tightly. 'Now, remember what I said and take my lead, OK?'
Christine nodded, her heart hammering in her chest; she felt almost faint at the thought of facing him. It felt as if she was about to welcome an axe murderer into her home and, in many ways, that was exactly what she was doing.
The front door opened and his voice boomed out towards them. 'Where are my best girls, eh?' His voice was full of fun, sounded so natural and happy. Veronica winked at her then, and Christine could see the relief on her face.
'The wanderer returns! Come away in, son, and let us get a look at you.'
Christine couldn't believe how relaxed Veronica's voice sounded. It was as if she had forgotten everything that had happened. It was so surreal that Christine wondered briefly if she was caught in a waking nightmare.
Then Phillip was there, in the room with them and she could hear the boys making their way to their father from the playroom. She wanted to run – pick the boys up, and leave the house, but she knew that wasn't an option. Phillip looked wonderful, he was clean, smartly dressed, his hair was freshly cut. He had his handsome smile turned on full beam, and she knew this was a definitive moment in her young life.
'She's been worried out of her mind, Phil, but I told her you had a lot of things to sort out. There's a chicken casserole in the oven – I'll serve it up, while you two get reacquainted.'
Veronica bustled from the room, taking the boys with her. It didn't escape Christine's notice that Phillip had ignored the boys, he was concentrating on her, and her alone. She was amazed to realise that she was crying, the tears rolling freely down her lovely face.
Phillip went to her and, as he put his hand out, she felt herself flinch. She saw the horror on his face at her reaction and, looking into his eyes, she said brokenly, 'Oh, Phil, I was so scared something had happened…'
It was the right approach, he shook his head slowly and, taking her in his arms, he enveloped her in a hug that almost took the breath from her body.
'Oh, darling Christine, I'm sorry, babe. I had a lot of things to sort out. I didn't want to bring any of it here, into our home. I knew my mother would take care of you.'
He pulled her away from him and kissed her deeply on the lips. She could feel his tongue sliding into her mouth, and had to stifle the urge to gag. Pulling his face noisily away from hers, he looked at her seriously. 'Don't ever be frightened of me, Christine, I could never hurt you, babe. Outside in the real world, I have to be a different person to survive. But in here, in our world, it will always just be us.'
She knew somehow that it was a veiled threat, but following her mother-in-law's lead she forced herself to smile at him. 'I'm just glad you're home safe and sound, Phil.'
Then the tears began again, and he held her and comforted her until eventually she calmed down.