Tell me what company you keep and I'll tell you what you are
Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616) Spanish adventurer, author and poet
Man, biologically considered, and whatever else he may be into the bargain, is simply the most formidable of all the beasts of prey and, indeed, the only one that preys systematically on its own species
William James (1842-1910) American philosopher
1998
'Come on, boys, it's time we got going.'
Christine smoothed some lipstick on her lips, as she hunted for the keys to the Range Rover. She could feel Phillip's eyes on her and, turning, she smiled at him. 'All right?'
He answered her truthfully, 'Very, especially as you seem a lot better in yourself, mate. Are the new tablets any good?'
She nodded. 'I feel much better inside meself, Phil. It's like the doctor says, depression is an illness, and it can happen to anyone at any time so, like any illness, I have to get it treated. But these new pills make me feel a million dollars.' She was telling him what he wanted to hear, she always told him what he wanted to hear. For years she had lived beside a man she was terrified of, and the fact that he treated her like a queen just made it all feel worse.
'Well, don't forget tonight we've got Ricky Thomas and his wife coming to dinner. I have a bit of business with him. Are you sure you'll be OK? We can get a chef in, or me mother will cook for us.'
She laughed then. 'I've got it all in hand, Phil. We're having crab cakes to start, roast lamb for the main, and I've already knocked up a lemon posset for dessert. Lastly, we've got a fuck- off cheese board for the wine and brandy. I'll be fine – I love cooking, it relaxes me.'
He grinned, relieved that she wasn't under any undue pressure. 'Well, you're a blinding cook, sweetheart. How lucky was I, eh? Beautiful, clever and a wonderful wife. Fantastic mother, and still the only woman who interests me.'
She turned away from him then, unable to look him in the face. When he spoke like that all it did was make her panic inside. She felt as though he was constantly reminding her she was his.
Philly came into the kitchen; at thirteen he was already big for his age, and he had the dark hair and the blue eyes of his father.
'All right, Dad? Can I come to the arcade again this weekend?'
Phillip smiled. ' 'Course you can, you can work the change booth for me. At least I know I can trust you!' They laughed easily together.
Just then her younger son wandered in to the room. Philly and Timmy were so similar they were like twins born a few years apart and it was uncanny how like Phillip they were – she saw nothing of herself in them. Little Timmy was quieter than his brother though; they all joked that he was deep waters, but, if she was honest, she worried that he seemed to have a bit too much of Phillip's nature in him. Philly had a temper too, but it was quick to flare and just as quick to die out. Timmy, on the other hand, had a temper that was phenomenal in its intensity. She had been forced to remove him from his first playgroup over it – he fought the other kids like a tiger for almost no reasons at all.
'Come on, you two, get in the Range, and no arguing who sits where, OK? Mummy has to have peace and quiet while she's concentrating on her driving, so don't let me hear any fucking stories today about you two rowing, and I mean it.'
Both boys nodded; when Phillip swore they knew he meant business.
'See you later, Dad.'
Christine ushered them from the house and, as she pulled out of the electric gates, she saw Declan on his way in. He waved at her, and she automatically waved back. She liked Declan; he had been good to her over the years, and she had come to rely on him. He was the voice of reason, and strangely Phillip listened to him and respected what he said. These days Declan was the only person on the planet who her husband listened to. Somehow he kept Phillip from going overboard, and for that alone she would be eternally grateful.
Ricky Thomas was a big man in his early fifties. He had a young, new wife called Deandra – she had given him two new kids, a boy and a girl, and he had given her a lovely house, new tits and all the clothes she could buy. It was strange because they actually did care about one another. Deandra had been brought up on a council estate, with a piss-head for a mother and an errant father. Ricky was everything she had ever wanted in a man; he was a father, a lover and a friend and she adored him.
'Look, Dee, Phillip Murphy can fucking whistle – he's not getting anything from me and I'm going to tell him that tonight, so stop worrying, will you?'
'He's weird, Rick, he scares me.'
'Well, he don't fucking scare me. I've been around the pavements a bit too long for all that old fanny and, besides, he's a businessman at heart. He'll understand I don't want to get rid and that'll be it.'
'Everyone he falls out with either disappears, or has a bad accident – look at his fucking mate Bantry, he's like the poor relation these days. Phillip Murphy is the fucking main face of that operation.'
'Oh, Deandra, will you put a fucking sock in it, girl, it's too early in the morning for aggravation of the ear drums. Go and help the au pair or something.'
She laughed despite herself, he could be funny, could her Ricky. But she had a bad feeling about this business with Murphy.
He had taken over most of the seafront in Southend; buying people out, running them away. She knew how much money there was in the games – after all, it was their livelihood – but she felt that Murphy wanted the whole thing and would stop at nothing to get it.
Ricky lit one of the many cigars he would smoke that day; he was worried all right, but he wasn't about to let Deandra know that. Tonight he had to keep his wits about him and, in the process, stop his livelihood from slipping into Murphy's clutches. He would sit in his house, chat with his Stepford wife, who always looked like she was about to bolt from the room, and eat his grub, all the time being a jovial and congenial guest. He would then tell him in as nice a way possible that he had no intention of selling his arcades, and that there was more than enough room for the two of them. He knew Phillip Murphy had moved in on two clubs recently, and was making a play for everything on the front, even the hot-dog stalls and the fast- food outlets. It seemed he wanted to be king of the seafront. Well, Ricky was fine with that but he was not going to add his own little bit of Essex to Phillip's pile.
He was nervous though, and that annoyed him. It wasn't in his nature – he was a big, gregarious and, sometimes, hard man. This young Phillip Murphy was an anomaly to him, part of the new breed of young Faces – all money and violence, no finesse and certainly no real intelligence. It was the nineties for fuck's sake, all that threatening and posturing went out with the ark. That was for the drug dealers and the foreign fucks, not the locals; they stuck together to make sure the new breed of eastern Europeans didn't infiltrate their patches. Phillip Murphy was a grade-A cunt, and that was his last thought on it. Unfortunately, Phillip Murphy was on his mind all that day, and Ricky knew he was playing a dangerous game with him. The only thing left was to find out who was going to be the victor.
Declan sipped his coffee and listened to Phillip's new game plan. It amazed him that he really believed Ricky Thomas would roll over without a fight, and he said as much. 'Hang on a minute, Phil, Ricky's family have had that arcade since the nineteen twenties. It's a family business – his grandfather started it, and it's all he's ever known. I think you're being a bit premature assuming he's going to swallow without a fight.'
Phillip listened intently to his brother, let him have his say. He was always polite with Declan, he was the one person whose opinion he was even remotely interested in. But he had made up his mind and this was made evident by his next remark. 'The thing is, Dec, I ain't giving him a choice here; he either sells to me at a decent price, or I'll get it by fair means or foul. It's what I want, it's perfect.'
Declan sighed heavily. There was no more to say and they both knew it. It was futile labouring the point; Phillip had made his mind up and that, basically, was that. Declan felt a pang of sorrow for Ricky. He was a nice bloke, out of his league of course, but a nice fella all the same.
'What about this place? How's the pig farming going?'
Phillip grinned. 'Fucking lovely, we decided on Old Spot, a real English pig. Come and have a look at them, they are fucking phenomenal, Declan. Do you know pigs will eat literally anything? Bone, skull, you name it. The only thing they don't eat is the teeth of a carcass – well, they do eat them but shit them out afterwards! And the chickens are amazing. It's like watching a soap opera – one of the cockerels gives each hen a quick shag first thing every morning, randy fucker he is.'
Declan laughed. 'How's the old boy Sammy working out?'
Phillip was pulling on his wellies as he spoke. 'Come and have a looksee. The cottage is finished and I think it's the best digs the poor old fucker ever had. I had Sky put in for him, he's over the fucking moon. But there ain't a thing he don't know about farming or animals. He's like having me own personal Jack Hargreaves, I could listen to him for hours. I've got a couple of the lads working for him too. The kitchen garden is three times the size now, and the polytunnels are all bursting with produce. Honestly, the difference in the taste of the food is amazing. And even more amazing is that young Timmy is turning into a right Farmer Giles – he loves the land. Reckon it must be the Irish in us, eh?'
'Farmer Giles, he got piles then!'
They both laughed as they crossed the yard towards the new piggery. The sounds of the smallholding were wholesome and innocent, pigs snorting, hens clucking and, in the distance, the sheep were dotted about the top field; it was idyllic, it was beautiful and well looked after. Nothing was too good for Phillip's livestock. He had created an oasis for himself, they were more or less self-sufficient now, and this farm was Phillip's number one priority. He fed the whole family on his produce and he was rightly proud of that fact. He had added to the land over the years; through threats and intimidation he had taken on all the surrounding houses and fields. He was like the lord of the manor, and he took his place as the head of the community very seriously indeed.
It was yet another facet of Phillip Murphy's weird and wonderful personality.
Breda was tired. She had had a very late night with a young Jamaican fella with bushy dreads and arms like legs of lamb. She was sated, happy and late for a meeting.
Breda had changed a lot in ten years. She had taken to wearing power suits and expensive shirts, and she ran the clerical side of the games enterprises, sorting out the staff, the wages and other mundane matters that Phillip saw as beneath him. She loved every second of it. She kept a beady eye on everyone, made sure no one was making any money for themselves, and the few times she had found thieving among the staff she had meted out a swift and painful retribution. She had everything she wanted really – respect (her number one priority), money (her second priority) and a job that was interesting, exciting and gave her the chance to show off her skills. Phillip was thrilled with her, and that was the main thing.
Today though, she was having a meeting with a gun specialist who she had come across through a favourite pastime of hers: looking for men of a certain age and disposition. Her criteria were pretty basic: young, healthy, muscular and black. This particular man was called Daniel, and he was a gun runner for the Jamaican Yardies. He could get the best quality guns on the pavement for a fraction of the usual price. They were brought in quickly and safely by boat, and they were distributed with the minimum of fuss. As all the guns were preordered, there was no need to stash them, or find the buyers. It was a pretty neat little operation, and Phillip was pleased at her acumen in getting them all in on the ground floor. The Jamaicans were notoriously difficult to work with, having an inherent distrust of the white Anglo-Saxon male. Somehow Breda had inveigled herself into their world, and she fitted in perfectly where a man wouldn't have been given such a chance. She got on well with Daniel on all levels; they were two of a kind, so understood each other perfectly. The guns she procured were clean, of a superior nature, and didn't have any local bodies on them. She was selling them on for a good profit, and that was as always the bottom line with Phillip.
She was also well in with her mother at the moment because, after all these years, she had talked Phillip into letting Jamsie be her driver. Phillip had never spoken a word to Jamsie since he grassed on Declan, had never even looked directly at him. He always removed himself from Phillip's presence as soon as he heard him enter the house. Even on Christmas Day, as soon as Phil turned up with his family, Jamsie had to go upstairs out of his sight. No one commented on it, it was surreal almost. It was stranger still because Declan had long forgiven him. But it was better than the alternative, and that was Jamsie being murdered by his brother. Jamsie hadn't touched a drink or drugs since he had came home from hospital. It was as if he didn't trust himself to be out of control; he needed to be in his right mind. Now, because of that, he was the perfect driving material, and he was grateful, so grateful, to be even a small part of the family firm. It was a thawing of sorts on Phillip's part, but there was still a very long way to go. Breda thought he was humouring her to please their mother but, either way, it was seen by everyone as a coup on her part, and that pleased her very much.
These days she was a really big part of the family firm and, because of that, she had utter respect. Everyone in their orbit treated her with the reverence she felt she deserved. Like Jamsie, she had learned a valuable lesson about how best to get on in the family, and that was by listening to Phillip, taking onboard what he wanted from her, and making sure any orders were carried out to the letter. Having Declan there was an added boon. When he came home, he took up the reins with Phillip, and his presence was a much-needed buffer between them all and Phillip. Forever the voice of reason, Declan was the only person alive that Phil would even entertain being questioned by.
All in all the Murphys' lives were good, and they could only get better. Breda couldn't be more pleased to be an integral and important part of it all.
Veronica was thrilled to bits. The house had just been redecorated from head to foot, courtesy of Phillip and Declan, and it looked amazing. She had enjoyed the whole experience of having the decorators and carpet fitters in. Now the place resembled something from a magazine and she knew the neighbours were impressed, and that alone was enough for Veronica. People saw the esteem her kids held her in and how well they looked after her, and that meant the world to her.
She was also pleased that poor Jamsie was driving for the family firm; that was a huge burden lifted because she had worried over the years that Phillip would hurt him one day. She knew it was only Declan who'd stopped his older brother from taking his retribution and she was grateful for that.
'Hey, Phil, would you look at those curtains! They look like they could be in a stately home with the swags and tails. Did you ever see the fecking like of it!'
Phil Senior sat at the new dining table that now dominated the kitchen-diner and, as usual, he had a racing paper, his fags, and a pot of tea in front of him. He didn't even look up from his perusal of Sporting Life as he said quickly, 'They done you proud, girl, no doubt about that.'
'Do you remember when they were all small, Phil, and we'd struggle for a few quid? You out breaking arms for a living and me making meals out of nothing.'
He laughed with her. 'Those were good days, Veronica, we had some good times, love. But the most important thing is that we brought up a crowd of great kids, really great kids. Our Phillip is a fucking diamond. In fairness, he's come on leaps and bounds but he still comes here every day and he hasn't forgotten where he came from.'
This was the kind of talk Veronica loved and her husband knew it. He could spout that shit all day if it kept her happy and he frequently did. The secret with Veronica was making the family, especially Phillip, sound normal, sound like other people. Personally, he had accepted that Phillip had more than a few screws loose when he had used a nail-gun on another boy's elbow when he was fourteen. But, for all that, Phillip was Phillip and he kept them all living like kings, and that, for Phil Senior, was what really counted. He had a nice wedge delivered to him every week, they ate like frigging royalty, all the bills were taken care of, and anything Veronica wanted she only had to mention and it appeared. He drove a nice little BMW all paid for courtesy of his kids, and he knew that no one in their world would ever fall out with him – it would be more than they dared. He owed money to every bookie within a ten-mile radius, but there wasn't much chance of them asking for it – Phillip's rep made sure of that, and Declan wasn't what you would call a walkover. Life was good, all right, it had never been better.
'Do you think Christine's looking better these days?'
Phil Senior just stopped himself from rolling his eyes in annoyance. Christine and her fucking so-called 'nerves' were all Veronica thought about. Personally he couldn't understand it; the girl had everything her heart desired, Phillip had not so much as looked at another bird since he'd married her and the boys were perfecto mondo. She had a drum that most young women could only dream of, a villa in Marbella – a big fucking villa and all, a pool, the lot. Her old man was the reigning king of the seafront, but apparently she still had her 'nerves'. Phillip had dragged that ungrateful little mare to every fucking shrink with letters after his name and they all said the same thing. She suffered from depression. Well, what that silly cunt had to be depressed about he didn't know. He wished he had her problems. Not that he would ever air those opinions out loud, of course; he made all the appropriate noises, he wouldn't queer his pitch with his Phillip for all the tea in China. But, in all honesty, Christine got on his tits; he thought she was an ungrateful little whore and, if it was left with him, he would have given her a kick up the jacksie and told her to fucking grow up.
'She looked lovely yesterday. Them pills are miracle workers apparently, so stop worrying about her, she'll sort herself out.'
Veronica nodded, feeling better now. 'You're right. She's looking happier I think, so that can only be good.'
'Oh yeah, much happier, darling. I saw her smiling yesterday, a real smile and all. Not one of those weird ones she does, when she's off her box on the pills…'
Veronica turned on him instantly. 'Don't talk about her like that! She's delicate natured. That loony of a mother is the reason she suffers from her nerves.'
Veronica always blamed Christine's mother, the truth was too much for her to bear. That her son had destroyed that lovely little girl was what kept her up some nights, along with the fact she had talked her into staying with him. Consequently, she took a deep interest in her daughter-in-law's mental state. She knew that Christine Murphy was like a time bomb, and when she finally went off, the reverberations would be felt throughout the land.
Phil Senior decided to retreat on this occasion, so he deftly changed the subject. 'Well, you know best, love. What time are the neighbours in for the grand showing? Are you feeding them as usual?'
Veronica smiled brightly. 'Don't worry, there'll be plenty of food and drink to go round.'
Phil Senior grinned then. 'I got meself a good one with you,
Veronica. You can read me like a book.'
They laughed easily together. 'Yeah, well, we've weathered the years, Phil, not many can say that these days, eh?'
'That's true, my love. Now, how about making me a cup of tea and a slice of cake.'
Veronica went about the chore happily; she was a lucky woman, and she appreciated that. If only young Christine was properly on the mend her life would be just about perfect.
Ted Booth was serving a young man with purple hair and the whole shop reeked of the smell of cannabis emanating from him. Still, the boy was very respectful, and said please and thank you.
Everyone on the estate did now. They used the litter bins provided for their rubbish, even from the chippy, and they all made sure they cashed their giros, pensions and family allowance in his post office. He made a fortune every week, especially since Phillip had got Breda to set up the loan scheme – the profits were all his and Eileen's, so that was another lucrative earner. Yet Ted was a very unhappy man. He did what he was asked and he made a lot of money, but it was wrong in his eyes; they were taking money from people who could barely afford it, who were forever in their debt and often ended up borrowing more money to pay off their existing loans. Unlike his wife, who thought it was great and very appropriate, he thought it was taking advantage of people less well off than themselves.
They had three more shops now, all on similar estates and all doing the same kind of business. What should have made him happy only emphasised to him how deeply he was now enmeshed with Phillip Murphy. If his daughter was happy he might have been able to swallow it all, but she was wasting away before his eyes, there wasn't an ounce of fat on her, and her nerves were terrible.
Yet in fairness to Phillip Murphy, he treated her like a queen; you could see his love for her and them boys. As far as Ted
Booth was concerned that was his only saving grace. He made sure they had a good earn, and he was grateful for that in some ways – it got Eileen off his back anyway. But none of it sat right with him, it was all smoke and mirrors, skulduggery, everything was a con, a scam. He would rather be back where he was, his own man and owned by no one, owing his livelihood to no one but himself.
As he looked out the door and saw the beat copper salute him, he felt the usual amazement that even the police were too frightened to question the fact that his shops were making money hand over fist on an estate that was made up mostly of unmarried mothers, the unemployed and the unemployable. But, as Eileen had pointed out, it suited the Filth, as she now referred to them in her street patois; they were glad they weren't forever having to turn up mob-handed in riot gear. If you listened to her, Phillip Murphy was the South East's answer to Henry Kissinger. Ted waved back at the young plod, and went back to perusing the stock lists; even shoplifting was unheard of these days. So why couldn't he sit back like his wife and enjoy the ride?
'That smells fucking handsome, Chris.'
Christine smiled tightly at Phillip's praise, she knew he meant every word of it as well. She had dressed the lamb with rosemary and garlic the night before, covered it in fresh herbs and horseradish butter, and left it to infuse overnight in the fridge. It did smell spectacular. It was their own lamb, slaughtered in their own small abattoir, and hung until it was perfect. Every vegetable was home-grown, and almost every ingredient was from the farm. She was proud of her skills and she loved the whole concept of cooking. When she was in the kitchen she could forget about everything else; she concentrated on the recipe, on preparing her ingredients. She felt a sense of worth when she saw her sons gobbling up her food. She prided herself that they didn't eat shop-bought cakes or biscuits, that she even made the bread they ate. It was how she coped with her life, small things like that made it bearable.
'Well, Ricky and that stick insect he married will be thrilled at the effort, babe, and the table looks wonderful. You were right to serve them in here; the kitchen's a nice informal setting, the dining room would have been a bit overpowering.'
The kitchen table seated twelve; the kitchen was now forty by thirty feet, mostly encased by a huge Victorian conservatory. It was still a kitchen, but one that wouldn't look out of place in Homes & Gardens magazine. She liked eating in the kitchen – the five-oven Aga was warming, and she also had an island with a state-of-the-art cooker that had cost more than her car. The kitchen had lovely views of the farm as well, and her herb garden always gave the room a wonderful homely smell, especially when she was baking bread. Everything her little heart could desire she had, and the irony wasn't lost on her. She knew that Deandra envied her the beautiful surroundings, and the wonderful life she had. Everyone she knew did. They couldn't understand her being plagued with her nerves and depression and if she told them everything, they wouldn't see it as a problem like she did. They would see it as Phillip being strong, and being a man.
Her father had warned her she was not right for the Murphys and their way of life, and she knew that he hated being a part of it all – that only added to her guilt. She had dragged him into her mess, and that played on her mind a lot. As her sons were growing older she worried about what their lives would become too.
'Are you with us, babe?'
She literally jumped at her husband's words. She had forgotten he was there; it was the new pills, they were strong and she often went into little worlds of her own. 'Sorry, Phil, I was miles away.'
'That's all right, mate. You sure you're all right for tonight? I can easily take them to a restaurant.'
She sighed heavily 'Please, Phil, I'm fine, and I'd be even better if you stopped asking me if I was all right all the time.' She was looking into his eyes, pleading with him silently to just let her get on with what she was doing.
He shrugged resignedly, and then smiled gently. 'I just worry about you, Chris, the doctor said it was all about not getting overwhelmed, remember?'
'I know that, and I'm sorry I can't be like everyone else, Phil. But I'm all right, I swear. Now go and get changed – they'll be here soon. The boys are staying at Breda's tonight so let's enjoy the quiet, shall we?'
Phillip pulled her into his arms and hugged her close. 'You are perfect to me, you're my world and don't you ever forget that. We'll get you back on your feet, that's a promise, darling.'
She smiled her usual smile, but it was almost a grimace. 'I know, Phil. Listen, that's the gates, Declan must be here. I'll pour him a glass of wine while you tidy yourself up.'
Phillip left the room. She could see she had calmed him – as long as she told him she was OK he was fine. He would move the earth for her, and she was aware of that, but it still didn't change the fact that she was living and sleeping with a man she was terrified of. A man who she knew loved her in his own weird way. She opened the wine and poured two glasses; she had already drained hers when Declan came in the back door. One good thing with wine was that the pills she took worked much better with a few drinks in her. Then she could even stand Phillip making love to her, which he did nearly every day.
'That smells the nuts, Christine.' Declan was rubbing his big hands together in anticipation. 'I'm starving. I ain't eaten all day because I didn't want to ruin me appetite.'
She gave him the glass of wine with a small smile and went back to her prepping. The best thing about Declan was she didn't feel the need to talk to him. Instead he had the knack of talking to her, and making her feel included without her having to force herself to join in the conversation.
Declan watched her work, and marvelled at how Phillip couldn't see what was in front of his face; the girl was living on the edge. She was thinner than Twiggy, and her movements were either jerking all over the place, or she looked like she was walking through water. She was not right in the bonce, and he was sorry for her. In fact, he was sorry for them, because this way they lived surely couldn't go on for ever.
Deandra was watching Christine Murphy as she served the cheese plate. She had cleared the table quietly and unobtrusively, and had then placed the port and brandy in the middle before deftly taking away the wine glasses and the water pitcher and placing a plate of home-made chocolates centre stage. The table still looked wonderful, from the white damask tablecloth to the expensive white lily centrepiece. Deandra was very impressed, you could see this all came naturally to Christine Murphy – she assumed it was her upbringing. Everyone knew her mother was a snob of the first water.
She liked the way Christine worked though; she was quick, and she made it look effortless. The food had been spectacular, and even Deandra, who usually needed a government White Paper before she consumed one calorie, had found herself having seconds. Until tonight she had thought a lemon posset was a small American rodent, so she had learned something new as well. The talk around the table had been good – funny stories, and serious subjects, mixed with the usual innuendo and spattering of gossip about people they knew. All in all, she had really enjoyed the evening. She had been worried about the business, but it seemed she had been wrong there. The subject had not even come up yet and, the way it was going, she felt that Ricky's refusal would be accepted and forgotten about.
She asked Christine again if she wanted any help, and she was politely turned down, as she had hoped she would be. There was nothing worse than going to someone's house for dinner and having to wash up afterwards. What the fuck was all that about? You could clear up at home!
Christine sat down and picked up her wine glass. Deandra had been counting all night and this was her sixth glass. Christine Murphy could certainly put it away, and she looked as sober as a judge, well, as sober as a prescription junkie could look, anyway. Go Christine! Deandra wished she could drink like that. Christine was certainly a dark horse in more ways than one. Two glasses and she herself was pissed and talking bollocks, at least that was what Ricky always told her anyway. He said it was because she drank so much wine all day she was just topping herself up on a regular basis. He could be funny could Ricky, and she took it in good part; after all, nine times out of ten he was spot on about her.
She eyed Phillip and Declan and, in her wine-induced happy state, decided they were both worth a second look – not that she would do anything, but she was a young woman and she could still dream.
Phillip sat back in his chair comfortably. He poured himself and Declan a large brandy, then one for Ricky that was even larger. He was pleased with the evening so far. It had been a very congenial gathering, and he had not detected any undue undertones coming from his guest, so all in all he was a very happy man. But now it was time for the real business of the night. He would do the deal, toast their success, and everyone was a winner.
'Cheers, Rick. Now, I know business isn't fit talk for the dinner table, but we ain't Tory politicians, are we, so have you thought any further about my offer?'
Ricky was lighting one of his huge cigars, and he puffed on it for a few moments before blowing out the smoke lazily and saying in a very forceful but jovial way, 'I have, young Phillip, and I'm afraid the answer's no. I can't see what I'd do with meself if I didn't have the arcades, and there's plenty of room for all of us.'
Phillip was nodding as if in agreement, but the atmosphere in the kitchen changed dramatically. Deandra saw Declan filling up the brandy glasses, and she felt a second's panic shoot through her body.
'But the thing is, Rick, what you don't seem to understand is that I want them.'
Ricky heard the determination in Phillip's voice. But the mixture of wine and brandy was already affecting his usual excellent judgement and, laughing, he said, 'Well you can't fucking have them, can you?'
It was meant as a joke, but it came out as a challenge, and everyone around the table was aware of that. Especially Christine Murphy. She knew the signs better than anyone, and Phillip would not take something like that without a fight. She finished her wine quickly, and poured herself another glass; she had a feeling she was going to need it.
Veronica's long-time neighbour and friend Jeannie Brown was admiring the newly decorated house, and her praise was loud and sincere. Jeannie benefited from her friend's good fortune in that she always inherited her old furniture and fittings, and Phillip would send the decorators in to her to give her place a quick lick of paint as well. Like many people, that made her a fan of his for life. She counted herself very lucky to be in with the Murphys, and she never tired of telling anyone and everyone what good people they were. That she had hidden guns and money for them over the years she kept very much to herself. In fact, she was honoured to help them out; after all, they had repaid her a hundredfold.
'You're glowing, Veronica, positively glowing!'
As she spoke Breda came in the back door with Porrick. 'Can I leave him here for a few hours, Mum? I have to meet someone.'
' 'Course you can. He'll have Philly and Timmy for company too. God, Breda, you look lovely.'
Breda grinned. She did look wonderful, and she knew it. 'Well, don't sound so shocked about it. And don't let my Porrick have anything rich, he's been sick as a dog today.'
Her teenage son was white-faced, and his eyes looked sunken in his head. Veronica was immediately concerned. 'Come away in, Porrick love, I'll make you a nice boiled egg, shall I?'
Philly and Timmy laughed. 'Don't forget the soldiers, Nan, he loves his little soldiers.'
Veronica's world was complete. She had her grandsons and her family around her, she had the neighbours all agape at the wonderful home she had been provided with, and her husband had not even gone to the pub. All in all, life was really good.
As she saw Breda out to her car she said happily, 'How's Jamsie doing?'
Breda shrugged. 'All right. Phillip still won't acknowledge his existence, Mum, but it's a start, I suppose.'
Veronica grabbed on to that and held it to her like a charm. 'Well, you know Phillip, he does everything in his own time.'
'Listen, Mum, don't get your hopes up. Jamsie done a fucking terrible thing, and our Phillip's memory is long, and his anger never burns out. So just wait and see what happens, OK? Don't push the issue.'
Veronica nodded sagely, she knew the girl was talking the truth. But her daughter's words saddened her all the same. She hated seeing poor Jamsie so destroyed and, after all, blood was thicker than water. But she would keep her own counsel for a while; as Breda said, Phillip didn't forget easily.
She wandered back into the house but the shine had gone off the night for her.
Ricky was annoyed. He had drunk too much, and a warning voice was telling him that he should leave it. But he couldn't back down in front of Deandra, she was his wife, he couldn't act like a frightened schoolboy, and he didn't want to anyway. Why the fuck should he? There was no law that said he had to sell to Phillip Murphy; that was his choice, and he chose not to. What the fuck was the big deal? He had a lot of mates, Faces, who would stand behind him on this. Word on the street was a lot of people were fed up with Phillip Murphy anyway. He had trampled on a lot of people, and made a ton of fucking enemies over the last few years.
'You've disappointed me, Ricky. I assumed this was going to be a very convivial arrangement because me and you both know that it's the right thing to do. I was even going to offer you a percentage for ten years to sweeten the pot.' Phillip was shaking his head now, as if he was the victim of the most outrageous skulduggery imaginable and he did not look happy about it.
Ricky noticed that Declan was avoiding eye contact with him, Deandra and Christine were both mortified, and somehow Ricky felt it was all his fault. This just incensed him even more; he felt like he was the bad bastard now and all he was doing was trying to protect his earn, that was hardly a fucking crime. He was looking out for his own, it was a natural reaction.
'I'm sorry you feel that way, Phillip, and I'm sorry it's come to this, but I own the arcades and I don't want to sell them. End of. You've got more than enough to keep you occupied. You've walked away with most of the fucking front as it is.' He started to poke his finger towards Phillip now, all common sense gone. 'And let me tell you, there's a few people who think you've already got too much.'
Declan got up suddenly and the scraping noise as he pushed back his chair was loud and threatening in the room. 'That's enough, Ricky, shut the fuck up before you go too far. Why are you making this so personal, eh? What have we ever done to you for you to treat us like this?' He was pointing his finger right into the man's face and it was evident to everyone that he was barely holding his temper together. What he was really doing though was taking the onus off Phillip, because Phillip could quite easily get out of his own chair, pick up the boning knife, and gut Ricky like a fish over what he had just said.
Ricky sat back in amazement. All caution gone now as the anger enveloped him. 'Oh, so we've got muppet number two now, have we? You fucking listen to me, the pair of you. I own the fucking arcades, me. And I ain't aiming them out for you or anyone else, and that, my friends, is called my fucking prerogative. Mine. Not yours, not your big brother's or fucking Ring Street Charlie's, it's mine. Now I came here to tell you no, and I thought that would be that. All grown-ups together, a big so what, and see you around. I never expected to have you demand what's mine, because you can demand till the cows come home, you ain't fucking getting it.'
Declan was watching Phillip closely now; he hoped he would keep it together, for all their sakes. Phillip was a wild card at the best of times, and it wasn't sensible to front him up like that. Ricky should know better. Declan was aware that it was only Christine's presence that was stopping Phillip from killing this mad cunt like a rabid dog.
Phillip wiped a hand across his face; he looked hurt, devastated and like a puppy who had been kicked by a gang of glue-sniffing skinheads.
'I am amazed at you attacking me like this, Rick, and please, who are the people who think I've got enough? Who the fuck are they to tell me what I can and can't own, eh? You know where to come when you get strong-armed. Phillip Murphy will sort it out. "Oh, Phil, someone's threatening me, or they're selling drugs on my premises." I'm all right then though, ain't I? When I am doing you all fucking favours. I am trying to build myself an enterprise, I never made a fucking secret of it. That front has never been run better – there's less violence, less fucking scamming, the punters feel safer and return with their families again and again. How you can accuse me of pushing in, I don't know, I have done every cunt there a favour in some way or another. Tou especially. You've got a short memory, Ricky. I bailed you out last year when you were being forced out of business by Micky Driscoll. I sorted him for you and, if I remember, you were more than grateful to get that mad cunt off your back. Well, if you don't fucking sell to me, I'll let him know you're open for business again, and you can fucking deal with him on your own, or with the fucking big mates you've suddenly acquired from somewhere. Now, get your coat and get out of my drum before this all really does go too far.'
Christine was still staring at the tablecloth, her heart hammering in her ears, fear spiralling up inside her. She knew Phillip was using all his considerable willpower not to physically attack Ricky in front of her.
Deandra was in outright shock, she couldn't believe what she had witnessed. Getting up unsteadily, she picked up her handbag and left the kitchen as quickly as possible, squeezing Christine's shoulder gently as she passed her.
Declan gestured for Ricky to go.
Ricky was like a man in a trance; he knew he had caused something bad, and he knew it was something that could never be resolved. Not now. He had, in effect, fucked himself from here to Barnsley, and the more that thought broke into his drink-filled mind the more the fear consumed him. He couldn't understand how this had happened. All right, Phillip had helped him out before and he had been grateful. But now he felt he was the one in the wrong because he should somehow feel honour bound to give Phillip Murphy what he had not wanted to give Micky Driscoll. What the fuck had occurred here? Why did he feel like he was the one in the wrong, and why was he suddenly convinced that he had just signed his own death warrant?
As he drove out of the electric gates, he was still reeling from the night's events. And it didn't help when Deandra said angrily, 'And you've got the cheek to say that I talk bollocks when I'm pissed!'
Christine was loading both her dishwashers, but her mind was still on the conversation at the table. She could hear Phillip talking as if he was amazed at what had taken place. He might be playing the innocent but she knew that Phillip would take those arcades by fair means or foul. He wanted them, and that was enough justification for him.
She was sad; she liked Deandra, and she was sorry that the night had descended into chaos. Still, the food had been blinding. Kind of like a last supper; well, for poor Ricky anyway. She allowed herself a small smile at that. She was cleaning up like a woman possessed; it was strange, but cleaning made her feel more in control of everything around her. Every drawer in the house was tidy, every wardrobe, every cupboard. The shrink said it was her way of coping with the chaos in her mind, the need for complete control over her environment. She thought he talked shite, but she wouldn't say that to him. She cleaned and cooked because it stopped her from thinking too much. She was done in no time and, pouring herself a large glass of port, she kissed her husband gently and said goodnight to him and his brother.
Phillip grabbed her arm, and kissed her hand. 'I'm sorry about that, Chris. All that work, that handsome grub, fucking too good for the likes of them.'
She shrugged, resigned to the inevitable. 'Well, you'll sort it all out, Phil. I'm going to have a nice bath and go to bed. See you tomorrow, Declan.'
She walked from the kitchen, and in the large entrance hall, she stopped by the antique bureau, opened the large leather address book and crossed out Deandra's home and mobile numbers. After all, she wasn't likely to be seeing her again in the near future, was she?
Breda was in a small drinking club; she was already well oiled, and the young Jamaican with her was keeping her supplied with rum and Coke. She knew she should leave but she was enjoying herself. She had already concluded her business, and meeting this young man, with the smiling eyes and the ready grin, was a nice diversion. It was a smart little club, well attended and only open to people with something to offer. It was a meeting place for the movers and shakers of the criminal underbelly and, as such, it had a decent clientele. Breda knew most of them and was making the most of the social aspect as well as the business contacts.
Phillip left her to deal with a lot of the day-to-day stuff, and she knew that he appreciated how well she handled it. She was thrilled about them acquiring the two new arcades, because that would mean they had the seafront at Southend basically sewn up. If they didn't own it, then they were paid a percentage by the renters to trade. It was a very lucrative and easy market. She had it well under control – she could run it in her sleep.
She was very surprised to get a text on her phone telling her to get round Phillip's immediately. Declan was not a drama queen so she knew something serious had occurred. She left immediately, regretting her drinking bout already, and determined to sober up before she got to Phillip's. But not before taking her young Jamaican's number and filing it away for future reference.
'Will you come to bed, Ricky? Sitting here in the dark ain't going to change the night's events, is it?'
Deandra was worried, she had never seen Ricky like this before. He was usually so strong, and that was what had initially attracted her. She would never forget meeting him in the pub all that time ago. She had been seventeen, and he was in his forties. She had been bowled over by him. He dressed well, had money, and an interesting face; when he smiled he was almost handsome. He had talked to her, really talked to her, and the attraction between them had been instant and electric. She had fallen for him then and there, and she had fallen hard. He had kids older than her, and grandchildren older than her own kids. But it had worked because over the years even his daughters had realised she genuinely cared for him. He had been divorced a long time, and they had not believed he would ever marry again, especially not to a young girl like her. But they had weathered it, and now they were a big happy family. She was terrified now that this was all going to end because Ricky had fallen out with Phillip Murphy.
Her initial reading of Phillip had been right, he was the poison that would infect their lives. Her husband had basically thrown down the gauntlet to a man who was capable of literally anything. Now there was a threat hanging over them, and she feared it was going to crush them no matter what Ricky did to try and stop it.
'Please answer me at least, Ricky, I'm frightened.'
Ricky sighed in the darkness and, leaning forwards, he switched on a lamp. The light was soft and the room looked beautiful. Deandra had made the house lovely, their lives were wonderful, he had never been happier in his whole life than during the years he had spent with her. She had given him something he had never dreamed of: peace of mind, and the joy that comes with being with a woman he loved, admired and respected. And he did respect her, and he knew that she loved him wholeheartedly, and now, through his own fault, through his own vanity, he feared he would have to leave her and the children to cope without him. Because he had a terrible feeling that Phillip Murphy was not about to let this lie. In fact, he knew that the only way Phillip Murphy would be placated would be by his complete obliteration. His only chance was a massive grovel, and that was what he was now willing to do.
He had already decided that he was going to go back to the farm first thing in the morning, go straight to Phillip and apologise. But a little voice was telling him that it was too little too late. He was willing to do the biggest about-face since the Germans had conceded the war and, as hard as it would be, he knew he would do it to protect his family, and his way of life. Phillip Murphy already owned the arcades, that was a fact, all that was left now was giving them to him with the least aggravation and trying to get a decent price, because Phillip would want them for nix now. Ricky would be forced to sweeten the pot at the expense of his own lifestyle. It would be the only way he could walk away with any chance of retaining his life. The saddest part for him was that once he had sobered up, he couldn't think of one person he knew who would be willing to front Murphy up and stand beside him in his hour of need. That in itself was a sobering thought.
'I'm sorry about tonight, babe. I was pissed, I'll sort it all out tomorrow.'
She slipped on to the sofa beside him, and he automatically held her in his arms. He loved her so much. He could kick himself for worrying her like this. What the hell had he been thinking?
'Let him have them, Rick, nothing is worth all this, and anyway, we talked about you retiring and now seems the perfect opportunity. We could finally move to Spain, we've talked about it long enough. And I understand if we have to tighten our belts a bit, that won't bother me, as long as we're together, that's all that matters.'
He knew she meant every word and he felt the sting of tears at her utter loyalty to him and their marriage. 'We ain't going to be on our uppers, love, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same.'
He squeezed her to him again, and felt some of the tension leave her body. He knew she had mentioned Spain so he would have a legitimate reason for leaving the country and his problems behind. She was a good girl all right, bless her. He could only pray to God that he could salvage something from this mess, but he honestly didn't hold out much hope.
'Calm down, Phil, getting aggravated ain't going to help us out now, is it?'
'All I've done for that ponce, and he shames me in me own house.'
'Well, I think that tomorrow in the cold light of day he will be on the blower, all contrite. We'll get the arcades, and at a song. I mean, let's face it, Phil, he's going to have to really fucking grovel after tonight's little fiasco.'
The thought cheered Phillip, and he finally broke into a smile. 'Yeah, you're right. He'll be at panic stations now, won't he, wondering how best to talk himself out of the trouble. I really thought he was going to go for it, though. And what was all that about other people thinking I had too much? I want to know exactly who they are.'
Declan had wondered how long it would be before the real nub of his brother's ire came out. Ever since that idiot Ricky had said those words he had known that Phillip would not let it lie until he had all the names, addresses and phone numbers of the people he would now see as his mortal enemies. He would then feel honour bound to let them know what he thought about them, and that could never be good for business. Declan knew that it was normal to be cunted when you were in the position they were, it was a natural reaction on the part of the people they were pushing aside. It always caused a bit of jealousy and resentment, it was better people let off steam with words than actions. After all, as their old mum had always said, sticks and stones.
Phillip, however, took what people said about him a bit too seriously, his whole life was about how he was perceived, about what people thought of him, and what he had achieved. Success meant a lot to Phillip, not just the money side of it, but also the lifestyle that came with it. He had always cared far too much about other people's opinions. Even poor Christine had become a casualty of Phillip's striving for perfection; no one could live up to his expectations, least of all a girl who was terrified of her husband, and had to pop pills just to get out of bed in the morning.
As much as Declan loved his brother, and he did love him, it was this part of his make-up that Declan always felt made him weak. A lesser man wouldn't care what people said about them, it would be enough to know they were feared and revered. Not Phillip though, he had to be feared, respected, and liked, and with the best will in the world Phillip was a lot of things, but likeable wasn't one of them.
Breda came in and broke the tension. She was red-faced from the biting wind, but Declan was pleased to see she looked up for anything, even at this late hour. He wondered which little Rasta's sex life had been interrupted by his summons.
Phillip nodded at her, and she sat down at the table quickly.
'Tomorrow, Breda, I want you to start asking around the front about people's opinion of us, especially me. It's come to my attention that we're being cunted up hill and down dale. I want to know who the culprits are, and then I want them dealt with. If we start letting people get away with insubordination we lay ourselves wide open to being mugged off. I want this nipped in the bud.'
Breda nodded sagely, wondering what the fuck Phillip was on about. She wasn't going to ask him though – Declan would fill her in on the score at a more appropriate time. She could see
Phillip was on one, and she knew the best thing to do was keep quiet, keep her head down, and agree with whatever he said to her.
Declan passed her a cup of coffee and she sipped the hot liquid gratefully. 'I'll get on it first thing, and see what I can find out.'
Phillip went on, 'Yeah, it pays to keep people on their toes. By the way, we're taking everything Ricky's got, and we're taking it for a third of its value. You need to find out exactly what that is. He'll accept, don't worry about that. But I want you to deal with him, OK?'
She nodded once more. Seems the big party night all ended in tears. Still, she would find out everything soon enough. 'I have the figures on me desk, I'll let you know first thing.'
'You're a good girl, Breda. How's that treacherous bastard Jamsie doing?'
She smiled sadly. 'All right. Mum's thrilled anyway. But, in fairness, Phil, he don't even drink a shandy these days, let alone snort anything. I think he's a changed man.'
'He would fucking need to be, wouldn't he?'
She didn't answer him, she knew he was looking for a reason to take his ire out on someone and Jamsie was not going to be his whipping boy tonight. Not if she could help it anyway. 'By the way, I got the firearms, they get delivered next Thursday. I've taken the liberty of renting some garages in Chigwell. They are down a little lane, and it's not somewhere the Old Bill frequent. They're owned by a retired colonel who's fallen on hard times. Basically he owes Benny the Bookie, who owes me a favour. I'm getting them all delivered there, OK?'
Phillip and Declan laughed together at her front.
'Fuck me, Bred, comes to something when even the Colonel Blimps have to resort to a bit of honest skulduggery to make ends meet.'
'I thought you'd appreciate the irony, especially as his daughter is married to the Chief Super's son.'
They were all really laughing now, and Declan could have kissed Breda – she knew just how to work Phillip, and bring him round to a better frame of mind. Even if they got a capture, the fact it was so close to the Filth would work in their favour. She was a shrewdie was Breda and she could find out anything about anyone, which she frequently did. Then she worked out how best the information could work in their favour. Declan knew he would have to put the hard word on her about not letting Phillip know too much about what was said about him. But he'd sort that as and when he had to.
'Suppose I'd better go up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire.'
As they all got ready to say goodbye, Phillip said thoughtfully, 'Shame really, ain't it?'
Declan slipped his overcoat on and said calmly, 'What is, Phil, what's a shame?'
'Ricky killing himself. That'll cause a ripple through the manor.'
Breda and Declan didn't say anything, both were digesting what he had said.
'Being so well liked, especially by all his mates, it'll come as a big shock to the local community, I can tell you that.' Turning to leave the room Phillip said over his shoulder, 'Lock up on your way out, Declan.'
Breda shook her head sadly, and Declan shrugged in frustration. They both knew poor Ricky was living on borrowed time.
Phillip looked good, as if he had slept the sleep of the just and the righteous, which of course, in his mind, was exactly what he had done.
As Christine placed a large Aga-cooked breakfast before him, he was all smiles and camaraderie. The boys were being dropped off at school by Jamsie, which had pleased his mother no end as she saw him becoming what she insisted on calling indispensable, and Declan was on his way over to sort out the day's business. Christine had slept well too, at least as well as you could sleep on three Valium and nine glasses of alcohol. Not even groggy, she had slipped out of bed, showered and dressed by six thirty. Phillip had a habit of wanting early morning sex which she didn't share so she was up and about as soon as, making him his breakfast, and preparing to give the already-spotless house yet another good cleaning. She made it seem important, and she knew Phillip was proud of her cleanliness, and overlooked her reluctance to lie in bed with him. She had told him the doctor had said her lack of libido was due to the meds, just as she blamed everything on the meds. Deep down Phillip had to know the truth but he wouldn't challenge her, because he wouldn't want to admit it. He knew what was really wrong with her, and he knew she knew. It was like the old song.
She laughed gently to herself, and noticed Phillip watching her intently. She was flying higher than a Boeing 747 and she liked it: she felt carefree, loose and almost happy this morning and, after last night's fiasco, that could only be a good thing. She would have to double up on the pills more often if they made her this energetic and happy. And later, she would have a nice cold glass of vin; whoever had invented wine was a fucking god, and that would set her up for the evening.
'You all right, Phil? You're staring at me.'
'I was just thinking how beautiful you are when you're happy – not that you ain't beautiful when you're sad, but when you smile, Chris, it really lights you up inside.'
She shrugged. 'The new pills are working, I think, they make me feel happier than I have in a long time.'
He nodded. 'I can see that. Shall we go out tonight? Have a meal, a few drinks and a laugh?'
She nodded. She knew it would please him, and she would be glad to get out of the house for a few hours. 'That sounds lovely. Get all dressed up, and paint the town red.' She could see how happy she had made him, and for a split second she felt guilty because it took so little to please him.
'I'll show you the new club later on. You will love it – it's really upmarket and the decor is superb, like something out of a fashion magazine. Really tasteful.'
He loved showing her how well he had done, it was important to him that she understood how hard he worked for them all. She knew that what he really wanted was her approval, and that it would make her life much easier if she just gave it to him. But it was hard at times, playing a part, pretending every minute of every day, it got her down. She felt the depression looming again, like a dead weight, and forced herself to stop thinking too much about her life.
'I'll look forward to it, Phil.'
She would dress up for him and wear her best jewellery; it made him proud when people admired her. He loved to see people gasp at their obvious wealth. She decided she would raid the safe and really go to town. Even get her hair and nails done.
She was surprised to find she was actually looking forward to it, and she saw that as a step in the right direction.
She heard someone pressing the electric gates, and automatically opened them, assuming it was the postman, so she was surprised to see Ricky pulling up in his top-of-the-range Mercedes. She saw him get out with a huge bunch of flowers, and a very contrite expression on his face; she had to admire his guts, if not his common sense.
'It's Ricky, Phil.'
Phillip shrugged and carried on eating his breakfast.
Ricky came through the back door all false smiles and obvious embarrassment. Christine went to greet him and, giving her the flowers, he said loudly, 'For you, Christine, an apology for my boorish and drunken behaviour last night. I have been getting serious earache off Deandra over my actions and I can only blame the surfeit of wine and brandy. Can you ever forgive me?'
Before she could answer Phillip said loudly, 'She might, but I fucking won't.'
He was wiping his mouth with his napkin, and sitting there, in his tracksuit bottoms, bare chested and needing a shave, it struck Christine just how very good-looking he actually was. His deep blue eyes were focused on Ricky, and she could feel the power of his gaze herself like a physical thing. It was accusatory, showing how upset he was at what had happened last night, and it was also devoid of any sympathy or pity for Ricky's obvious discomfort. Taking the huge bunch of flowers she left the kitchen, and made her way through to the utility rooms, shutting the heavy baize door behind her. She didn't want to hear any of this conversation, not today. She couldn't cope with any of it.
Ricky was on his own.
'Look, Phillip, I can't fucking apologise enough, mate…'
Phillip was leaning back in his Carver chair, relaxed, with an interested look on his face. He was secretly pleased that Ricky had been so worried he had come round his drum first thing; it appealed to his sense of honour and respect. It showed just how worried the man had been. That appeased him in small measure. He appreciated it when people put their hand up – as far as he was concerned, it showed true strength of character. To be able to admit your mistakes was something all the powerful generals had been willing to do throughout history. It was a sign of good leadership, it was also a sign of shrewdness, because anyone with half a brain knew Phillip wasn't the type to swallow last night's events without some kind of retaliation.
'I bet you can't. But the thing is, Ricky, you not only mugged me off, you mugged me off in my own home in front of my wife. Now everyone knows how I feel about my wife – she is a very fragile girl, what with her delicate constitution, and last night's outrageous behaviour on your part upset her deeply, as it did me.'
He still hadn't offered the man a seat and, as he resumed his breakfast, Ricky felt like an errant schoolboy in front of the headmaster.
'I realise that, Phil, that's why I'm here first thing. I don't know what came over me. I feel like a right cunt and, on my life, Phil, I'd do anything to put it right. Get it all sorted. Of course
I'll sell the arcades to you, we had a good deal there, and I know that better than anyone. So can we put this behind us?'
Phillip was mopping up the last of his egg yolk with a slice of home-made bread and, popping the food into his mouth, he chewed on it thoughtfully before washing it down with the last of his tea. Then, standing up, he sniffed loudly and looked Ricky over as if deciding what to do about him. Finally he said, 'Talk to Breda, she'll know what to do.' Turning casually he left the kitchen, and let the door shut behind him loudly, leaving Ricky standing there like a fool.
Ricky felt somehow that he had got off quite lightly. He had expected a real hammering this morning, and he was pleased he was still in one piece – at least he could go home now and put poor Deandra's mind at rest. She was like a cat on a bonfire, so this should calm her down some.
Breda was already at the offices in Southend which she loved as they were so palatial and conducive to work. Everyone looked smart, and the place was more or less legit, which was even better. This was where they did all their real business and the accountants and lawyers were put at their ease by the atmosphere here. She glanced out the window. The sea was quite calm today. Usually, when the waves were crashing in she liked to open the windows to enjoy the sound of the sea. She found it soothing, it made her feel at one with herself. She was in her own little world here, and she liked it that way. When Phillip was here everyone kowtowed to him, and she respected that; after all, this was his at the end of the day. But once he left, it became her domain once more, and she could relax and rule in peace.
She had the figures ready for Ricky, and she had discussed the events of last night at length with Declan. She couldn't help feeling sorry for the man, he had to have been off his trolley to try and front Phillip like that. But she still felt a twinge of guilt at what she was going to offer him, and the reasons why. She waited patiently for him to arrive, her pulse racing at the thought of what she was going to do, but the need to do it overriding any guilt she might feel. Phillip was her main priority, as he was anyone's with half a fucking brain in their head, and that was something that Ricky Thomas should have thought about before he opened his big flapping trap.
As she saw him stroll through to the outer office she took a deep breath. She hated being Phillip's axe lady, but it was what kept her in designer clothes, and a fuck-off house, so she was willing to do whatever she felt was needed to keep her livelihood. But she liked Ricky Thomas. In fact, she had had a fling with him many years before, and he had treated her well, very well. Still, that was then and this was now and there was no place for sentiment in business – Phillip was always reminding her of that.
'All right, Sammy Boy, how are the girls?'
Samuel Gardiner grinned his toothless grin. He liked Phillip Murphy, the man had an instinct for the land that wasn't often seen in townies. Phillip reckoned it was the Irish in him; personally Samuel thought any Irish in him would have been from a navvy, a road builder, but he kept that gem of wisdom to himself. No, Sam believed that you either got the land or you didn't. Look at his own boys – neither of them had taken to it. Both had factory jobs, whereas this lad here could almost smell the loam. It was all instinct, and this lad had it, wherever it had come from.
'They're good, Phil, happy as the proverbial pigs in shit!'
Phillip looked proudly around the new building. The pigs were settled, and the place had the rich smell of the earth about it. Sammy was over the moon with all the new equipment, and a free hand with the whole place. Phillip was learning from him, and he loved it, couldn't get enough of the old man's wisdom and common sense. Phillip actually respected very few people, but Old Sammy was top of his list. His own father didn't come close, but when all was said and done he was his father and that was that. Phillip kept him, as he was honour bound to, but it galled him at times that his father had never done a real day's collar in his fucking life. Sammy, on the other hand, had worked since he was twelve, out in all weathers, and was a better man than most for it. Phillip felt relaxed around him, as if he was with a kindred spirit. He wanted to learn everything this old boy had inside his head, and only then would Phillip feel he was good enough to run this place by himself. He had already made provision for Sammy – he would have the use of his cottage on the farm until he died, then it passed back to Phillip. Sammy knew this and was grateful, but he was also a proud man so, after an initial grunt of thanks, it had never been referred to by either of them again. That was how Phillip felt things should be.
'She'll litter soon, the fat bitch, and we'll see some life come to this place, I can tell you. She's low, Phillip, so I'd say she has a good brood there. Look at her, she knows you. Clever bastards, pigs – people don't realise that.'
The sow was already holding up her head for a scratch, and Phillip obliged her, pleased at her trust and her recognition.
'She's getting extra feed, bless her, and I keep me ear out of a night in case anything occurs, like. But, to be honest, son, she's a Brahma – she'll shit them out without a second's thought.'
Phillip laughed; he loved the old boy's colourful descriptions. 'You reckon?'
'I know so. Been doing this for nearly sixty years, I know a troublesome pig when I see one. She's got a lovely nature, this one, and she'll have good porkers, I guarantee it.'
Phillip was pleased. He walked to the top field and looked at the sheep. They were happy enough. Christine liked a hogget at the end of the year as she preferred the stronger meat, though he liked the spring lamb himself. But then, she was such a good cook he happily ate whatever was put in front of him. He enjoyed his food, he loved everything about it: the presentation, the pleasure in eating and, now they grew both meat and vegetables, he liked that they all ate organic and wholesome produce. He was obsessed with the environment, going so far as to have erected huge greenhouses for the growing of the more exotic fruits and veg he liked. He conveniently forgot that he imported drugs from South America, and the effect that had on the local ecology there. He was good at justifying himself, in fact he could completely separate his two lives at will. It was a necessity that most people in his world had long learned to do.
This was his little bit of England, and he walked his land with the knowledge he was doing something worthwhile with his time. He supplied a lot of the local restaurants with his produce, and he made sure that they got the best of the best. After all, they were paying top dollar for it, as they should. The chickens were happy, the farm made a profit, and he felt he had achieved something that most people never do: complete oneness with himself, and the animals around him. Sammy had taught him early on to feel the land, and he had laughed at first, but now he understood what the old fucker was talking about. He could smell the rain in the air, and feel when it was going to snow, he knew whether a day would be bright or heavy with showers.
All this made him feel, for the first time ever, a real part of something. All his life he had felt an outsider, now he didn't feel that quite so much, and for that alone he would always thank Sammy Boy. The farm gave him peace of mind, and that was something he had never really experienced before. Seeing things grow gave him such a sense of worth, and, even now, every time he picked up an egg, he felt the same thrill as he had when he had found the first one all those years ago. Sammy told him that all farmers had to be naturally ruthless – you grew it, you slaughtered it and you ate it; there was no place for sentiment on a farm. That was no problem for Phillip whatsoever.
He glanced at his watch. Breda would be arriving soon with her update on Ricky Thomas and the acquisition of his arcades. Then he was taking Christine out later. All in all, he felt he was the lucky recipient of a very good day.
Christine was manicured and blow-dried to within an inch of her life, and she knew she looked good. Not that it was going to help her now. As she drove through the gates with her elder son beside her, she felt the urge to cry.
'He is going to go ballistic, Philly, what the fuck was you thinking of?'
Philly was white-faced with fear; he knew he was in big trouble, very big trouble indeed. It wasn't often his father went off on one, but when he did it was always over the top and something you remembered for a long time.
'Have you got to tell him, Mum?'
She looked into her son's strained face and, shaking her head sadly, she said, 'They've expelled you, I think that is going to warrant an explanation of some sort, don't you? Think yourself lucky they didn't get the police involved. His car's there. Get indoors and go straight to your room – you'll know when he's been apprised of the situation, they'll hear him go off on one from the next county.'
She watched her son run into the house and her heart broke for him. But at the same time what he had done was so awful she felt that he needed to be taught a lesson and she was going to make sure he got one.
Phillip was looking at Christine as if he had never met her before in his life. His wife, his Christine, had just informed him that his elder son had been expelled from school. Just like that. No warnings, nothing. Out the door like a fucking nothing, a nowt, and after all he had paid them bastards to educate the child.
'Sit down, Phillip, and let me explain.'
'Was he fighting again?'
She shook her head quickly, wishing it was fighting, at least they knew how to cope with that.
'Well, what then? What the fuck's he done, Chris?'
She looked at his handsome, bewildered face and said loudly, 'He was drug dealing, fucking drug dealing at St John's, the best, most expensive school in the fucking county, run by Jesuits, and attended by the children of the great and the good.'
Phillip was absolutely shell-shocked at her words. 'Drug dealing? My Philly? Are they sure?'
She nodded almost imperceptibly. 'They were watching him for ages, caught him on a hidden camera in the boys' toilets. He's been selling cannabis and Es. Nice state of affairs, isn't it? All that fucking money, and for what?'
'Did they call the Filth?'
She shook her head. 'No, thank God, they don't want this out there any more than we do. But I was so ashamed, Phil. I mean, where's he getting it from? You'll have to find that out because he won't tell me. If people hear about this he's finished for any other school…'
'What about Timmy, is he involved?'
'No, that's one thing we can be pleased about. He's not involved at all.'
Phillip finally sat down and, grabbing his wife's hands, said confidently, 'We'll nip this in the bud, Chris, I'll sort the school out, get him back there, and I'll make sure he never does anything like this again. So stop worrying, all right? We can sort this.'
He got up and walked out into the entrance hall, bellowing loudly up the newly carved, curved staircase that was his pride and joy, 'Get your fucking arse down here now, boy!'
For the first time ever, Christine hoped that her husband's phenomenal temper would be used to make her son realise the seriousness of what he had done. She knew he needed a short, sharp shock, and Phil was just the man to deliver it. If it made sure Philly never sold another drug in his life, she was willing to see him hospitalised if necessary. Because this was not a boyish prank, this was dangerous, adult behaviour that could one day see him put in prison. For once she was relying on her husband's volatile nature to do some kind of good, because if the boys went to the bad, she would be finished.
'He offered you what?'
Ricky Thomas was still reeling from the morning's events. 'He ain't offered it, Dee, that's what we've been given. The bastard certainly got his pound of flesh, and I have to swallow me knob and wipe me mouth. Nothing else I can do, darling.'
Deandra wasn't a businesswoman, but even she knew this was a paltry sum of money, and she was upset about it; after all, this was their earn they were talking about. 'The rotten cunt, he wants to see us crawl, that's what this is all about.'
'Breda explained that the less we took, the more Phillip was liable to forget the insult. As she pointed out, he is known for holding a grudge longer than a Freemason. She also pointed out that he has businesses in Spain and Portugal, where he could make it very difficult for us to settle there on a permanent basis. Look, it ain't all bad news. Once we sell up here we'll still have a good wedge, and we can start again with that.'
She nodded slowly, still taking in the fact that their life, their lovely life as they had always known it, was well and truly over. 'You had to fucking get drunk, didn't you? Now look what we're left with. No money and our lives in ruins.'
She burst into tears, and Ricky went to her; he had never felt so bad in his life before. At least he had escaped with a life of some sort, but this wasn't the time to mention that. Instead he held her as she cried and wished, like Cher, that he could turn back fucking time.
Father Theobald was not used to being interrupted by irate fathers and, as he looked at Phillip Murphy, he realised that this was not a man who could be fobbed off without what the Americans liked to call a full and frank discussion. Sighing in resignation, he offered the man a seat and then, sitting opposite him at his large antique desk, he waited for him to say his piece.
Phillip sat down heavily. Lighting a cigarette, he slowly and deliberately blew the smoke at the old priest before saying, 'When I have said my piece I am leaving here and going straight to the police. I am telling them that my boy was offered drugs to sell by the Right Honourable Ian Halpern's son who, at sixteen, is three years older than my boy. It seems he gets the drugs from his older brother, who grows the grass himself in the grounds of Yardley Hall. I can only wonder where they get the Es from. I am also going to see my legal people about suing you, Halpern and everyone else I can think of, including the fucking Pope, because my boy is being used as the scapegoat here. I wouldn't mind, but that cunt Halpern ain't even a fucking Catholic! You must think I am a right fucking pushover, Father, if you believed I was going to swallow this lot without a fight. Well, you picked on the wrong boy here, mate. My son was forced to sell that stuff. He's thirteen years old. Thirteen! When this hits the fucking papers, I am going to tell everyone how shocked, how disgusted, and how distraught I am at this school's lack of security, lack of moral fibre, and I will explain how my boy was fitted up because we're just Irish nothings to you people. You protect the rich and the well known at the expense of the children they are exploiting. And, furthermore, you had no right to terrorise my wife - you know how fragile she is. I'll give you fucking expulsion without further ado. I'm going to take your words and shove them right back up your jacksie. I can buy and sell Halpern, the man relies on me for his daily bread. Bet you didn't know that, did you? I bailed him out two years ago, and I own the Hall – they rent it from me now. But not for long now that I know they are growing drugs on my premises. So you backed the wrong horse today, didn't you, Theobald me old china plate. You treacherous bastard, you. Now what you got to say about that, eh?'
Christine was stoned out of her head after drinking three glasses of Chardonnay and taking two more of her pills. As Phillip walked back into the house, she was waiting expectantly in the hallway for him, her hand to her throat in a gesture of naked fear. Philly was hanging back behind her.
Phillip smiled at her widely. 'Sorted.' He pushed his son towards the stairs. 'You get yourself up there and I'll deal with you in a minute.'
Christine saw the boy run up the stairs as if he had the hounds of hell on his heels.
'He's back to school tomorrow, Chris. I gave the priest a few home truths, and we came to an understanding of sorts.'
Christine followed him into the kitchen, her face registering her shock at his words. 'What kind of home truths? You didn't threaten the priest, Phil!'
Phillip laughed at her incredulity. 'I simply pointed out the downside of all this becoming public knowledge. Do you know what, Christine? All the money we've weighed out to that old cunt, and he looks down at us like we crawled from under a stone. Well, he had a fucking shock today. Philly's back at school tomorrow, and Halpern's boy's out and, incidentally, I have good reason to evict the slippery fucker from the Hall now. Turns out it was his boy doing the dealing – our little fella just got caught up in the crossfire. So, all in all, it was quite a productive day. Oh, there's one last thing. I'm going to be cancelling the direct debit for the school fees, because they are both going there for nix from now on.'
Christine couldn't believe what she was hearing. She had really thought her son would be expelled and ostracised; that Phil had sorted it like this made her want to kiss him. He had saved her boy from having to change schools, make new friends, and she was so grateful to her husband at this moment, she almost loved him again.
'Oh, Phillip, I was so worried, something like this follows a kid all their lives!'
He grinned at her and held out his arms, and she ran into them happily, without the usual hesitation, and he kissed the top of her head. 'I said I'd sort it, Chris, and I have. Now get your glad rags on. I still have to talk to that little fucker, and remind him of the error of his ways before we go out.'
'We'll celebrate, eh?'
He nodded, smiling, and went upstairs to talk to his son.
Philly couldn't believe his luck; he had got a complete swerve and all because he had given his father enough ammunition to keep old man Halpern in his pocket for the rest of his days.
As his father came into his bedroom they smiled at each other in complete accord and, winking, Phillip said quietly, 'Your mum thinks you're grounded, and we have to play along with that, OK? But now we've got a few minutes I want you to tell me how much you were shifting, and how much you were making a month.'
Philly took a deep breath before saying carefully, 'Well, it depended really, Dad. You see, we mostly sold five-pound bags and, as it was home grown, it was bright green and plentiful. Laughing gear, the boys called it. Anyway, I averaged about sixty bags a month, and I was getting it for two quid a pop. The Es were a different matter, they varied on price by how good they were. But I suppose on a good month I could rake in about four hundred quid.'
'What did you do with the money you collected?'
Philly bit on his lip before replying truthfully, 'You're standing on it. That floorboard's loose, it's underneath the floor.'
Phillip watched as his son knelt down and lifted the floorboard up. The whole space underneath was packed out with money.
'How much is down there?'
'Six grand.'
Phillip could hear the pride in his son's voice and, pulling him into a gentle headlock, he held him tightly as he said laughingly, 'You are a chip off the old block, no doubt about it. But remember what I told you in the car – you could have got us all hammered for this. You never shit on your own doorstep. But this wisdom will come in time. Until then, keep your head down, your nose clean, and apply yourself to your schoolwork. OK?'
Philly nodded happily 'What about the money?'
Phillip shrugged. 'What about it? You earned it, it's yours. You wanted a trail bike, now you can get one.'
'Really? Can I really?'
'Give it a few months. You'll have to act all contrite for a while and then, when I deem it's the right time, I'll talk your mother round for you, OK? But I want good grades, and good reports, or the deal's off.'
Philly shrugged, the living image of his father, as he said cheerfully, 'Fair enough.'
Phillip left him a little while later, proud of his son's obvious business acumen, and thrilled that he had such a son to teach and develop in the years to come.
'Christine looks amazing, really great, Phil.'
Breda was genuinely happy that her sister-in-law was enjoying herself so much out on the town tonight. She worried about her at times – when she looked so down and depressed it was tragic to see her. But tonight she looked like the girl she had been years ago, before Jamsie and all that trouble.
Phillip gave her a small breakdown of the day's events, and he grinned in delight at how obviously impressed she was with Philly's little enterprise.
'The little fucker! Six grand! He's a chip off the old block, all right. I take it Christine thinks he's been punished big time?'
Phillip tapped his nose sagely. 'Well, you know my Chris, the less she knows about the real world the better.'
'Does Declan know?'
He nodded happily 'He thinks we should bring Philly into the firm when he's a bit older. I tell you, when you find out the whole story you'll fucking freak, girl.'
Breda was loving this Phillip, this was the Phillip everyone responded to. He was upbeat, charming, and she chose that moment to give him more good news. 'I got both the arcades for under four hundred grand, Phil, we signed this afternoon.'
Phillip looked at her with undisguised glee. 'Oh, Breda, you have made a happy man even happier.'
She preened at the praise, this was what she lived for. Phillip's opinion of her was more important than anything.
'I'll tell you something else, girl, you're looking good and all – almost as good as my Christine!'
Breda laughed. 'She is a looker, Phil, there's no doubt about that, mate.'
Phillip was pleased that Breda wasn't jealous of Christine's obvious charms. He watched his wife as she chatted to Declan, and saw the looks she got from the men around her. She had class did his Christine, real class. In her diamonds and expensive black dress, she looked like she'd stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. She dressed like a real lady, her high-heeled Jimmy Choos made her long legs look shapelier. He had never wanted her more than at this moment.
'We've done well, us lot, and we're just starting out really. Once I've finished we'll have the whole south coast. No one saw the potential here like I did. Look at this place, Breda, it's fucking buzzing.'
The pride in his voice was evident, and she understood how important achieving was to him. Unlike the others, she felt the same in many respects. She craved the respect money and position could guarantee. It was like Phillip said, a lot of the old-money people were wasters, they never understood the economics of how you made your fortune, all they understood was how to spend it. Like Breda, Phillip wanted his kids to understand the actual earn, so they would appreciate how hard money was to come by in the first place. It was about making your mark, your own personal mark on the world, and that was something Declan, Breda and Phillip were determined to do. Jamsie was like their father, he would take whatever fell into his lap – he had no ambition, therefore he was worthless to them all in more ways than one.
'It's a triumph, Phil. This place was dying on its feet until you took it over, and now it's the place to be seen. It's been heaving like this every night.'
Phillip nodded, he was more than happy with his new investment. Kissing his sister's cheek, he pushed through the crowded bar to his wife's side and then, taking her arm gently, he led her through to the VIP bar, stopping to say hello here and there to friends and acquaintances. All were hailing him like the new king of the turf, and that is exactly how he saw himself. This was his manor now, he owned it, and if he didn't own it, he had a stake in it.
Christine was having a great time, and that pleased him no end; seeing her happy made it all worthwhile. When she sparkled like this there was no one in the world like her. No one could touch her. This was the girl who had ensnared him all those years ago. This was his Christine at her finest.
In the relative quietness of the VIP bar, he kissed her on the lips. 'So what do you think, Chris? Like it?'
He looked around him, at the newly refurbished club, and she smiled genuinely. 'It's beautiful, Phil, really fantastic. Well done.'
She meant every word she said. For the first time in years she was seeing things from Phillip's perspective, seeing his world as it related to him. The new pills were making her old fears seem groundless somehow, and her life suddenly looked much better than she had believed it to be. Tonight she felt strong enough to venture out of her protective shell. 'Let's have a toast shall we, Phillip? To us, and a new start.'
He went behind the bar, and opened a bottle of Cristal champagne and, pouring two glasses, he handed one to her saying, 'I only keep this in for the footballers, fucking wasters the lot of them. But they give the place a certain cachet, so I can swallow them when I have to. Now, for that toast. To us, and to our boys, our sons, both of them blinding kids with great futures ahead of them, just like their parents.'
Christine looked into her husband's deep blue eyes and said sincerely, 'I'll drink to that.'
She was happier than she had been in years; she knew it was a combination of the drink, the meds, and the relief at her boy being saved from expulsion. But just for a few hours she wanted her Phillip again, to feel the love of him, and remember why she had fallen for him all those years ago. If it made him happy to see her so happy, then all the better. At the end of the day she realised that whatever he was, he put them all first. When the boys had needed him he had come through for them, and that proved to her that whatever he might be, he loved them in his own way. She had been drowning in her fear of him for so many years that she hadn't seen what was staring her in the face – the fact that he would do anything for his family. She was stuck with him no matter what, so why not make the best of it? Why not do what countless other women had done for generations – see his good points, play up his kindnesses. Appreciate what she did have; a lovely home, two fantastic sons, and a man who loved her to death. All of that had to count for something? Surely?
Tonight she felt a desperate need to be happy, just happy for a little while. And she felt there was a chance that she might finally achieve just that. God Himself knew she had prayed for this for years, it was about time He remembered she existed.
'I love you, Phil.'
Phillip felt like all his Christmases and birthdays had come at once and, kissing her deeply on the lips, he said huskily, 'You don't know just how much those words mean to me, Chris.'
But she did, she knew exactly how much they meant to him.
They were interrupted by the bar staff coming through to open up and, entwined in each other's arms, they greeted the guests who were lucky enough to get into the VIP bar and, therefore, an audience with Phillip Murphy. This was his seafront now, and everyone knew it. Christine stood beside him and accepted the praise and the respect he had worked so hard for and which, for him, was the icing on the cake. He was happier than he had ever been and, for once, it showed.
'Are you all right, Christine?'
Christine laughed, a loud, brash laugh. 'Bloody hell, Mum, what is it with you? I'm either too depressed or too happy. Can't you just enjoy being here with us and stop questioning me?'
Eileen was concerned, her daughter was not right. She hadn't been right for years, of course, but she was almost manic today, like a film on fast-forward.
Christine continued, 'I've got these new meds, and they make me feel a bit odd, but they are helping me, Mum, really helping me. So don't spoil it all by having a big court case about it in me own kitchen.'
She was talking in riddles, but Eileen thought it better not to mention that. 'All right, keep your hair on. I just worry about you, darling, you are me daughter, after all.',
Eileen was grieved as usual, it was always about her, she was a two-faced, vindictive old bag. Christine felt the urge to smack her mother right in the face. But she resisted, she knew it would cause too much trouble. It was easier to listen to her, and wait patiently until she had talked herself out and then, finally, went home. Christine resented the way Eileen always came into her house and, without saying a word, made her feel inadequate, made her feel as if she was failing everyone because she didn't have the same strength her mother had to face everyday life. She knew Eileen looked down on her, looked down on her lifestyle, even though Phillip had made sure that her parents were doing really well. They were coining it in with the four shops, as her mother remarked to anyone within earshot. Yet she knew that this woman, who professed to love her, also saw her as a failure of sorts. She felt her disapproval like a physical blow and yet as Phillip added to the house and the land, she saw the naked envy on her mother's face that her daughter had gained so much from her liaison with Phillip Murphy. She was convinced her mother had prayed for them to crash and burn.
'Do you want a glass of wine, Mum?'
'Bit early, even for you, Christine.'
'Well, as Phil always says, if I want it, I should have it. Unlike you, Mother, Phil knows how to enjoy his wife and his life.' She was laughing, she felt that she was being clever, witty even.
Eileen wondered how long before this child of hers cracked up; she was like a fart in a colander, flitting here there and everywhere and going absolutely nowhere. You could almost feel the charge coming off of her. All her movements were jerky, off-kilter, and her eyes were too bright, burning in her face like hot coals. It wasn't natural and it was frightening to see her like this.
'Should you drink on those meds, Chris?'
Christine rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. 'Will you fucking give it a rest, Mother! I like a few drinks sometimes, there's no law against it, is there? Fuck knows I'm entitled to a bit of relaxation, surely…'
Eileen swallowed down her usual waspish retort and said instead, as pleasantly as possible, 'Go on then. Just a small one, mind, I'm driving.'
She knew it wasn't worth saying any more, and she could see she was distressing the girl, so she changed the subject. 'The new club's been in all the papers, I bet Phillip is well made-up.'
Christine smiled happily. 'Oh, Mum, it's really fantastic, really upmarket. We were there the other evening. Honestly, it was the best night I've had out in years.'
Eileen could hear the pleasure in her daughter's voice, and was torn between sorrow and relief, because it was a long time since she had seen her daughter so animated. Even if she was manic, at least it was better than when she was desperately sad and almost monosyllabic. Sometimes the girl looked so sad it would break your heart and, as much as her daughter could irritate her, she was still her daughter and, in her own way, she loved her.
'I'm glad you're going out again. You're a lovely-looking girl, and you have a great lifestyle, it'll do you the world of good to get out there and have a bit of a boogie!'
Christine grinned then. 'No one says "boogie" any more, Mum!'
'I do!'
Eileen took the glass of wine and sipped it cheerfully; maybe she was worrying too much, at least the girl was chatting, trying to be a part of life. Surely that was a step in the right direction? She knew she got on her daughter's nerves; Christine always seemed to think she was criticising her and, at times, she knew she was doing just that. But she genuinely wanted to help her – it was hard seeing your child drowning in her own sorrow and not being able to do anything about it. Not know how to make them better. Sometimes Christine frightened her, especially when the depression was dragging her down, and she didn't get dressed for days on end, or just sat staring at the walls. She hoped these new tablets did the trick; Christine was too young and too beautiful to be plagued like she was.
As Christine downed her wine in record time and poured herself another large glass, Eileen made a conscious effort to bite her tongue. Everyone seemed to drink wine like water these days – half the soap operas on TV had piss-heads who practically lived in the pub, and every drama you watched had people drinking like it was going out of fashion, so maybe she worried about it too much. But, mixed with the pills the doctor prescribed, she was concerned that Christine might be doing herself or her body untold damage.
Sighing gently, she sipped at her drink and listened to her daughter as she talked excitedly about anything and everything that popped into her head, barely pausing for the frequent gulps of wine and completely unaware of how odd her behaviour seemed to those around her. Even the boys couldn't wait to leave her presence, and that alone spoke volumes. Christine was like an accident waiting to happen, and it was just a case of when it would happen, because Eileen knew her daughter couldn't carry on like this for much longer.
Ricky Thomas was sitting in his Mercedes alone, watching the sea as the tide came in. He loved the seafront and he knew he would miss being there. Now that his arcades were truly gone the enormity of what he had lost had come crashing in on him. But he was a realist, and he knew that he had to let it go, which is why he was so pleased to get this chance to meet with Phillip Murphy. If he could smooth things over then maybe he could still salvage a little piece of his old life. After all, this was the only thing he had ever known: the games, the machines, the beach. Like his father before him, he had never thought he would leave. Now his kids were without an inheritance and his life was without any structure; he hadn't understood just to what extent the seaside had been the backbone of his everyday existence. He missed it, missed it all dreadfully. The days seemed to stretch out into nothingness. He sighed sadly, turning up the heat as the autumn chill was already settling in for the winter. There was a deep, damp cold on the seafront, and it took what his father used to laughingly call hardy perennials to cope with it year in and year out. But Ricky had coped, and furthermore he had loved every second of it.
He heard Phillip crunching across the shingle beach towards his car, and opened the passenger door for him. Phillip settled himself down in the leather seat, blowing on his hands for warmth. 'It's fucking freezing out there, mate.'
Ricky laughed softly, then busied himself lighting one of his huge cigars. Phillip took out a small hip flask and took a deep gulp of brandy, before handing the flask to Ricky, who did the same. They sat in silence for a few moments watching an old fishing boat as it sailed in the distance.
'I love this place.'
Phillip coughed softly before answering him. 'I know you do, Rick. But you'll get used to your new life, it's all about how you perceive yourself. That's what my wife's shrink says anyway but, between me and you, he's fucking nuttier than her at times. A right fucking lumpfish he is – all glasses and bad breath. You could imagine him picking his nose, right dirty-looking oik.'
Ricky laughed at his description, and Phillip laughed too. 'Honestly, I love that girl but she worries me, she's not right in the head, Ricky. Do you know what she was doing at five o'clock this morning? Not sleeping like normal people, oh no, she was Hoovering the downstairs of the house. She had already polished the furniture, washed the skirting boards and scrubbed the floors, so she was Hoovering as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Woke the boys up. They think she's slowly losing her mind, and I have to agree with them this time. But the good news is, she's regained her sense of humour and her energy, so that's something, I suppose.'
Ricky didn't know what to say; in all the years he had known this man he had never once spoken out of place about his wife before, and this was talk that was not for the likes of him. This was private, family talk.
'She cut her wrists once,' Phillip continued quietly. 'I've never seen so much blood before in my life. Funny though, the doctor said it always looks more than it really is. She hadn't cut deep enough, see, to do any real damage. Scared my Philly though, he was only ten and he was the one who found her. That was the one time I could have happily topped her meself. But I love her and I always will.'
'My mum suffered with her nerves, Phil. It was my dad's fault – he was a womaniser, they used to joke that he had fucked every woman on the seafront, and their mothers.'
Phillip laughed loudly at Ricky's jocular tone. 'He was a lad, all right. Do you miss him?'
Ricky nodded in the darkness, the light from his cigar giving his face a warm glow. 'Yeah. He was an old cunt at times, but he was still me father.'
'True, Ricky. We can't choose our relatives unfortunately – look at my brother Jamsie.'
They were quiet for a few moments before Phillip broke the silence asking dangerously, 'Who are the people you said thought I had too much?'
Ricky was shocked at the sudden vehemence of the man's words; they were dripping with malice, and he suddenly understood what this meeting was really about. 'That was just talk, Phillip, stupid drunk talk…'
Phillip grinned then, and his face looked almost demonic in the dimness. 'Stupid talk, yes, but there was also more than a grain of truth in it, and you and I both know that. Now, names.'
Ricky felt his heart sink down to his boots. This was not just foolish, it was hopeless.
Phillip opened the hip flask again and, handing it to Ricky, he said menacingly, 'Get that down your Gregory Peck, might loosen your tongue.'
'Look, Phillip, I don't know what this is about, you got what you wanted, you've fucking cleared me out, and you've made sure I am persona non grata to all me old mates. I ain't got a pot to piss in, and I am having to move to Spain to start a new business and a new life. Now I am not going to sit here and gossip with you about every bit of tittle-tattle I have heard spoken over the years, all right?'
Phillip took a sip of the brandy himself before answering, 'Fair enough, that is a very fair statement. I liked the tittle-tattle bit, because that just about sums it all up really. A load of wankers tittle-tattling.' He laughed at his own words. 'So, it looks like we need to get to the main business of the night.'
Ricky felt the cold fingers of fear inside him now. 'And what's that, Phil?' he said with forced calm.
Phillip wasn't fooled by Ricky's bravado, the fear in the car was so real it was almost tangible. It had finally dawned on Ricky that this wasn't a social visit of any kind, it was a payback.
'You see, Ricky, I can't let you go to Spain. You mugged me off big time, and that is something I know I would not be able to live with. I'm a funny fucker like that, my mum says I take things too personally. In fact she thinks it's my fault my wife's stoned out of her nut on pills all the time – that's when she ain't pissed, of course. A lot of people think it's my fault apparently, is that what you thought too? Was that something else for you all to tittle-tattle about, eh, my private life?'
The truth was people had discussed it and at length. Christine had seemed very strange at times over the years, and it was noticed; it was only human nature to discuss it occasionally. Deandra had talked about it many times, and he had to admit a lot of people did, on the quiet.
'You shouldn't be talking about Christine like this to me, it's wrong, Phillip, and you know it.'
Phillip laughed as if he had heard the best joke ever. 'But who better than you to talk to about it? After all, Ricky, you'll be taking this conversation to the grave with you. It ain't like you'll be tittle-tattling to your big mates about it, is it? You'll be dead and gone, won't you?'
Ricky heard the words, and the inevitability in them; he should have known that Phillip wouldn't let him walk away. He thought of Deandra and the kids, waiting for him, not realising that he would never come home again.
'Don't do this, Phil, I'm begging you… I've got two little kids…'
Phillip shrugged. 'You should have thought of them when you made a cunt out of me. You should have thought of them when you were talking about me with your fucking hard-nut mates, laughing at me behind my back. Well, I'll see they get taken care of, no worries on that score, Ricky. I hope you're well insured though. Deandra will need all the poke she can get – it ain't cheap bringing up kids these days, I can tell you.'
For Ricky it was all over – there was nothing he could do now to change anything. He looked out at the sea, and a small part of him was glad that if he was going to die it would be here, in a place he loved, where he had experienced so much happiness. He wouldn't fight, it was pointless; there was no going back now so best to get it over with. He thought of Deandra, and was sorry he would have to leave her at the mercy of the world. He genuinely loved that girl. Tears filled his eyes, and he felt a great sorrow wash over him at what might have been had he made a few different choices in life. You couldn't win when you were up against someone like Phillip Murphy, because they didn't play by any accepted rules. All he could do now was die with dignity, and hope that it would be short and sweet.
The waves were crashing into the shore now, and they both watched, mesmerised, as the sounds gathered momentum, and the darkness swallowed up the last of the light. It was calm now in the car, and they sat side-by-side, each lost in his own thoughts. Phillip was glad that Ricky had taken it so well, and he admired him in a strange way for being so stoic about it all. He had always liked Ricky, and if the man had used his loaf he could have been on to a good earn now, and in a position to see his family grow and thrive. Pride was a terrible affliction, there was no doubt about that.
The knife was long, slim-bladed, and when it slipped between Ricky's ribs, it didn't really hurt that much. It was only when Phillip pulled it out and started to stab Ricky over and over again that the pain and the shock set in.
When he was finished, Phillip sat beside the man, and smoked a cigarette calmly, looking out at the sea, and waiting patiently for Ricky Thomas to bleed out. He was humming to himself the opening bars of 'Gangsta's Paradise', and made a mental note to get the music changed in the arcades.
He was sick to death of hearing that bloody song.
Declan was in the new arcade, making sure that the staff were all aware of the new regime. He found it best to be on-site for the first few weeks, that way you got a real working knowledge of the people you had around you.
So far, so good. In fairness to Ricky Thomas he had gathered a pretty decent team around himself, and that made their job that much easier. Because it was a cash business the potential for theft from within was astronomical, so certain measures had to be put in place. But the name Murphy was usually enough to see that honesty prevailed. Still, it helped to let the employees know you were watching them all the same.
Declan walked through to the office at the back of the hall; he liked it in there, it had a nice bar and comfortable chairs. It also had a large TV that often came in handy for the racing – he liked a bet and had a flutter every day. He also had his eye on a young blonde who was one of the floor walkers; she was pretty but, more importantly, she was intelligent. He thought she would be worth keeping an eye on for the future. She had great tits as well, and that was always a bonus as far as he was concerned. She had already given him the glad eye, so he reckoned he might be in there before too long. He wasn't after a serious relationship; he felt he was still too young, and too enamoured of a bit of strange to tie himself down. The prospect just didn't appeal to him and, in his line of work, he had an endless line of females all dying to drop their flimsy little drawers for him, so it was a pretty good deal all round. As Declan poured himself a large Scotch, Phillip came into the room, and he was surprised to see him tonight.
Phillip locked the door quickly, saying, 'Pour me one, Dec.' As he slipped off his overcoat, Declan saw he was covered in blood, and was immediately worried.
'You all right, Phil?'
Phillip laughed, pleased at his brother's concern. 'Yeah, had a bit of unfinished business with Ricky Thomas.'
He was already stripping off his clothes and placing them in a black bin bag. When he was naked he picked up his drink and swallowed it down, holding out the glass for another. Declan obliged, but he was annoyed. There was no reason to take out Ricky – they had got what they wanted, this was just petty and juvenile and he said as much. 'You had to do it, didn't you? Everyone will know it was us, Phil…'
'They'd better. This is my message to the whole fucking seafront: don't fuck with the Murphys. Especially this fucking Murphy.'
He walked through to the small bathroom and turned on the shower, then, coming back into the room, he said happily, 'Oh, by the way, I promised him I'd look out for his kids, and you know me, Dec, I am a lot of things but I always keep a promise. So we'll get a few quid together for his old woman, and make sure everyone puts in a decent wedge. She'll need it now they won't be going to Spain.'
'She'll be devastated, she loved him you know.'
'Oh, I wouldn't worry about her too much. Six weeks after the funeral she'll be sweating her arse off underneath some young ponce, who's as interested in what she's got as he is in her fake tits. Hardly Gone With the fucking Wind, is it?'
Declan laughed despite himself, he knew what Phillip said was true. But it was still a shame – he had liked Ricky Thomas, he was a nice geezer. But the damage was done, and there was no reason to keep on about it. Phillip had done what he felt he had to do, and that was that. While his brother showered, Declan tied up the bin bag ready to be burned in the incinerator at the farm.
Ten minutes later Phillip was washed, dressed and ready to go to one of the clubs for a few drinks.
It was over with, finished, done.
Christine was making the boys their breakfast. She was happy again, but she still wasn't sleeping much. In fact, she was hardly sleeping at all. She would mention it to the doctor on Wednesday when she went for her appointment. She had hardly slept for ten days now, and even she knew that it wasn't right. She was manic again, and she was afraid that meant she was due one of her brain storms, as Phillip so succinctly put it. She was too frightened to go to sleep, because when she did, she was plagued by bad dreams, about blood, and death, and suicide. She saw herself drowning in a sea of thick, hot blood, could taste it as it forced its way down her throat and into her body; the smell was heavy, cloying, and she knew it was never going to stop. She shivered at the thought as she opened the Aga and took out the boys' huge breakfasts. They had a full English every morning, it was what they needed to get them through the day. They were growing like weeds, and they were both heavy-boned and tall like their father.
As she placed the plates on the table, she listened to the news on her local radio station and, for a few seconds, she thought she had imagined what she had heard.
'Shut up, you two! I'm trying to hear.'
The boys immediately became quiet, listening with her.
'The man was found brutally stabbed to death on Southend Seafront at five o'clock this morning by two young fishermen who saw the car abandoned in the small lay-by near the sea. Mr
Richard Thomas was a well-known face in Southend, his grandfather had opened his first arcade along the front in the nineteen twenties and his son, Richard Thomas's father, had opened another one in the late fifties. Police say they are treating the death as murder, and urge any witnesses to come forward. Anything they have to say will be received in the strictest confidence. Mr Thomas leaves a wife and two young children.'
Philly and Timmy were both open-mouthed with astonishment.
'Is that Uncle Ricky? Someone murdered Uncle Ricky?' Philly's voice was drenched in incredulity and shock. Timmy was near to tears, and Christine sat down heavily in the nearest chair, her mind whirling at the news. She was already shaking with fear and, standing up quickly, she ran from the room. She was holding her hand across her mouth as if to stop herself from making any sound. A voice in her head was screaming that it wasn't true, what she was thinking couldn't be true. Phillip wouldn't do that, he had got what he wanted, so surely there was no need for him to do that… But something inside her knew that she was wrong, was convinced that Phillip was involved somehow.
As she retched over the sink in the downstairs toilet, she heard the door opening behind her. She could feel Phillip's presence even before she looked in the bathroom mirror and stared straight into his eyes.
'I just heard, Chris. Fucking hell, it's unbelievable, ain't it?'
She nodded slowly, not trusting herself to speak.
'Come on, a cup of hot sweet tea for you. You've had a terrible shock, and so have the boys. I'm going to keep them home today.'
He walked her gently back to the kitchen and, sitting her down, he poured her a cup of tea and, after he laced it liberally with Courvoisier, he did the same for the two boys. Christine gulped the liquid, and watched her husband's reaction to the news.
'You all right, Timmy?'
The boy was crying silently, and Christine knew she should comfort him, but she couldn't move from the chair.
Phillip poured her another brandy, not bothering with the tea this time, and he also went and got her a couple of her pills. She took them gratefully, uncaring of the way the boys were watching her in disgust.
Just then, Breda and Declan came through the back door. Christine had never been so grateful to see anyone in her life before.
'I take it you've heard?' Breda went straight to Christine and hugged her tenderly. 'He was such a bloody fool, he made so many bloody enemies in the last few months, and he owed money everywhere. Even Phillip bailed him out, tried to help him, but he wouldn't be helped.'
Christine was listening to her sister-in-law as if what she was saying was gospel. She couldn't believe that the man who had come to her home for dinner, whose only crime had been wanting to keep his business, had been murdered by her husband, by the father of her children. But she knew whatever anyone said it was true; deep inside she knew this was Phillip Murphy at work.
Declan was pouring tea for him and Breda, and she saw Phillip filling up her brandy glass again. It suited him to get her pissed because he knew that she suspected him.
'But why would they kill him, Auntie Breda, what reason could they have to stab him?' This was her Philly now, he was shrewder than they gave him credit for.
She saw her husband shrug, all innocence and bewilderment, and she felt the urge to get out of the chair and fell him, take her arm back and just fell him to the ground.
'Look, boys,' Phillip replied. 'Uncle Ricky had a lot of problems, and he turned on a lot of his mates. People he had known for years. That was why I took the arcades off his hands, to try and help him out. But he had got in with some right villains, and they must have had it in for him.'
Christine watched as the lies tripped off his tongue but, looking at her Philly, her first-born, she saw that he wasn't swallowing any of it. Somehow he knew, and she felt like he approved of what his father had done. Her boy was so young, he shouldn't know the ways of his father's world just yet, but then how could he be oblivious to it? The Murphys were treated like visiting royalty on the seafront. Philly must have realised that it was his name that gave him so much attention. Phillip walked around with his sons like a king visiting his subjects. The boys were given free rides, money for the machines, free drink, free food. They had to know their father was a Face of sorts, they weren't fucking stupid.
The pills were kicking in, and she could feel herself detaching slowly from the people around her. She kept seeing Deandra's face as she had left their house that night, could still feel the squeeze she had given her on her shoulder as an apology for her husband's boorish behaviour. Poor Deandra, and those two little children.
Breda was watching Christine closely, and she motioned for Phillip to get the boys out of the room. Then she knelt in front of her sister-in-law and said kindly, 'Come on, Christine, let's get you back to bed, love, this has been a big shock for all of us.'
'Breda, tell me the truth and swear on your Porrick's life, was this anything to do with Phillip?'
Breda shook her head and sighed deeply as she said, 'I swear to you, on my boy's life, that this is not anything to do with us lot.' She sounded shocked at the accusation, and suitably offended as well.
Christine grabbed at her hands and held them tightly. 'I'm sorry, Breda, but just for a split second there… I can't help it, I get these thoughts.'
'Come on, mate, let's get you to bed, eh? We've all had a terrible shock, and it takes everyone in different ways. You're not well, love, and you need to rest.'
Christine went to bed obediently, glad to be away from the family, glad to be away from her husband.
When Phillip slipped in an hour later, she pretended to be asleep and, as his lips touched her face gently, she was only just able to stop herself from screaming out loud.
Veronica was at Phillip's house, as she had been for the last five days, taking care of the boys. It was something she had done many times over the years when Christine wasn't herself, as she liked to put it. The boys loved her looking after them, and usually that bothered Christine, but right now she was glad of the woman's company. She knew she couldn't be alone with Phillip yet. She was still reeling from the events of the last few days.
The police had questioned Phillip in front of Christine, and she had known then that they too suspected his hand in all this, but they couldn't prove it. He owned most of the police around here anyway. It was how their world worked – she had cooked for them and their wives enough times over the years. Phillip had always looked after them, had joked that if you looked after the Filth, the Filth would look after you. And it seemed he was right.
Veronica placed a cup of coffee in front of her and said gently, 'Shall I make you a nice omelette, Chris, something light and tasty?'
Christine sipped at the coffee obediently, but shook her head in refusal. 'I should have kept that doctor's appointment, was he all right about me changing it?'
Veronica smiled at her.' 'Course he was. Phillip explained you had received a terrible shock, and you were taking it easy for a while, and the doctor said that was the best thing for you. He said there would be a prescription for sleeping tablets at the surgery, and Phil's going to pick them up later on, so stop worrying. Once you get a good night's rest you'll feel much better.'
Christine nodded, she was tired out. 'Any news about Ricky? Have the police found out who did it yet?'
Veronica shook her head sagely. 'Sure, they'll never find out. It's like Phillip says, whoever did it is long gone. He thinks it was someone come over from Spain – apparently Ricky had ripped off a lot of people over there with a timeshare scam. So, it looks like there could be a few culprits in the mix. What a foolish man, eh? And I always liked him. He seemed pretty genuine, like, but then you never really know anyone, I suppose.'
'Were Phillip and Declan really round your house that night, Veronica?'
'How many times, child! They were there sorting out with Breda about the clubs and the new arcades. I wouldn't lie to you about something so important, I swear to you before God and man. Now stop asking me for Christ's sakes.'
Christine didn't answer her, instead she sipped at her coffee and chain-smoked Marlboro Lights.
Veronica went about the business of the house, and wondered if Phillip realised that his own wife thought he had murdered Ricky Thomas. She could see it in her eyes, could see it in her demeanour. Had almost heard the accusation from her lips. The trouble was, she thought exactly the same thing but, unlike this girl here, she knew better than to dwell on it all. She had learned very early on that knowledge wasn't power – that was a crock of shit. Knowledge was actually added aggravation, and there were some things you were better off never knowing the truth about, for sure.
She was aware that her Phillip wasn't an angel, but she also knew he wasn't wired like other people and, because of that, she overlooked a lot where he was concerned. Blood was thicker than water, and family was all that really mattered in the end. She didn't ask questions, because she didn't want to know the answers, and if this poor young woman could only learn to live by that credo she would be a much happier person. Veronica would lie for her kids until the day she died, and she would do it happily. That was what mothers were for.
Christine would find that out for herself one day, because those two lads she had produced were their father's sons all right. They would be a big part of this family in years to come. Maybe then this silly girl would open her eyes and see the world as it really was, count her blessings, and thank God her sons were safe inside a family that loved them, and would protect them no matter what.
'Everyone knows it was Phillip, but no one is going to accuse him, are they?' Ted Booth was worried to death about his daughter and cursed the day she had captured the interest of Phillip Murphy. 'Doesn't it bother you that our daughter is tied to a murderer? Her nerves are shot, and she is like a fucking wraith, she can't weigh more than a few stone, and you don't seem bothered about it at all.'
Eileen sighed heavily, sometimes this man was like a broken record. 'All right then, I dare you, I dare you, to go round Phillip Murphy's house and bring her home. Go on! If you're that worried about her, go and get her. Go and save her from her husband.' She laughed then, a nasty vindictive laugh. 'Didn't think so. Now, this is the last time I am going to discuss this, Ted, and I mean it. She made her bed years ago when she fought us to marry him. Now she is stuck there and, like you, I hate seeing what it's doing to her, but what the fuck can we do about it? Phillip ain't the type of person you could discuss it with, is he? He won't allow us to take her away from him, he actually loves her in his own way. That's half the fucking trouble, if he would dump her she'd be halfway home. But the worse she gets, the more he seems determined to keep her beside him. Until he outs her, there is nothing we can do without bringing his wrath down on our own heads, and none of us want that, do we? Well, do we?!' She was screaming the last words now, her anger and frustration overwhelming her. 'He gives us a good living, and he gives her a good life. Until he allows her to leave him, there is nothing anyone can do. So either grow a spine and go and get her, or shut up about it.'
Ted Booth knew she spoke the truth, and that hurt him more than anything. Because he knew he would never have the guts to go and front up Phillip Murphy – the man terrified him. As he would any normal person. But Ted was scared for his daughter; he could see her drowning in her own mind and it was killing him.
Eileen felt a moment's sympathy for her husband; she understood exactly how he felt, but she also knew it was useless trying to do anything about it. She took what they were given, and she was grateful for it, and she made sure Phillip Murphy knew that.
'Look, Ted, I feel the same as you but, in reality, what can we do? He ain't a person you can cross. This latest should remind you of exactly what we are dealing with here. So just let it go, eh?'
He nodded sadly.
'Like my old mum always said, Ted, be careful what you ask for, because you just might get it. We fought Christine every step of the way with him, and she married him regardless. Now there's no more we can do for her. I wish it was different, but it ain't. He loves the bones of that girl, and she's got his kids, and she's got his name. What we want doesn't matter any more. She's tied to him until one of them dies, because he won't ever let her go without a fight.'
Teddy knew the truth of his wife's words, and hoped God might be good to them and see that maniac Murphy murdered sooner rather than later. It was his constant prayer, and he begged that it would be answered one day.
'Are you sure you can do this, Chris?'
Christine nodded silently, aware that they were all amazed to see her up and dressed, ready for the funeral. Breda went to her sister-in-law and put her arm around her shoulder. 'You look lovely, Christine. Deandra will appreciate you paying your respects.'
Phillip and Declan exchanged glances, and Breda nodded her head almost imperceptibly to let them know she would babysit her sister-in-law.
When the boys walked into the kitchen sad-faced and dressed in their black suits Christine felt her eyes fill with tears. 'Are you sure they should go today, Phil?'
Phillip nodded and said firmly, 'Ricky was a part of their lives, and now they are growing up they need to learn to respect people who have passed away. He thought the world of our lads, and it's fitting they should be there to see him sent on his last journey.'
He sounded so reasonable, so normal. Christine couldn't find an argument against it.
'You all right, Mum?'
This from Timmy, he was the most kind-hearted of her boys. Philly she knew resented her because she wasn't what he termed 'normal', like his friends' mothers. She had heard him telling Timmy he was ashamed of her, and that people at school said mental illness ran in families. His words had cut her to the quick, but she didn't let on she knew what he thought about her. She hoped that one day her sons would understand why she acted as she did.
Timmy came over and gave her a little hug, which touched her. Phillip had to force his elder son to do the same, and that hurt her more than he would ever know. Every day Philly was growing closer to his father, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it. Both the boys adored him, and with her being like she was, she knew they both depended on him far too much. It was a vicious circle, and she couldn't tell where it started, let alone where it would all finish.
Deandra was in bits. The funeral had been huge, with people coming from all over the country and even Europe to pay their respects. The funeral car had driven slowly along the seafront at Southend, and the traders had lined the streets, hats in their hands, suited and booted, as they saw off one of their own. It had been very emotional and fitting. Every Face imaginable had turned up for Ricky; the newspapers were loving it, as were the film crews. It was a big event, and even the Mayor had turned out in full regalia to say goodbye to a man who had been well liked, and whose bloody murder had sent shock waves through the tightknit community.
Christine watched as Phillip was feted by everyone. Even Bantry waited in line like a schoolboy to see the man he had given his first job. He had shaken his hand and told him all he wanted to hear, because that was the only way to show the proper respect Phillip Murphy demanded. She watched Breda too as she stood beside her brothers, and accepted all the handshakes as her right.
The funeral proved to Christine just how far her husband had come. He had escorted Deandra into the church and passed her over to Ricky's older daughters, all nice-looking girls, all feeling the loss of their father acutely. They knew that the man who had killed their father was talking to them and condoling them, and they were unable to do anything about it. She watched her two sons being chaffed by all; they were enjoying themselves even though they were at a funeral. Christine knew then that she had lost them, and she wondered at how much pain a person could take before they just lay down and died from it. She saw her mother and father, standing with Veronica and Phillip Senior. She knew her mother was probably loving every minute of it, and that her father was only there for appearances' sake. Phillip would want him there, would want them to look united as a family. She saw all the people who worked for the Murphys, all in black looking suitably sad. She knew that her husband employed literally hundreds of people now, and that they depended on him for their mortgages, their car payments, the bread they ate, and the lives they lived. He was bigger than he had ever dreamed, and he was more or less untouchable now. She saw it all, and she accepted it all. Phillip had won, as she had always known he would, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Back at the house, she talked to people, said all the right things, until eventually she had a chance to catch Deandra alone. She was repairing her make-up in the big bedroom she had shared with her husband and, slipping inside, Christine shut the door behind her. Deandra was watching her warily in the dressing-table mirror; she was already well pissed, and she had also been given a couple of lines of coke by a well-meaning friend.
'I'm so sorry, Deandra, I can't imagine what you must be going through, love.'
Deandra didn't answer her. She was remembering the night of the dinner party; that had been the beginning of the end for her and Ricky, though she had not known that then, of course. But she had put it all together soon enough. What Ricky had told her had given her a good idea of what had occurred. As she looked at Christine Murphy she felt the hate and the anger spiralling up inside her, and the drink and the coke made it all the more raw. 'You're sorry, are you, Christine?'
Christine nodded, knowing what was coming, welcoming it almost.
'You know who killed my Ricky as well as I do, and you know why. Because he wouldn't sell him his arcades. My kids are fatherless because your old man wanted to expand his empire. How you've got the front to come in here… it's bad enough having to swallow that cunt pretending he's doing me a favour, but you, Christine, I thought you were a bit better than that.'
Christine shook her head as if clearing it and, taking a deep breath, she said honestly, 'I am sorry, Deandra, genuinely sorry. Whatever you might think.'
Turning, she left the room, walked down the stairs and out of the house. Getting into Breda's car, she said to a surprised Jamsie, 'Take me home.'
'Does Phillip know-'
Closing her eyes she bellowed, 'Just fucking take me home! Believe me, he'll thank you for it, because if I go back in there I'll cause a fucking war!'
Phillip looked around him at the carnage and wondered how she had managed it considering how little she weighed. The whole place was wrecked; Christine had systematically gone through the house and destroyed everything with a hammer. As Phillip stood in the kitchen he felt the cold anger boiling up inside him, and he swallowed it down. His mother had taken the boys home; he had insisted on coming back by himself to see what had occurred. Jamsie had come up trumps anyway; he had called him and the ambulance, so at least she had not had too long to harm herself. She was now heavily sedated in a private mental hospital. The doctors were talking about electric-shock treatment this time. He would gladly plug her head into the national grid himself if it sorted her out once and for all.
He turned as he heard the back door open and, seeing Old Sammy standing there in his pyjamas and dressing gown holding a bottle of Scotch, he felt a moment's gratitude that this old man had waited for him to come home.
'I thought you might need a stiff drink, son.'
Phillip nodded sadly and welcomed him into what remained of the kitchen.
'She certainly had a good go anyway, I could hear her screaming from my cottage.'
Phillip found two mugs that had escaped Christine's wrath, and poured two large whiskies. Sitting at the kitchen table they toasted each other in silence.
'What was she saying?'
'Just swearing really, screaming obscenities and smashing anything that came in her path. Swearing and talking rubbish.'
Phillip knew Sammy was trying to warn him, and he appreciated that more than he could ever express.
'I told the ambulance people she was delusional, but they said they knew that. I stayed with them until they gave her a shot, like, until she went to sleep.'
Phillip digested the information. 'She has a lot of problems, Sammy.'
The old boy nodded in agreement. 'My mother was the same, mad as a March hare most of the time – went to my school once in her nightdress, I hated her for that. But me father always said, women ain't got the mental ability of the male. He was right.'
Phillip watched as the old man sipped at his whisky and tried in his own way to comfort him. It was strange, but he did feel better for him being there. Sammy had a quiet way with him that made the people and animals around him feel calmer just by his presence.
'Jamsie said you came in and talked her down. Thanks for that.'
The old man shrugged. 'It wasn't hard, she was spent by then. I just said that maybe she had better quieten down because she was frightening the pigs!'
Phillip laughed ruefully.
'She's a very sad girl, Phillip. The madness takes them like that sometimes. Had a horse once, well bred, high spirited, but she had the madness in her. All you can do is leave her in the hands of the professionals. They know what they are doing, see. She'll come out of that place better than ever, you mark my words. I think that funeral was a bit too much for her, it's been on the news and everything.'
'I hope so, Sammy. I love that woman, she's my world.'
'Do you know what, Phillip? She just needs to find out how to cope with life in general. She's not the first to be afflicted by it, and I daresay she won't be the last. Now then, I have a bit of good news for you: the boar did his job, and the sows are all in farrow. So that'll keep us occupied for a while, eh?'
Phillip smiled gently, pleased at the news despite everything.
'He got stuck in there, I said he was a good 'un, didn't I? Knew his way around a sow that one did, God bless him.'
'Thanks, Sammy, I appreciate you doing all this.'
Sammy shook his head in denial. 'Listen to me, son, you've been better than my own boys to me, and I would do anything to help you out, in any way I could. You remember that.'
Phillip understood what he was saying and he also was under no illusions that the old boy knew far more about what went on in this house than he let on. Tonight was a real eye-opener, that was for sure.
As Phillip lay in bed a few hours later he wondered what he was going to do about his Christine. Because there was one thing he knew now for sure: this couldn't go on. It was all getting a bit too dangerous now, for all of them, himself included.