My strength is made perfect in weakness
II Corinthians, 12:9
Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it
Proverbs, 22:6
2009
'Are you sure, Timmy?'
Timmy nodded sagely. 'Fucking telling you, Dad, he's on a real love job.'
Phillip grinned. As always, he was amazed at how his younger son had developed. In the last five years both the boys had come on leaps and bounds, but this fellow here was already becoming a legend. His temper was extraordinary, even Phillip was shocked at his son's actions at times, and that took some doing. He could well imagine how outsiders must feel. Timmy was fair and honest just so long as you didn't upset him.
Philly was doing well too; he had a good rep, but he wasn't a hard taskmaster like his younger sibling. He was no mug though he was still worth ten men on the ground.
'What's she like?'
Timmy laughed. 'What do you think? All tits, teeth and designer handbags. Looks like a WAG.'
Phillip knew exactly what he meant. Philly's taste in women was appalling – they were all brainless nowts. But then, as Philly always said, he wasn't exactly after riveting conversation.
'You'll meet her tonight anyway, Dad, she's coming to the club.'
'I think I had better be there then, don't you?'
At that moment Christine walked into the kitchen and, smiling at her, Phillip said, 'Fancy coming to the club with us tonight? Philly's bringing his bird. According to Timmy, he's on a love job.'
Christine laughed in delight, and both her husband and son noticed how young and pretty she looked. 'Oh yeah, count me in!'
Phillip was thrilled, he loved it when she was upbeat like this. She didn't drink too much these days, except for the occasional bender, and they were fucking outrageous. She still depended on her prescription meds though. But she was happier, and that was the main thing. She reminded Phillip at times of himself, she pretended she was happy, she played a role and, like him, she had found it made life easier not just for her, but for everyone around her. He pulled her on to his lap and kissed her thick, luscious hair. She smelled good these days – the stale breath was gone, though the vacant stare still lingered at times. But it was all a matter of how you perceived things, and he always looked for the best where this woman was concerned. He loved her, and it seemed that these days, she actually loved him back.
'Fancy our Philly on a love job!' He was laughing with his wife, and that in itself was still a minor miracle. 'What's her name?'
'Finoula McCormack.'
Phillip was astounded. 'No relation to Mad Jack McCormack, I hope?'
Timmy laughed excitedly. 'Yep, his youngest daughter, and she is a stunner. I can't take that away from her.'
'Fucking hell, he can pick them can our Philly. I remember seeing Jack fight – always worth a bet, him, he was the nuts in his day. Him and Roy Shaw were the best. Fucking unbelievable strength those old boys had. You throw Jack or Roy in their heydays into a cage now and this new breed of fighters would run a fucking mile.'
Timmy nodded his agreement; he had met a lot of the bareknuckle fighters with his dad. It was an exciting sport, but if he was honest he was a cage-fighting boy at heart. It was all to do with age, he supposed. Not that he would point that out to his father – he was far too polite.
'Finoula's a good Irish name, that'll please your mother anyway. She'll be a good Catholic girl!' Christine joined in.
'Fucking hell, never thought of that! They don't come more Irish than Mad Jack. Like the old man's family, Cork men. Hard bastards and all.'
Timmy was laughing again, a deep, friendly chuckle that belied the dangerous man he was becoming. 'I don't know about good. She's been around the track more times than a fucking lurcher.'
Christine sat up straight and said primly, 'That's enough of that kind of talk, thank you very much. After all, if a man has a few girls he's just called a lad. There's such a thing as equal rights, you know.'
Phillip was irritated by that. 'Not where women are concerned there ain't. A bird who puts it about is still classed as a rogue, and should be treated with the utmost suspicion, especially if she wants to get into my family.'
Christine didn't even bother answering, sometimes his double standards were so outrageous she could scream. So, as always when faced with this kind of conversation, she tactfully changed the subject. It made life easier for everyone. 'How about you, Timmy, you bringing anyone tonight'
He shrugged. 'I might, Mum, but don't marry me off just yet, I'm only twenty-two.'
She smiled at this handsome son of hers. 'Well, if we're all going out on the town, I'd better get me hair done.'
She jumped up and bustled from the room. When she was out of his sight, Phillip felt a familiar moment's panic. He couldn't imagine a world without her in it, she made his life what it was. Perfect.
Finoula McCormack was beautiful and, boy, did she know it.
She had long, naturally blond hair and deeply blue eyes, her bone structure was like a young Marilyn Monroe's, and she had the high-breasted slim figure that was peculiar to the women of Cork. Cork women were either amazons, or tiny little birds of women – there was never a happy medium. She had her mother's looks, and her mother's height. She also had her father's feisty disposition. It was a wonderful combination. She was funny, enigmatic, and not as thick as she looked; in fact, she had a quick, agile mind and she was after a decent bloke with a decent earn who could give her a bit more than the average Joe. She was determined not to end up in a bought council house fighting to raise her kids; she was going to make something of her life, and her future kids' lives. She knew her worth; her looks wouldn't last for ever, so she was determined to get what she wanted sooner rather than later. She also wanted someone she loved, not just for what they could give her.
Philly Murphy was all these things rolled into one man, and she cared about him deeply; she wanted his wedding ring and his kids, in that order. She wanted the big church wedding, and the house with the electric gates and a swimming pool. They shared the same dreams, and that was one of the reasons they got on so well. He was even letting her finally meet his family. She already knew of them of course, everyone did, and her mum and his nan were great mates, she saw her sometimes at church. But she came from pretty good stock in that way herself. Mad Jack wasn't exactly a mug, and she knew he was very well thought of by Philly's dad; he had come enough times to see her father fight over the years. They were mates, so she had the appropriate in should she need it.
She was excited about tonight, it was the first time Philly had taken her to one of their clubs. They normally went out to other places, neutral places in Romford or up town to the West End. She wanted to look her best, and show Philly that she was someone he could be proud of and, more importantly, that she was someone who could fit in with his family.
'You sure you're all right, Mum?'
Veronica nodded, but she wasn't, she felt terrible.
'Listen, let me get the quack out.' Breda wasn't buying her mother's lies.
Veronica was already holding her hand palm up. 'No! Now stop keeping on about it. I'm under the weather that's all.' But she knew it was more than that, she just wasn't interested in what it might be. Veronica never went to the doctor, ever. They never told you anything you wanted to hear, it was all doom and gloom. Christ knew she was happy enough in ignorance.
'He'll find out what's wrong with you, and once he knows that he can treat you accordingly,' Breda persisted.
Veronica could hear the worry in her daughter's voice, and smiling now, secretly pleased at her daughter's concern, she said, 'Would you feck off, and leave me be. I'm not a spring chicken any more. Jesus, I won't be seeing sixty again, I'm just getting older, slowing down. You'll be the same one day and I hope that Porrick isn't scalding the heart out of you with constant questions.'
Breda sighed heavily. It was worrying seeing Veronica so thin and weak looking. She still cooked for them all, but it wiped her out these days. Breda had arranged for a cleaner to come in three times a week now the heavy work was getting too much for Veronica. There had been absolute murders when she had first arrived, but now her mother was thrilled with her. She was a lovely Polish girl, very willing, and very polite; she was also a good Catholic and she attended the same church as them, so that was really the deciding factor. But she also kept the place immaculate and, where her mother was concerned, that was the second most important thing. Breda knew her father was glad to get out of the house these days, it was as if the weaker Veronica got, the more frightened he became. He refused to discuss his wife's condition, and Breda knew the next step was to get Phillip involved. Once he arranged a doctor's appointment there would be no further arguments, she would have to go, there would be no getting out of it. Breda decided she'd talk to Phillip tonight at the club, then she could relax and stop worrying. It was weird really – Breda gravitated from wanting to punch her mother's lights out, to wanting to hug her on a daily, almost hourly, basis. Deep down, Breda loved her mother even though she accepted that her affections were wholly reserved for Phillip.
'Here, apparently Philly's bringing his bird tonight – we're going to meet her. She's Jack McCormack's youngest daughter and it's a love job by all accounts.'
Veronica was pleased, it was about time those boys settled down. 'What, Mad Jack's girl Finoula?'
Breda nodded. She didn't realise her mother had met her, but then her mother knew everyone who had some kind of Irish heritage.
'Oh, Jasus, she's a lovely girl – beautiful. I've met her a few times with her mother at seven o'clock Mass. She goes every morning with Mary Mac. Done very well at school, I believe. She did a business something or other – I can't remember what, but she runs her father's bookies, and runs them well, I'm told.'
Breda was amazed. She had found out more about Finoula in two minutes with her mother than she would from young Philly if she interrogated him for six months. 'I forgot you and Mary Mac were mates, how is she?'
'Very well, God bless her and keep her. The old breathing is bad, like, but she loved a fag that one. Always had one sticking out the side of her gob! Even when she was cooking!' Veronica laughed in delight at the old memory. She was glad Philly was seeing someone like them, someone who understood their world. Timmy's tastes were for the more refined, but sexually accessible females. In short, he never kept them longer than a few weeks, if that. 'Posh totty' was how Phillip described his younger son's girlfriends, and she knew it was a derogatory term, though she didn't really know what it meant. But like young Philly and his father, one day he would meet 'the one', and then he'd change his tune like they all did.
Except her Declan, of course – in his forties now and still without a partner, as they insisted on calling them these days. Mind you, the same could be said for Breda, but sure, Breda was more man than the men she came across in her work. Though her conquests weren't so young these days – well, not as young as they used to be anyway. Veronica chuckled to herself. Her daughter had the sexual appetite of a Titan, she got that from her – not that she would ever tell her that, of course, but back in the day!
Jamsie had four stepchildren, and now two of his own, so he'd ended up with six. She was pleased for him though – he had a good girl there, a damn fine girl. And Porrick, him and his little thing were married now, and she knew a child wouldn't be long in the offing with them two. Porrick never said a shagging word, yet him and his girl were always whispering and smiling. Sometimes it got on her nerves, but she kept that to herself. Porrick was her grandson and she loved him, but he was a fecking eejit to try to talk to for any length of time. Would aggravate a saint as her mother used to say.
Veronica had been thinking about her life a lot lately since this illness had assailed her. She was sure it was serious and all she wanted was to spend what time she had left with her family, however long or short that might be. Especially her Phillip, her boy, her heart.
As Breda left: the house, she pulled her mother into her arms, and she could feel the frailty of her body. Kissing her hard on the cheek, she said quietly, 'We need you, Mum, all of us, so please go to the fucking doctors, will you?'
Veronica realised she must look much worse than she thought if Breda was so worried. The knowledge depressed her. She wanted another few years, see them all settled properly, and she would go happily to her maker. After all, that was what happened to everyone, wasn't it?
'Get yourself away, child, and tell me about Finoula and Philly tomorrow. I'll be beside meself until I know what happened.'
Breda left her mother, but she was anxious, and she knew that she had to tell Phillip to get her sorted out. Christine would make sure the doctor was good, and she would go with her to see him. Christine was great like that, she was dependable when it was something important. She did the jobs no one else really wanted to do, and for that Breda would be eternally grateful. The last thing she wanted was to be dragging her mother to the doctor against her will; as her father always said, her mother could make the top of the morning sound like a declaration of war. No, it would be much better if Christine took her.
Declan was tired. He had just reached Southend Seafront, and now he was sitting like a lemon in the traffic – he should have left his place earlier. With the top down on his BMW convertible he could smell the salt, and the even heavier smell of the doughnut stands which was making him hungry. He had to stop eating – he was getting like a fucking elephant – but it was living alone, he didn't eat properly, but knowing that still didn't make him stop.
As he sat there in the sunshine, watching the girls go by in their skimpy summer clothes, he wondered how the night would be in the club. There had been a lot of trouble in the main nightclub. They had revamped it a year earlier, renamed it Legends and, for some reason, the last few months there had been nothing but fucking trouble in there. Not just fighting – that he could cope with. It was a nightclub in Essex after all and that was part of the Essex experience – a great night out involved a good drink and a good fight, it was almost mandatory really. No, it was the drugs, and the atmosphere they brought with them. There were new dealers coming in all the time. People they didn't know, had never heard of. Like most sensible club owners they used their own people. The franchise would be given to someone who would then deal discreetly and lucratively and they would also take the flak should the Filth decide to raid them. Not a problem in their clubs admittedly due to Phillip's connections, but every now and then there was a fake raid to make things look good. People paid a fair wedge to deal in peace, and so someone muscling in was bound to cause trouble. Which it had. The only thing was they were from out of the county, and all of them were apparently working for a ghost. The man they said had approached them was long dead. A very long time dead. He should know, his brother had killed him. It was Billy Bantry.
There was definitely serious skulduggery afoot, Declan would lay money on it. But until they could pin down who had actually given out the franchises, they were no better off. Every description was different, so that meant there was more than one person at work here. It was vexing, because they really didn't need any aggro at the moment; things were going so well, it would be a shame to have to go to war. But a war it would be. Phillip was livid, and taking it all as a personal insult. It would never occur to him that a lot of people thought that the Murphys had a bit too much for their own good and that a bit more of their largesse should be spread about locally. Well, Phillip wouldn't swallow that and, if Declan was honest, neither would he. They were businessmen, not fucking probation officers; there was no law that said they had to make sure strangers were doing all right. It was laughable really. At the end of the day, what did people expect from them? Fucking charity by the sounds of it.
Oh, Declan was annoyed and he was asking round anyone and everyone he could. Trouble was, no one seemed to be off- kilter to them and everyone had a viable excuse for their behaviour. Which left only one thing for definite. Some fucker somewhere actually thought that they could get away with something this fucking outrageous. It was insulting more than anything, and Phillip was losing patience by the hour, hence their constant presence in the nightclub.
Whoever this was would trip up sooner or later, and when they did, he and Phillip would be ready for them.
'This place looks fantastic, Philly, really upmarket.'
Finoula was impressed and Philly was revelling in her adoration. He knew this was a decent venue, and something to be proud of. Philly saw himself as a bit of a catch, and he was glad he had won this girl beside him. She was a blinder in every way. A good laugh, fabulous body, a good brain in her head, and a fantastic fuck – what more could a man want from life? He was going to marry her, and he was not going to wait about either. Like her, he wanted kids, and he wanted stability. What he didn't want was someone like his mother, but there was little chance of that: Finoula didn't drink, had never even tried cocaine, and she didn't feel she had lost out because of it. She could sip water all night and still have a blinding time. She was the girl for him all right.
'Come through to the VIP bar, babe.'
He walked her carefully through the crowded club and, seeing the way he was treated by the punters and the staff alike, she felt so proud to be with him as his girl. This was the life for her, this was what she wanted: the respect and the kudos having the name Murphy would bring her. She was already a McCormack and that had given her a small taste of what a name could do for you in life.
As Philly grabbed her hand and walked her into the VIP bar, she felt the excitement welling up inside her. She could see the envious glances from the other girls there, could almost feel their jealousy, and their surprise at Philly Murphy acting like a love-sick teenager, because that was just how he acted around her. It was part of his charm for her, as though he was lucky to have her. He had told her he loved her, and she knew it was true. Life was just getting better and better.
Phillip watched the room through the two-way mirror behind the bar area. All the bars had them; it was the only way to stop thieving and people giving the drinks away for free. Though, in fairness, their staff were loyal and honest enough. It was the agency fuckers you had to watch out for. They were only there for one night and they went all out to make sure it was a good earner for them. That is until they were caught, of course – then they realised they had skanked off the wrong person. He was watching the VIP bar, eager to see this little bird of Philly's and, when they walked in, he had to admit she was a looker. She could have stepped out of the pages of a magazine, but then that wasn't too hard in Essex. All the girls were lookers. It was almost a genetic thing – they knew what was in fashion, what wasn't and where to get whatever they wanted. Even through the mirrors, Phillip could see she was special though, and watching his son's beaming face as he escorted her to the bar, it was clear that she was going to be a part of their lives from now on. She was from good stock, and it seemed like she could handle herself; if she ran the bookies as well as he had heard, she would be an asset to them. She had a business degree by all accounts, so she wasn't the usual tits and teeth – she had a bit of nous as well. His Philly had done well by the looks of it.
Christine watched as her husband spied on his son and his new girlfriend, because that was exactly what he was doing, spying on them, and it annoyed her.
'Come on, Phillip, let's get out there and say hello. She looks like a nice girl.'
'I just wanted a sneak preview. If she was a Hammer Horror I was going to fuck off home to avoid them!'
Christine laughed despite herself, Phillip could be amusing when the fancy took him. Through the mirror she saw Breda walking towards Philly and his girl all smiles and camaraderie, and she felt a rush of affection for her sister-in-law. She might get on Breda's nerves at times, but she knew Breda felt a lot of guilt over what had happened all those years ago, and genuinely cared about Christine. Breda just wanted everyone to be happy, everyone in her family anyway. As Christine watched her with her elder son it occurred to her that Breda was probably closer to him these days than she was, and she was amazed to find that the realisation didn't bother her as it would have once. She had learned to live with a lot of things over the years, and she had also accepted that it wasn't what happened to you, it was how you dealt with it. And she dealt with things as and when they happened now, she didn't let herself get in a state over things she had no control over. It wasn't an ideal life, but it was the best it had been in years, and all because she made a point of not letting herself think too much. That had always been her trouble.
'She's very pretty, Phillip,' she commented to her husband.
He nodded, but she knew that the girl's looks wouldn't affect him – if she was seventy-five, he would still want her rather than anyone else in the world. She told herself that it was a compliment, most fathers would have been drooling over this little girl and her tight young body. She decided the girl had a lovely smile, and that she liked the way she looked at her son, as if she had been given a lovely present, and was thankful for it.
The gunshot, when it came, was deafening, even though they were inside the offices away from the club itself. As her son sank to the floor, and young Finoula started screaming, Christine realised that it was her Philly who had been the target, her baby had been shot, and blood was seeping through his lovely suit and on to the carpet she had chosen so carefully.
She could hear someone screaming, screaming louder than everyone else, and it was a few seconds before she realised that the terrible noise was coming from her.
'He's still in the operating theatre. This is fucking madness.' Phillip's voice was loud in the small room, loud and aggressive sounding. 'Who would dare? Who would fucking dare!' He kicked the wall in outrage, and the thud was audible to them all.
Declan didn't answer him; he was thinking exactly the same thing, so it was pointless repeating it. If the lad died, he knew there would literally be murders, though the way Phillip was acting now, he wouldn't put it past him to take out the poor surgeon if he didn't tell him what he wanted to hear.
'Will you calm down, Dad! For fuck's sake, this ain't helping anyone, is it?' Only Timmy could have got away with that, and even Breda was impressed that the boy was saying what they all wanted to but daren't. Even more astounding was the way Phillip swallowed it – anyone else would have been dismantled in seconds. 'Whoever is behind this is a fucking dead man, Dad, that's a given. Let's just concentrate on getting him better first. How's me mum? Has anyone been down to see her?'
'She's all right, Timmy, I sat with her until the sedative worked,' Breda said from her place beside Finoula, who looked bedraggled and covered in blood. Finoula had held Philly in her arms until the ambulance had arrived, and travelled with him all the way to the hospital. She had been outstanding, and they knew she would be accepted by every one of them for this night's performance. If Philly survived he would be a lucky man to get this girl full-time, and they would tell him that as well. Phillip, especially, was impressed with her; he knew she had been terrified, yet she had lain over Philly, as if protecting him from further harm. The girl loved his son, of that there would never be any doubt.
The door opened and they looked expectantly towards it. When Mad Jack walked in, Finoula ran to him and, bursting into tears, she sobbed brokenly, 'Someone shot Philly, Dad! Some bastard shot my Philly.'
As he held his daughter to him, Mad Jack looked at Phillip and shook his head sadly. It said a lot for him that he didn't question what had occurred, or make a scene about his daughter's condition and the danger she had been in. Like everyone in the room, he saw this as an occupational hazard. And, like them, he would move heaven and earth to find the culprit. This was personal now – whoever had done the dirty deed had risked his daughter's life in the process.
'Fucking terrible business, Phillip. Any idea who it was?'
Phillip shook his head. 'Nah, but there's a hundred grand reward for any information, so I don't think it'll be too long before we have a fucking name.'
Mad Jack inclined his head in agreement. 'Fucking filth they are. We'll find them, Phillip, don't you worry about that.'
Phillip nodded, and felt the anger spiralling through him once more. 'How dare they! How dare they shoot my boy! I'll fucking torture and maim the cunts responsible, I'll take a fucking oath on that.'
Mad Jack didn't even react to the venom in his words, none of them did. At the end of the day, Phillip was only saying out loud what they were all thinking. Whoever was behind this night's work would pay, and pay dearly.
Veronica was heartbroken, and she knew that if her grandson died she would not be long following him. She still couldn't believe it had happened, that her lovely boy Philly had been shot. Shot in a crowded nightclub, and no one had apparently seen a thing. The shooter had been in and out in no time. In the pandemonium a gunshot always causes, he had dropped the gun on the floor and just disappeared amongst the people fighting to leave the building. There was nothing, not even a decent CCTV picture. It was unbelievable. Who the hell would dare to do something like that to her family? That was what she wanted to find out, and she was placated only by the knowledge that her Phillip was doing everything possible to find out who the culprit might be. Between him and Timmy, Declan and Breda, they had to find out sooner rather than later. Of that, she was convinced.
As she looked at Finoula, still bloodied and bedraggled and sitting a vigil at Philly's bed, she felt the tears once more sting her eyes. The girl had been there beside him for two days, and she hadn't even gone home to change her clothes or have a bath. Her mother had brought her in a pair of jeans and a shirt, but she hadn't opened the bag containing them. She had been there since he had come up from theatre and been placed in the ICU. Her hair was like a rat's nest and her make-up was smeared all over her face. As Phillip remarked, no one could accuse her of being vain – she looked dog rough. But then her Phillip was always brutally honest about most things. Still, Veronica knew he thought the girl was a diamond. She understood that Finoula was frightened that if she left Philly, even for an hour, he would die. This little girl wouldn't go anywhere until she knew that he was going to be OK. They were all very impressed with her. She was loyal and decent and, most importantly, she hadn't been fazed by the events like a civilian would have been. Her father had been shot before, as had one of her uncles. She knew the pitfalls that came with being part of a family like theirs.
She saw the worried eyes of Ted and Eileen Booth and, for once, she didn't have the guts to return their stares. They had gravitated between their daughter, still flat out in a side room, unable to cope with her son's injuries, and their grandson, who was not out of danger yet, not by a long chalk.
She felt the pain inside her belly again; whatever was wrong with her was getting worse. But all she could do was ignore it, and do what she did best: support her family. When this was over she would worry about her own troubles and, until then, she would do what she always did when in doubt, she said the rosary over and over like a mantra. Though even she had to admit, the hypocrisy of her life wasn't lost on her these days.
'Has he fallen out with anyone that you know about?' Phillip was questioning his younger son.
Timmy shook his head.
'An argument with someone? I mean, you know Philly – he can be an awkward cunt. Maybe he mouthed someone off, and they took umbrage?'
Timmy was still shaking his head, he was getting frustrated now with the barrage of questions. 'Look, Dad, do you think I'm fucking stupid or something? I've even asked about in case it's an ex of Finoula's, but there's nothing, Dad, nothing at all.'
His tone was insolent and Phillip looked at this son of his and imagined the boy's reaction if he battered the fuck out of him. Because he might just do that before long.
Declan watched the two men, and he knew that one day there was going to be a battle for supremacy and, if he was honest, he wouldn't write either of them off as the loser. They were both too aggressive for their own good. Whereas Phillip was not averse to letting his feelings known to all and sundry, Timmy was usually good at keeping them under control. But his brother's shooting had shocked them all. It was outrageous.
'I think this has something to do with the clubs and the drug boys, Phillip. We keep hearing Bantry's name and, let's face it, either someone's got a fucking strange sense of humour, or they are trying to send us a message of sorts.'
Phillip nodded, he had been thinking along similar lines himself. But as he had taken out everyone who had anything to do with Bantry, he couldn't see what could be gained from all this. He knew there were still people who believed he had done away with Billy, and that included the Old Bill, but they could think what they wanted. It was proving it that would be the hard part. He had been accused of all sorts over the years, and he had laughed it off. Some things he was responsible for, and others he wasn't. He never said a word either way; he knew there was mileage in letting people think he was the culprit. It gave him a status, and that was what they relied on in their line of work.
But this was scandalous and, standing up, he said quickly, 'Right, round up Breda, all the doormen, and every hard fuck we own. We're going on a manhunt. We're going to visit every cunt in the vicinity, and see what they have to say.'
Timmy smiled at his father's words.
Declan felt uneasy. 'We don't want to be falling out with people just yet, Phillip, we might need them down the line.' He was, as always, the voice of reason, but he knew neither Phillip nor Timmy would listen to him.
'Just get everyone assembled at the farm, and tell Breda to get those black boys on the case. They must have supplied the gun to someone, the Filth have already shown it to me. I'll get Benning to remove it from his evidence locker and we'll see what the fuck they have to say about it.'
Declan sighed inwardly. There was something not right here, because a hundred grand large should have brought every fucking grass out of the woodwork, but they had not even had a nibble, let alone a bite. This felt wrong, it felt very wrong. There was no one big enough to take them on, no one. As Timmy pointed out, there were a lot of new little Faces coming up.
They all thought they were fucking cowboys, but even they would have to be fucking stupid to have a go. There was one family you kept away from – the Murphys.
Breda was in the big barn with Jamal McBride, a huge Rasta with Scottish-Jamaican ancestry. She had dealt with him a lot over the last few years, and found him astute, despite being stoned most of the time, and intrinsically honest. He never promised what he couldn't deliver, and he had never let them down.
Most guns came out of South London, then were dispersed all over the Smoke, so it was strange that Jamal professed to know nothing about the one used on Philly. Still, once he saw the weapon in question, it might jog his memory. She could only hope, because Phillip and Timmy were both getting angrier and more vindictive by the hour.
'I assume these are the legendary ovens that I hear about whenever the name Murphy comes into a conversation?'
Breda laughed at his tone. She knew that if a dog went missing the joke was that Phillip Murphy had incinerated it. The farm was often referred to as Auschwitz by some of the braver, often drunken, locals, though if Phillip knew that there would be fucking murders. He hated the Germans almost as much as he did the French, the Welsh and the Italians. It was an open secret, the big barn, but there was nothing here that could ever incriminate them. The ovens were cleaned almost daily, and any debris was well hidden from the public gaze. Phillip had a crime- scene bloke on the payroll who was quite happy to ensure there was nothing left that could be used against anyone. It was about keeping up with current procedures – if you did that you were safe. Phillip had an analytical mind, he never left anything to chance. This place was probably too clean, in fact, but that was how things were, and how they would always be.
Phillip and Timmy came through the doors and Breda was reminded just how powerful they were together. Timmy was smiling, he always seemed to be smiling at the beginning of any meet. It was his way of disarming the person they were talking to. He looked like any handsome man; the real Timmy was hidden away, waiting to pounce.
'All right, Jamal?'
Jamal shook hands with them, and waited patiently for the real conversation to begin. He wasn't happy about Benning being with them; he always felt uncomfortable around the Filth. But this one was tame, so he would swallow. If he was honest, he would rather this meet had been on his own turf, but Phillip Murphy wasn't the kind of person you forced your opinion on. If he wanted to meet on the moon, you found a way to get there.
'So, what can I do for you gentlemen?' Jamal was a naturally polite man, which worked for him, and he rarely fell out with people through arrogance or rudeness. His mother had drummed into him from an early age that being nice got you further in life than being mean. Especially if you happened to be black. She was a very intelligent woman, and he had listened to her closely.
Phillip waved a hand towards Benning. 'Show him.'
They were given latex gloves and, once they were on, the gun was taken out of the plastic evidence sack and placed in Jamal's hands. Jamal looked the gun over like the professional he was. It wasn't a particularly good gun, but it had a high calibre and it would easily kill someone at close range. It wasn't a make he dealt with – in fact he hadn't seen a Russian gun like this in years, it should be in a fucking museum.
He said as much. 'Russian, as I'm sure you know. Not a gun you see often these days, it's more of a collector's piece. Whoever provided this must have had it hanging around somewhere. It's been well looked after, but it's practically an antique. There's no way I would shift this, no one would want the fucker, plus there's no profit in it. Now if it was a grenade launcher, I could sell it like Tesco sells bread rolls. Sorry, Phillip, but this ain't from a regular supplier. Even the fifteen year olds want a decent firearm these days.'
'That was basically what Benning said, but it never hurts to get a second opinion,' Phillip replied.
Jamal sighed. 'For what it's worth, Phillip, I ain't heard a whisper about who might be behind this, not even a speck of gossip, and that ain't natural. Gangsta's talk, we are all guilty of it, you know what I'm saying? You sure this ain't from over the water? Spain, wherever? Because I don't think this is anything to do with the Smoke. No one could keep something like this secret for so long.'
Phillip considered Jamal's words. That was exactly what had crossed his mind, but he knew there was no one in Spain who would dare to do something so outrageously stupid. His reputation was too entrenched in the minds of everyone who knew of him for anyone without influence to even dream about taking him on.
'I know where you're coming from, Jamal, but I can't see it.'
Phillip was already investigating it though, as he was sure Jamal had guessed. He was also going to visit every fucking ponce who thought they were a villain and give them a taste of the old Murphy charm. He would find out who was behind this if it killed him, though he had a feeling it would not be him who would be getting killed. He looked at Benning, and decided to cut his fucking money down. He was as much use as a fucking chocolate teapot, you'd think a Filth might have heard a fucking whisper. That was their job for fuck's sake.
'Any new firm on the scene with dreams of the big time?' Timmy's voice was flat, but it had to be asked.
Jamal shrugged. 'They all think they're big time till they come across the real Faces, but no, no one this fucking daring. A few have possibilities, like – there's a little crew in Brixton, none over twenty-two, and they are well organised. But what the fuck would anyone there want with the south coast? They might visit the place, but they ain't gonna be living there, know what I mean?'
Phillip understood him perfectly and, his business head coming to the fore, he said with interest, 'Would these kids be any use to me? Are they up for the earn?'
Jamal nodded, and smiling now he said, 'They're good kids, Phillip. Just need a firm hand, that's all. I'll give you their numbers, you can arrange a meet. They'll be thrilled, I can tell you.'
Phillip smiled. He bet they'd be thrilled; his talking to them was the criminal equivalent of being summoned by a king.
'Well, I'm off now, and listen, your Philly is a strong little fucker, he'll be home before you know it. I got shot in the gut ten year ago, and look at me now, still eating me curry goat and rice. It's lucky it didn't hit the heart.'
They all hoped Jamal was telling the truth. Philly was too strong to die. It was what everyone was relying on.
'Once he regains consciousness I'll be a lot happier, Mrs Murphy, but he is definitely on the mend. Now, how are you?'
Christine didn't answer the doctor she looked out of the window at the lovely sunshine instead, and felt the urge to sleep again. People would be taking advantage of the weather, normal people anyway, going to the beach for the day with their kids and making her husband more money, because you couldn't go to the seaside without going in the amusements, could you? Other people would be arranging to visit their families, or have a picnic, normal people who didn't live in the shadow of violence like her family did. Now it had her son's life in the balance, her Philly's. She could still see him the moment he was shot, saw the surprise on his face, the blood as it oozed from him, but she also saw the man who had done it. She had noticed him a few seconds earlier, recognised him from somewhere, but she couldn't place him. And that was what was worrying her so much.
She yawned. She was so tired, but she knew it was because of the injections they were giving her. It was nice to slip into unconsciousness, leave all her troubles behind. Now she had an even bigger worry.
'Are you listening to me, Mrs Murphy?'
The doctor's voice was irritating her, but she answered him nicely. ' 'Course I am, Doctor. Can I go and see my son now?'
He nodded. Christine Murphy was a strange woman, and he didn't like dealing with her, or that husband of hers. They thought they owned the hospital, even going so far as to take over all the family rooms – no one else got a look in. So the sooner that boy could be moved to a private facility the better, as far as he was concerned. Everyone in the hospital treated them like celebrities and, though he wouldn't say any of this out loud, thugs like these were not people he particularly wanted to have to placate on a daily basis. They behaved as though he was their own personal physician, calling him at all hours, walking into his consulting rooms as if he was a plumber or something, not a highly skilled surgeon. They had even arranged for professional cleaners to come in. MRS A was constantly on their lips, and these were people he would have assumed had trouble saying the most basic of sentences. His wife said he was a snob, but if she had to deal with people like the Murphys every day she might understand his feelings a bit more.
There were other ill people in the ICU, people who didn't live in a world where getting shot was treated as a normal occurrence. People who were ill through no fault of their own. And he would rather spend his time and energy on them than on this shower, who seemed to think that the world turned specifically for them and their cohorts.
Finoula was tired out, but she wouldn't sleep. She was still sitting by Philly's bed, holding his hand tightly. He looked so vulnerable lying there with all the tubes and the machines around him. He couldn't die, she wouldn't let him, and thankfully the doctors seemed to think he was over the worst. As she looked around her at the bareness of the walls, and smelled the disinfectant and the underlying scent of death that these places always seemed to have, she felt the urge to cry once more.
'Hey, Philly, I've just thought, maybe me and you could go on holiday when you're recovered. A bit of sun and sangria maybe? Nowhere too far, just a few hours away.' She was always talking to him when they were alone; it made her feel better. She had read once that the hearing was the last to go, and if he was going to go, then she wanted him to go hearing her voice. 'I love you, Philly, please wake up, please talk to me.'
Why was he still unconscious? No one seemed to know the reason for it. The doctor said it happened occasionally and it was because of the anaesthetic. But his stomach was sewn up, and he should eventually be all right if only he would come out of his coma. She laid her head on their joined hands and started to talk again.
'Timmy and that will be here soon. They always come around this time, and they bring me something to eat – not that I have any appetite, of course. But it's nice they think of me, eh? Your nan's gone home, and your mum's been in. She looks awful, bless her, but then I would be the same if it was my son.'
She wiped her eyes with her free hand, and sniffed loudly. She knew she needed to have a good blow, but she was loath to let go of his hand, and her tissues were in her handbag on the floor by the doorway.
'Stop crying, Finoula.'
She looked up then, into Philly's eyes, and saw he was looking at her.
'Oh my God! You're awake!' She was almost screaming in her excitement. Throwing her arms around him, she kissed his face and cried uncontrollably. He was awake, he was talking, and he was the love of her life. God, she knew, really was good.
'Now this is much more like it!'
Philly laughed at his brother's words. The private hospital was like an expensive hotel, and he thought it was great. Sky Sports, the lot. 'I bet it's costing a pretty wedge?'
Timmy grinned. 'You always have to price everything, don't you? Who cares, we can afford it.'
'Oh, don't worry, bruv, I ain't complaining.'
Finoula had left them to talk, she was good like that, and Timmy said as much. 'That Finoula was nearly out of her mind with worry, Philly, she's a fucking diamond bird.'
It was strange hearing Timmy talk at times; he spoke Mockney, like Guy Ritchie and other posh boys who thought they were Cockneys. He had always had a lovely speaking voice, and he could speak like the Queen when the fancy took him. But then Philly supposed he was the same in many respects. But he took umbrage, for some reason, at his brother referring to Finoula as a 'bird'.
'I'm marrying her, if she'll have me.'
Timmy grinned widely, he had been expecting this, they all had. 'You should, Philly, she never wavered, bless her, not once. Most girls would have been on the trot at the first whiff of cordite.'
Philly laughed, because it was true. 'Anything yet?'
Timmy shook his head in bafflement. 'Not a fucking word, it's just not possible, is it?'
Philly didn't answer his brother. That was what was bothering him so much. It was as if he had been shot by a fucking phantom and, as they all knew, that was not something that was easily accomplished. Especially not when it involved people like them. No one would be willing to do the dirty deed, it was too risky. It was like all this shit about Bantry calling people in to work the drugs in the clubs. Bantry, if he had still been alive, of course, wouldn't have touched something that high profile in a million years. That was a young man's game. Dealing was never part of their businesses. They controlled it, yeah, but they wouldn't get involved in the day-to-day, so none of it made any sense. It was the old bullshit baffles brains scenario, but he would suss it out eventually. He was missing something, they all were, it was just a matter of finding out what.
'Is Dad still dragging people out of bed at three in the morning and interrogating them?'
Timmy laughed as he said, 'No, thank fuck. He nearly found Bin Laden a couple of times in East London! He fucking went after everyone – Asian, Greek, fucking Slovakian… You name any country, and I bet he has threatened at least one of its citizens.'
Philly was roaring now; they often laughed at their father's actions, though never to his face. But Philly was pleased to know that his father was determined to get to the bottom of all of this. It was a diabolical liberty, and it was personal. Phillip Murphy would never let this one go, and neither would his elder son. It was funny, but getting shot had done Philly a lot of good, made him realise that life was for living. More than that, it had given him a personal insight into the damage a gun could do. It would definitely be his weapon of choice for the future and, like his father before him, he now believed wholeheartedly in the old adage: shoot first and ask questions later. Wipe the fuckers out, off the face of the earth, never leave anyone in a position to come back at you. Somewhere along the line, someone had been nursing a grudge, and that was why he had been singled out. He believed that his brush with death was not because of something he had done, it was payback for something his father had done in the past. Someone had waited, and they had planned, and they had eventually felt confident enough to act on their feelings.
These were thoughts he would keep to himself for a while; he would keep a close eye on exactly what came out in the next few months, and only then would he give voice to his inner thoughts. It seemed he was more like his father and brother than he had been given credit for.
'Are you sure, Finoula? I mean, love, he's just been shot. Remember that – you could have been burying him, and been left with a couple of kids all on your own. Not that I'm saying a word against him, mind, he's a lovely lad. But I want you to be sure about what you're taking on.'
Finoula loved her dad, but he was a worry-guts at times. 'I understand what you're saying, Dad, but I love him, and I want to marry him. This has just made us both realise how much we want to be together.'
Jack McCormack nodded, it was what he had expected. But, as her father, he needed to say what he had said. One thing was for sure – if the boy had died and left her a widow, she would never have wanted for anything, and that counted for a lot in his world.
'Then you've got my blessing. Congratulations, Finny. He's a good one, even with a belly like a tea strainer.'
Mary Mac was pleased too; she had always liked Veronica Murphy, and the two women would enjoy sharing a marriage like this.
'So when is the happy day?'
Finoula shrugged. 'Soon, Dad. Philly wants you and Mum to come in the hospital and talk it all over with his mum and dad.'
Mad Jack grinned. 'Come here, and give your old dad a kiss.'
'I think she's a wonderful girl, Philly, and you'll both be very happy, I know it.'
'Thanks, Mum.' He knew she meant every word she said. It was funny but her and Finoula got on like a house on fire, which was strange in a way because a lot of people didn't really get his mum. She could come across as a bit odd. But Finoula seemed to understand her, and she treated her with the utmost respect.
'How are you feeling, son, really?'
Christine asked the same thing ten times a visit, and he answered with the same words. 'I'm fine, Mum, truly. Now stop dwelling on it.'
She didn't answer him, she knew he wouldn't tell her anything of import, none of them ever did. She was like a child as far as they were concerned, not to be worried with trivialities. But she knew who did it, and the knowledge frightened her. It wasn't so much what she had seen that was bothering her now, it was what it meant for all of them.
'Do you think you'll ever find the culprit, son?'
Philly shrugged. 'I hope so. It's something I would like to know because I think shooting someone is a pretty serious action, don't you? I want to find the person who wanted me dead, Mum.'
She nodded. 'If you did find them though, you or your father or one of you lot would kill them, wouldn't you?'
He remained silent. It was the first time she had ever referred to his life in the business, and he wasn't about to get into any discussions with her about serious matters that had fuck-all to do with anyone except the people concerned. He could just imagine her face if he decided to tell her the truth about the lives they led, especially as it had already sent her into the madhouse on more than one occasion. She was a strange cove, this mother of his. The weirdest thing was that, for once, she seemed genuinely interested in what was going on; he supposed that was because she had nearly lost him. He looked at her then, sorry she had been given all this worry, and appreciative of how much it must have affected her.
'Come on, Mum, let's drop this now, eh?'
Christine smiled sadly, and he saw that she was genuinely vexed. Hugging her to him, he said loudly, 'Let's get this wedding arranged, shall we? You and Finoula will make sure it's a blinder.'
But Christine couldn't hold back her tears. She was crying now, sobbing, and he held her gently to him, wishing she wouldn't do this to him when he still felt so weak and so tired. But he understood the fright she must have experienced, and he knew it was his job, as a son, to put her mind at rest as best he could.
Declan was annoyed, but he knew it was a futile emotion. They had turned over every stone in the fucking Smoke, Spain and even fucking Portugal, and still there was nothing to go on. Not even a murmur.
It had been three months since the shooting, and they were no nearer to finding out any more than they had been at the beginning. Initially they had believed that they would be inundated with fucking accusations, theories, the lot. They had expected the usual nutters trying to get an old score settled by saying their mortal enemy had done it. But no. Nothing. Had he really thought they were in with a chance of naming the fucker concerned? How naive were they, thinking it would all be over in a few days? It seemed now that whoever was responsible had the nous and the clout to make people forgo a hundred grand reward. That took a serious amount of fear; most people they dealt with would grass up their own fucking grannies for a tenth of that. Even Phillip was beginning to think they would never solve this fucking mystery, and if he was getting disheartened then things were bad. But no one seemed to know anything, and that in itself was suspicious. Someone, somewhere, had to be in the know.
Breda knew what they were all thinking, so she said what was on her mind. 'Look, Phillip, your Philly is a bit of a hothead at the best of times, are you sure he ain't had a tear-up with someone and conveniently forgot about it?'
Phillip shook his head. 'Crossed my mind, don't worry, Breda, but he says no, and so do his associates. Anyway we would have heard a whisper about something like that. People talk. Stands to reason.'
She nodded. That made sense, someone would have mentioned something so obvious. 'This is fucking mental, it's like they shot the wrong person or something!'
Phillip was in absolute agreement. 'Don't think that hasn't occurred to me and all, Breda.'
Declan sighed, and wished he was anywhere else on the planet but in this office, on Southend Seafront. He said slowly and deliberately, 'Well, we're out of fucking options, Phillip. Even though it grieves me to say that, but you know the old saying, it all comes out in the wash. This will come out eventually, it's just waiting till that happens.'
Breda's mobile rang and she answered it quickly. After a brief conversation she called off and, looking at Phillip, she said tersely, 'That was Timmy. Christine's on a bender, he had a call from the Moonraker pub. They want her out by the sounds of it, in case you find out she's been served, Phillip. They've got a new barmaid by all accounts, didn't realise the score.'
Most of the pubs in Southend knew better than to serve Christine Murphy, Phillip had seen to that years ago. But she still slipped past the safety precautions occasionally. Plus, there were a lot of pubs these days that changed hands frequently thanks to the ridiculous no-smoking laws. People were going out of business hand over fist. So it was getting harder and harder to police her.
Phillip rolled his eyes to the ceiling in frustration. 'Oh for fuck's sake! This is all we fucking need. Her on a fucking tear-up around Southend Seafront.'
Breda sighed. She felt sorry for Christine a lot of the time, she thought she had been doing well, and she said as much. 'Well, be fair, Phillip, she has been good until now. I don't know if I could have coped so well had my Porrick been shot.'
Phillip was furious now and he said snidely, 'Your Porrick wouldn't even notice if he got shot. He's a fucking moron – no brain, no fucking pain, him. I hope that baby his bird's having ain't as thick as him.'
Declan saw Breda's face drain of any colour at the vitriol in her brother's voice. Standing up she said quietly, and with tears choking her voice, 'Thanks a fucking lot, Phillip! That's my boy you're talking about. Whatever he might be, he's still my son, and I love him. Just because he ain't a fucking intellectual you look down your nose at him, but he earns his wage and you know it. Still, it's always good to know where we stand with each other, ain't it?' Then she left them.
Declan looked at his brother and, standing up, he shouted in abject disbelief, 'Feel better now, Phillip? You've just hurt your sister, and not just hurt her, but embarrassed her and insulted her. Well, do you know what, mate., fuck you. Because Breda is a fucking grafter, and you should remember that before you put your fucking mouth in gear. You're a bully sometimes, because you know she can't fight you back. You know there aren't many people who can fight back where you're concerned. I thought you hated bullies, Phillip. That's what you've always said, ain't it? Now I am going to see that she's all right. You can do what you fucking like.'
When the shock of his brother's words had worn off, Phillip remembered his son years ago, when he had attacked old Donny, and he had accused him of being a bully. Yet Phillip was the bully now; he had just destroyed poor Breda for no other reason than because he felt like it. He was annoyed, so he had taken it out on her. Where was the man he had prided himself on being all those years ago? Who was known for his good manners and his care for the people around him. He had understood, at a young age, that when you did the kind of work he did, goodwill was mandatory. If the people you grew up with wished you well, and the people you employed thought you were a good person, you were on the way to untold riches. He liked that people thought he was a good person; it was all the more important to him because if they believed it, then it must be true.
Phillip ran from the office suddenly and, tearing through the packed arcade, he burst out of the front entrance into the late September sunshine. Seeing Breda and Declan standing together on the pavement by her car, he went over to them. He had to make this right, he knew that much. She was crying, and he realised for the first time ever, that Breda was not just his sister, or his colleague, she was an intrinsic part of his life, and she was one of the main reasons it ran so smoothly. She took a lot of the shit from him, and she sorted it out without complaining. He also knew that without Declan he would never survive, Declan's loyalty meant a lot to him. He was one of the only people he actually respected.
'I'm sorry, Breda, I am so fucking sorry, darling.' And he meant it, because whatever he might think inside, he knew that he was lucky to have his family around him. They were grafters, and they relied on him to an extent. But he knew that without them he couldn't run any of the businesses as well as he did now. You couldn't trust anyone like you could your own flesh and blood. So for that alone, he would make sure Breda didn't think she was unappreciated.
'I'm so fucking eaten up with my Philly, and now Christine out on another fucking bender. I daren't walk round to the pub to get her, I'll fucking lay her out the mood I'm in.'
Phillip was looking at his sister with what she saw was genuine remorse. Breda was so amazed at the turn of events, she couldn't even speak a word.
Declan saw that Phillip had understood his warning very well.
Breda – all of them, actually – needed a little bit of respect and a little bit of encouragement sometimes.
'I love your Porrick really, you know that, Breda, and he's already asked me to be godfather to the baby, so I can only say I'm sorry, love.'
She was nodding, but even she thought Phillip was stronging it now. He hardly said two words to the boy. She appreciated the sentiment anyway. At least this would clear the air if nothing else.
If Declan knew one thing, it was that they would have to draw a line under this soon, because it was causing them to start infighting, and that could be fatal. Something like this made onlookers think, look for a chink in the family's armour, and it was a time when they needed to be seen as tighter and stronger than ever. If they weren't careful, this would become bigger than them. And there was nothing bigger, or more important than the family.
Phillip knew that, which is why he was outside the arcade trying to placate his sister. Normal service had to be resumed as soon as possible. Not that this would all be forgotten, of course, that was a given, but it had to stop being the only thing they focused on.
Christine was happier than she had been for ages. Vodka could do that, she found. It was ages since she had been on a real drink-up, and today she had decided, quite suddenly, that it had been long enough between bouts. Starting early, she had bought a half bottle of Smirnoff from the local off-licence in Leigh-on-Sea, because they didn't know her there, and she had polished that off in no time in her car. She realised with a jolt that she had left the car somewhere, but she couldn't remember where. The police would find it, they always did, and they would have it delivered to the farm. It was handy being Mrs Phillip Murphy at times. She had gone to the Wheatsheaf next, a lovely old pub, and she had downed a lot more vodka there before walking to the Three Crowns, where she sat outside looking at the sea, drinking herself even further into oblivion. She vaguely remembered getting in a cab, or being put into a cab if she was being totally honest, and ending up at the Moonraker, which was where she was now.
She was looking at her son, and wondering why she was so anxious to get home. Phillip would be annoyed; he hated it when she tried one on like this, he said he was worried about what could happen to her. But she didn't believe him, she thought it was because he couldn't control her when she was drunk. The thought made her laugh.
'What's so funny, Mum?'
'Nothing. Why, who are you, the laughing police?'
Even Timmy smiled at that.
'I want to see my Philly, take me to see my Philly!'
'Philly is at home, Mum, remember? Finoula's there with him.' He was talking to her as if she was a child, and a stupid child at that. She hated feeling like this, maudlin and depressed. She wondered if she had any pills stashed at home. She didn't think she did, but you never knew; she was always the optimist.
As they drove along, she watched her son's profile, it was dark now but, in the light of the car, he looked like his father with his pursed lips and his obvious annoyance at her condition. She knew the boys hated her drinking, but they were grown men now. Philly was getting married soon. She was a grown-up as well – if she wanted to get pissed then that was her right, surely? It was probably in the Magna Carta or something. After all, she was an adult; not that they treated her like one, of course.
She tried to justify her drunkenness. 'My son was shot like an animal in front of me, and I needed a drink today, not every day like before, but just today.'
She thought the words were very profound, and she opened her bag to get her cigarettes. Timmy didn't even bother to answer her and, as she lit her cigarette, he said quietly, 'I don't like smoking in my car, Mum, if you don't mind.'
It was the way he delivered the words that set her off. Offhand, irritated, as if she was some kind of moron he was being forced to babysit. She turned on him then. 'Don't you talk to me like that! Who the hell do you think you are? This ain't your car, it's your father's car. Like you live in his house, and you eat his food. So don't you dare talk to me like that again, boy. I've had you and your attitude up to here.' She made a chopping motion across her own throat to emphasise her point. 'All that money for private school and you haven't even got any manners.'
Timmy sighed in annoyance; she was a fucking pain when she was like this. He knew one thing – he would never marry a drinker. Finoula didn't drink, and he wondered if Philly knew how lucky he was because of that. When he thought back to this woman's antics over the years…
'You're pissed, Mum. Just put a fucking sock in it, will you?'
It wasn't just the words, it was the complete dismissal in them, as if she was nothing, a no one. But she supposed, to her sons, that is exactly what she was. After all, she had never really been there for them, always too caught up in her own problems, in her nightmare that passed as a life. But this one here, her Timmy, her baby, for him to speak to her so disrespectfully somehow made it seem so much worse. But deep inside, she knew she had no one to blame for this but herself, herself and her weakness. If only she could have taken them as far from Phillip's orbit as possible, but he would never have allowed her to do that. She should have left them there, with him, and saved her own life, because they were like him, so very like him. In every way. Phillip had made sure of that. Especially this younger son of hers.
She knew she was crying, she could hear herself, and she wished she could stop.
'I've never seen your mum pissed, is she really terrible then?'
Finoula was genuinely interested. Philly had told her about his mother's 'problems' – he'd had to since she spent so much time at the house – but, in fairness, his mum had been pretty good recently, considering.
'Not terrible, more sad. She's always suffered from a deep depression. I think it started after Timmy was born, at least that's the impression I get from me nan.'
'Postnatal depression they call it, Philly.'
He shrugged in bewilderment. 'Whatever. Anyway, she goes on benders, but not that often these days. When we were kids she was out of her nut twenty-four-seven, on pills and booze. To be honest, I don't know how me dad's stuck it. In and out of rehab, it was like living with an old Amy Winehouse.' He was trying to make light of it, but Finoula could see that it hurt him.
'I like her, I think she's lonely, Philly. She always seems as if she's not really a part of anything, do you know what I mean?'
He knew exactly what she meant, and he loved her for it. She had sussed it all out, and he knew he was lucky to have someone like her, someone so understanding, and so kind.
'She don't mean any harm, Finny, but sometimes when we were kids, she was so embarrassing, pissed out of her nut, talking shite.' He started to laugh then. 'She came up the school once in odd shoes. Honest, me and Timmy nearly died, they were different colours and everything – she was so drunk the school wouldn't let her drive home again, so me dad came and got us. But she was doing her crust, effing and blinding.'
'What, your mum?' Finoula's voice was incredulous, she couldn't imagine Christine Murphy being like that, she was such a nice woman.
Philly nodded at her and said seriously, 'The drink and the pills change her, she's like a different person – it's mental to see her. She talks like a drunken road builder.'
'I hope she's all right tonight. We'll look after her, yeah?'
He nodded, hoping that his mother wasn't on one of her rants against his father. 'Everyone always talks about her when she was young, how pretty she was, how clever. To me and Timmy it's like they're talking about someone who died, because we don't remember her like that at all. See, me and Timmy, we only remember her drunk or stoned, or both. Trying to kiss and cuddle us, and all we could smell was stale breath, and vomit. That was how bad it was at times.'
Timmy watched his mother as she listened at the doorway to Philly and Finoula chatting unawares. She had her hand at her throat, and her eyes screwed shut. He wondered if she realised just how much she had neglected him and Philly over the years so she could drink.
She had wandered inside while he had parked the car and called his father to see where he was. Seeing the devastation on his mother's face at what she had heard made him feel bad now, because no one should hear that about themselves, not even her.
Phillip came in just as she was opening a bottle of white wine in the kitchen and, as he opened his mouth to protest, she put the bottle down on the side and, running to him, she threw herself into his arms. As he held her close, she kept repeating over and over again, 'What have I done?'
'You have what is called a gastric ulcer, Mrs Murphy, and once we get you on the medication the pain should subside greatly. You just have to take better care of yourself. Other than that, you are as well as a woman of your advanced years could expect.'
Veronica didn't like this doctor, he was an arsehole of the first water, talking to her as if she was a newspaper or something. She didn't care how much he charged, he needed to be taken down a peg. 'Is that so, Doctor? Well, let me enlighten you now. My son has paid a fecking fortune for your opinion, and my advice to you is next time you have a woman of my advanced years in your office, remember to talk to her as if she was a grown-up and not a shagging errant teenager. Because, for all your grand education, you could do with a few lessons in good manners and social interaction.'
The last bit was something Finoula had said about Gordon Brown, and Veronica felt it was a good put-down; she only hoped she had used it in the correct context.
Christine and Breda didn't laugh until they were out of the consulting room, then the two of them started to roar.
'Fucking hell, Mum, what brought that on?'
Veronica was still annoyed, but she could see the humour of the situation. 'Who the shag do these people think they are?
Talking to me as if I'm a fool. And with that eejit Phillip paying him good money. I might not be in the first flush of youth, but I'm not in me fecking dotage yet.'
Christine took Veronica's arm. 'Come on, let's get to mine. I've put a casserole in the simmering oven and it'll be ready when we get there.'
Secretly Veronica was over the moon. She had thought as they all had that it was going to be bad news, but it wasn't. God had seen fit to give her a few more years, as she had requested, and she felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her. The anxiety had been keeping her up at night. An ulcer of all things! Who would have thought it? A little voice inside was telling her it wasn't even caused by worry – it was guilt. But she ignored it, just as she had been ignoring that voice for years as well.
'This is beautiful, Christine. Would you teach me to cook?'
Christine smiled at the wonderful girl her son had somehow managed to bag. She was lovely, really lovely, and not just in looks. She was a kind girl and so thoughtful.
"Course I will, Finny! Anything you particularly want to know how to cook? If you start with things you like it's easier. Then as time passes you go on to more complicated things.'
'Like life?'
They both laughed.
'Yeah, I suppose that's a good comparison. But you and Philly seem so happy, love, I don't think you have anything to worry about there.'
Finoula grinned, her perfect, overly white teeth looked incongruous in the early morning light that flooded the kitchen. She was like a photograph, not a real person, but Christine knew that was how girls were now. They were fighting off ageing before their twenty-fifth birthdays, and everything was about how they looked, not how they felt inside. Maybe they had the right idea. It was the whole Cheryl Cole concept and look how successful she had been! If girls nowadays had an original thought it would die in their heads of loneliness – all they cared about was being pretty. Christine knew she was being harsh, because this girl here had more than a good brain, she had the street smarts to go with it.
'I do love Philly, Christine, he's my world.'
Christine knew Finoula spoke the truth and, having been in the same position once, she couldn't help but be frightened for her. Grabbing her hand tightly, she said seriously, 'That's a good thing, my little love, but remember what I am telling you now. He'll always have his life and his job, but you'll end up at home with the kids, and that can be the most rewarding job on the planet, but also the loneliest. Always keep something for yourself – get a good nanny, au pair, whatever, and make a life for yourself outside your front door, outside your marriage. Don't be dependent on any man – eventually they resent you for it. Keep your friends, even the ones he doesn't like, and make sure you see them regularly. Don't become just a wife – it's never enough for most men.'
Finoula was a bit shocked at what her future mother-in-law had just said, but she understood she was trying to help her, and she was also perceptive enough to see that she was telling her the truth. Finoula grinned at her conspiratorially. 'Don't worry, Christine, I've already decided to keep my hand in with the bookies. I think if I was at home all day I would go off me nut!'
She realised what she had said, and just stopped herself from apologising. Christine, however, laughed at her choice of words. 'Well, take it from someone who's experienced exactly that – it's no fun, I can tell you!'
They laughed together companionably and, once more, Christine wished she had heard her sons talk about her years ago. If anything could have stopped her drinking and pill- popping, it would have been the words she had heard from her elder son the other night. Listening to her Philly telling this girl what he had really thought and how he had felt over the years had been the jolt she needed to finally clean up her act.
The real surprise had been how pleased she had felt to see
Phillip standing there. She had seen the sad look on his face, because he knew how much it would have hurt her; Timmy had obviously filled him in on the night's events. She was amazed at how eagerly she had run into his arms. He had seemed like her lifesaver at that moment, she had felt such relief at seeing him in the kitchen. She had to admit, no matter what had happened over the years between them, he would always be there for her, and she was aware that she had always relied on him for that. No matter how much she had hated him, she had still needed him.
Her life was set now and she would never get away – not unless one or the other of them died. But there was still hope for Finoula, and she wanted her to have her eyes wide open to the life she would be taking on when she married a Murphy The lying, the deceit, the knowledge that her husband could be taken from her at any time; either with a gun, as had been proved already, or by a court giving him twenty years. She wanted this girl to know that the security around her would be suffocating at times – armed men patrolling the grounds because of a deal that had upset someone enough to want them all dead. She would have to learn about keeping her thoughts private, because a careless word could bring terror to her doorstep. And stashing every receipt because you might have to prove purchase one day for the most mundane of things; the tax were shit-hot, and the one set of people you couldn't buy. There was still so much this girl had to learn. She might have the benefit of being Mad Jack's daughter but, in comparison to her family, Mad Jack was an amateur in the criminal stakes.
Finoula hugged the woman who would soon be her mother- in-law. She really liked her, and she sensed that she was very unhappy. 'I can't wait to start learning to cook properly. Philly always talks about what a good cook you are. Your food's legendary.'
She was being kind. Christine knew her son loved her food, but she had a feeling he would much rather she had served it to him sober.
'Even the doctor thinks he's putting on weight properly, and you cooking him such wholesome food has been a real help.'
She smiled, but she didn't answer the girl; instead she walked to the kitchen door and motioned for Finoula to follow her. As they walked up to the big barn, Christine observed the girl's pleasure in her surroundings.
'It's a huge place, isn't it?'
Finoula nodded.
'When we bought the house there were only a couple of acres, but we own everything now. Do you see that farmhouse over there in the distance?'
Finoula nodded; it was a nice property, really big and it had wonderful brick chimneys.
'Phillip's giving it to you and Philly as a wedding present.'
Finoula looked at Christine to see if she was joking with her; she clearly wasn't, because she looked very serious and contemplative.
'The people who owned that house had farmed there for over two hundred years. Phillip offered a fair price for it and they refused. Eventually, after their water supply had been poisoned, and their barn burnt to the ground, he got the place for a song. They live in the village now, their children spread all around the country. They were nice people, they even brought us over some lovely cuttings when we first moved in…'
Finoula was nonplussed. She didn't know what Christine wanted her to say, didn't know how she was supposed to react to these revelations.
'I don't want to hurt you, Finny, all I am trying to say is that things in this family aren't always like they seem. Not with Philly – he's a diamond – but we always get everything we want. Remember though, it's often at someone else's expense.'
Finoula nodded. She understood and she knew this woman was only trying to help her. Even though she had a strange way of showing it.
'Enjoy that house – it's crying out for a family – but never forget how you came to acquire it.' She waited for the girl to digest her words before she added, 'And see that building there, with the huge chimneys?'
Finoula nodded.
''Never go in there, and never ask about what happens there.'
'Why? What happens there that's so mysterious?'
Christine smiled, an enigmatic little smile. 'I don't know. What I do know is there's an unspoken rule in this family, and it's that the big barn is off-limits. You'd do well to remember that, Finoula, and never question anyone inside or outside the family about it.'
Finoula was uneasy now; there was more going on here than met the eye. But she consoled herself with the fact that this woman was off her tree most of the time, and this was probably one of those days. The pleasure she was getting from her surroundings was gone, however, and the huge open spaces were suddenly not beautiful and picturesque, but isolated and frightening.
'Come on, let's go back and make a pot of coffee, shall we?'
Finoula agreed in relief, but although they chatted about normal things for the rest of the day, Christine's words stayed with her.
'Well, the dirty deed has been done!'
Phillip, relaxing back into the living-room sofa, sounded happy. The wedding had been a success on every level. The bride had looked spectacular in a Vera Wang creation – whatever the fuck that was! – and the groom had looked suitably terrified and happy at the same time. The guest list had read like a who's who of the criminal underworld; everyone who was anyone had accepted their invitation, and Phillip had put on a show of spectacular proportions. People who had flown in from abroad were picked up in chauffeur-driven limos, and provided with top- class accommodation. It would be talked about for years, from the wedding itself to the spectacular entertainment provided.
Poor old Mad Jack! Phillip had seen the relief on his boat- race when he had found out that all he had to pay for was the booze – and that was a pretty penny. Even then, Phillip had slipped some stuff in himself on the quiet. The gift of the farmhouse had been very well received, although Finoula had looked a little frightened by it; he expected that was because she wasn't used to such largesse. Money, serious money, frightened people. Like those cunts who won the lottery and still went to work in shit jobs. He could understand the shock might make them nervous, but the whole idea of the lottery was to change your boring life. He shook his head at the stupidity of the average person – then they bemoaned the fact they lived like fucking serfs. It was the welfare state, that's what it was – made people frightened of success.
As he sipped on his brandy, and looked at his happy but tired- out wife and around his wonderful home, Phillip finally felt like he had made it. The day's events had set him back the national debt, but it had given him the opportunity to show the world just how fucking well he had done. He had seen the looks from the guests, seen the envy mixed with utter admiration for him, his family and his way of life.
Philly had been determined to marry from the farm and he wanted his reception there, whereas Phillip had wanted a top class hotel in the West End, somewhere discreet but classy. But now he was glad it had been on the farm. Because once the marquees had been erected, carpeted and hung with chandeliers, he had been able to indulge in a different kind of showing off. He had the best chefs, and they had cooked only what he grew, from the meat to the veg. That had really impressed so many people; they had thought he played at farming, he realised that now, they didn't see it for the lucrative business it actually was. No, that had been a coup really, people had not comprehended just how successful he was outside of Southend Seafront. He had shown the world that they had the one thing money could never buy: class.
And his Christine, she had looked fantastic. Really gorgeous, and everyone had remarked on it. She had stayed on water all day too, only sipping at the champagne for the toasts.
Oh, he was like a dog with six lamp posts, he was so happy. It had been a triumph for him, and now he was savouring the feeling that came with it.
'Come on, Christine, one glass of brandy won't kill you! Join me in a toast to our son and his lovely bride.'
She moved closer to him on the sofa, and nodding she said happily, 'OK. It was a lovely day, wasn't it?'
'It was a perfect day, and did you see the way everyone was looking around? We fucking showed them all right, they know the real score now.'
Christine felt a moment's sorrow for this big, ignorant lout she was married to. When he talked like this she saw the child inside him, always trying to prove that he was someone, that his family were someones. She closed her eyes and savoured the Courvoisier; he still had cheap taste in brandy, for all his expensive bottles, he still felt the Big C, as he called it, was the only brandy to drink. It wouldn't surprise her if he didn't even like it, it was just another part of his persona. He should have been an actor, because he could act the part of anything with conviction. At the moment he was the proud father, who had just seen his elder son married. But he wouldn't have thought about the happy couple once, though the speech he gave didn't reflect that – it had been amazing. All he was really interested in was what other people thought of the day, how it would have shown him in a good light. It was always about him in the end. He hugged her to him, and she could almost feel his satisfaction.
'Lot of old faces here today, Christine.'
'Yeah, Phillip, four hundred of our closest friends!'
Even he laughed at her droll delivery. 'All right, Christine, but you know me, I like people to see how well we're all doing.'
She nodded. She wasn't about to start a fight, she couldn't be bothered any more if truth be told. It was easier being nice to him, pretending everything was fine. And occasionally, like now, (and she hated admitting this, even to herself) Phillip, when he was happy and content, could be very good company. At moments like this, she could almost pretend they were young again, before she had found out the truth about her husband.
'People were impressed all right. Fucking hell, I was impressed, Phillip, and I helped arrange it!'
He laughed in delight; it was just what he needed to hear, and his Christine like this was the cherry on the cake for him.
'Did you see Mad Jack with those amuse-bouche things! Fucking hell, Christine, he looked at me and his face was so bewildered I just burst out laughing. I told him later though that you had to explain them to me the first time! He's a great man. Philly did well with that girl, she's got a bit of savvy. Reminds me of you, back in the day.'
She smiled, but she didn't answer him, she wasn't getting into any conversations that might open up old wounds. 'Your mum enjoyed herself too. She loves a show-off – she's worse than you!'
He made a wry face and she laughed.
'Probably where I get it from, eh? Timmy seemed a bit subdued. I thought he would enjoy the party more. I mean, he didn't really mix that much, or was it me imagining things?'
Christine thought about it for a few seconds before she said slowly, 'Now you come to think of it, he was very quiet. Mind you, Phillip, they are close those two. Seeing his big brother married off probably made him realise things would change between them now. Especially as Finny wants a baby soon as they can manage it.'
'You're right. I saw him up by the big barn with that horrible little fucker Philly used to knock about with, I couldn't stand him. Graham Planter – snide of the first water, him. All the Planters are the same. His father's a fucking grass, everyone knows that; you can't deal drugs like they do in full view of the Filth and not get a fucking serious talking to. He's never been nabbed once, and that tells me one thing – he's offering the Filth an alternative income. Scum. I kept me temper though, but Timmy could see I wasn't impressed. I told him last year that I didn't want Planter in the arcades. Timmy was all right about it then. He should never have found his way to the wedding reception.'
'Did you say Graham Planter?'
Phillip nodded; the memory had marred his perfect day now, and that rankled. 'Our Timmy can be a right awkward ponce at times, don't you think, Chris?'
She was nodding but thinking of nothing except the fact Graham Planter had been up by the barn. He had not been at the reception, she would have noticed him because his face was stamped on her memory. Graham Planter had shot her Philly. When everyone else had been looking at Philly's wounded body that awful night in the club she had noticed him. He was older, and he had one of those stupid flat caps pulled over his eyes like the DJs wore, but she had recognised his face. He had been Philly's childhood friend not Timmy's. So why would he have been with Timmy at the big barn? She felt sick at the thoughts that were suddenly going through her head.
'Where is Timmy anyway? Did he go back to his flat or stay here?'
Phillip frowned. 'He was drunk, so I assume he's upstairs in his old room. Why?'
She shrugged as if she wasn't that bothered. 'I just wondered, that's all.'
But the shine had gone from the day, and her nerves were once more jangling inside her body. She threw back the brandy in one gulp and then, holding her glass out for more, she said with forced joviality, 'Fuck it, Phillip, let's have a party, shall we?'
He laughed delightedly. 'Anything you want, darling, you've got it. We made history today, you and me. It was perfect, babe. Everything was just perfect.'
Finoula and Phillip were at the Hilton Heathrow. They were flying to LA the next day for their honeymoon and they were both happy, tired and randy.
'Fucking Los Angeles, I still can't believe it! I bet that was your idea?'
Finoula nodded and laughed. 'Your mum asked me where we would really like to go, and I said I wanted to shop on Rodeo Drive, eat at The Grove, and see the Hollywood sign. Plus, I thought you might like a few days in Vegas!'
He popped the champagne with a flourish. 'I'd go to a caravan in fucking Norfolk if you were there in the nude! But I can cope with LA and Vegas. At least there will be a bit of currant bun anyway.'
She took the champagne flute and said dreamily, 'What a day, Philly! It was so wonderful, I've never been so happy.'
He could hear the tears in her voice, and he felt a rush of pure love wash over him. 'Come on, Finny, don't start crying now. I want me leg over!'
She couldn't help laughing at him, and his choice of words; he was funny was her Philly. She knew how lucky she was. 'There'll be none of that, mate, not now I'm a respectable married woman!'
It was an old East End joke; both had heard it a hundred times before but they still laughed together.
'What about the farmhouse and all! My dad did us proud today. He thinks the world of you, Finny. I think your dad's a bit of a hero to him, you know. They get on so well, don't they?'
She nodded. Her father had been taken aback by the scale of the day's activities, but he was pleased for her, she knew that. Jack had known he couldn't compete with Phillip Murphy, and he had stepped back and let the man have his way, well, let Finoula have her way really. Her and Christine's. Christine had such exquisite taste – you only had to look at her own home to see that, and between them they had arranged everything exactly how they wanted it. The only blight on the day was remembering what Christine had warned her about. She shivered, as if a goose had walked over her grave as the old dears would have described it.
Philly noticed and said in a concerned voice, 'You all right, Finny? You better not be coming down with anything.'
She smiled, but the ghost of fear was still on her shoulder. 'I'm fine, Philly, just tired out with the excitement of the day.'
But a cloud had passed over her happiness, and she felt an inexplicable urge to pick up the suitcases and run away, away from everything, not just for a few weeks, but for ever. It wasn't an option though, and she consoled herself with the fact they had so much to look forward to – a new home, a new life, and a baby at some point in the future.
Philly grabbed her none too gently, and pulled her into his arms on the king-size bed, spilling the champagne everywhere.
'Come here, you silly mare! Let's consummate this marriage, it's all I've been thinking about all day. I hope now it's legal it will still be full of the usual excitements!'
As she lay with him, she forced the worries from her mind, telling herself it was just wedding-night nerves. After all, it was a big step they had taken, and in a Catholic church as well. This was for life, and that was a very big commitment. For both of them.
Christine waited until her husband was asleep, then slipped from the bed and crept down to the kitchen. She was worried, really worried, and her first thought was to get herself a drink. So she opened a bottle of vodka and, sitting at the kitchen table, poured herself a large glass, added a couple of ice cubes, and tossed it back in two gulps. Then she poured another immediately, waiting for the trembling to stop. Lighting a cigarette, she pulled on it deeply, blowing the smoke out noisily. Then getting up she raced through to the downstairs bathroom. Standing on the toilet seat, she placed her hand behind the cistern and, frowning, she realised there was no little plastic pack of pills hidden there. Phillip had probably had the place swept by the drugs squad.
Back in the kitchen, she took another deep draught of the vodka. But it was no good, she still felt unable to think about the problem in hand. It was all too outrageous, but she knew in her heart it was the truth.
Timmy, her younger son, and the person Philly had chosen as his best man, was behind his shooting. He had wanted his brother dead, of that she was sure.
She felt the sickness assail her once more. What the fuck had she bred? Was it Phillip's fucked-up DNA, or was it because she had been drunk most of their lives and they had been left to drag themselves up? Was it because Timmy felt, as the younger son, he wasn't getting what he felt he was entitled to? Or was it because, and this was her real belief, he really was his father's son? Like Phillip, he removed any obstacle that might be in his way. Looking back he had been that way as a kid, but she hadn't realised it till now. Quiet little Timmy, who you overlooked because, unlike Philly, he didn't demand, or shout about his feelings. He just waited, and waited, and then took what he wanted at the appropriate time. He was the good boy, the good son. Philly had been seen as the little bastard, but he'd just been like other boys his age. Foolish, selfish, but not really bad. Jesus Christ, how had her life come to this? She felt the useless tears of futility and anger, and wondered what she was to do with this knowledge now she had it. She thought of Philly, on his honeymoon and unaware that the person he thought was his best friend, as well as his brother, was behind his attempted murder.
Who could she tell? That was the thing. Phillip was questionable, she knew that. He would probably just weigh up the pros and cons and decide which boy he was going to keep! Declan? He might be worth approaching. Once it would have been Breda, but she would not tell her any of this. Something had happened between her and Phillip, and he treated her like some kind of Mafia don these days. Asking for her opinion on everything, and giving her the most lucrative Legends to run for him. She was overseeing the boys and they answered directly to her. So Breda wouldn't want to rock any boats – even her Porrick was now on the proper payroll, running a new business Breda had set up putting fruit machines in pubs and cafes. No, Breda was too close to Phillip at the moment, it would have to be Declan. But she knew Declan wouldn't be able to keep something like this to himself. He would see it as something Phillip needed to know.
She felt a wave of nausea once again, the worry inside her gnawing at her, making her feel like she had years ago when her nerves had started. It was the same hollowness in her stomach, the terror of each day and what it might bring down on them all. But even that was nothing compared to this latest trouble. Her own son, her baby, wanted to take out his own brother. She was too frightened to ever say any of this out loud.
Suppose she was wrong? Suppose she had got the wrong end of the stick? Maybe it was like what Phillip said when he ranted about the judicial system, he was always going on about circumstantial evidence. How people might look guilty, but that didn't mean they were. He could go on for hours about the subject, and frequently did. She was pretty sure that wasn't the case here, but she still grabbed on to the thought. So, with Declan and Breda out of the running there was no one else she could trust enough to tell. Even her Philly would think she was just off her chump again – she knew how crazy it would sound.
It was weird, her intuition was eating her up. Phillip mentioning Planter's name was fate, and she believed in all that – she believed things were meant to happen. Like Philly surviving the gunshot wound – he had survived because he had just stepped forward to kiss Finoula, and that had stopped the blast from hitting its mark. It had to be a death sentence Timmy ordered for Philly – there was no reason whatsoever for him to just get his brother shot, that had no value to him or anyone else. She had not been married to Phillip Murphy all this time without picking up some bloody tips on how their world worked.
Philly was away for ten days, but he had to be back to sort out the clubs for the spring openings. Phillip always had them professionally cleaned and any necessary repairs made; it was important that the places looked new and smart, as befitted the clientele. Philly and Timmy would be working flat out on that, as well as everything else that made up their job descriptions. So she had ten days to talk to Timmy, and carefully gather as much information as she could. She only hoped she had the guts to go through with her plan. When Timmy discovered she had sussed him out would she be next on his list? There was so much to think about, and so much to worry about, not least the fact that her child was capable of killing his brother. A brother who was just starting out on his married life, and who had no idea what had really happened to him. The worst thing was, she knew that if Timmy had tried to kill her husband, his father, she wouldn't have lifted a finger to stop him. But then, she assumed Phillip would be next on Timmy's list.
She was in a quandary all right; she had to decide which of her sons would live. Because even she knew that Timmy couldn't be allowed to ever get a chance like that again. Philly didn't deserve any of this, and that was what was so bad. She would have to choose between her sons, but she knew, deep inside, that she already had. It seemed that the hypocrisy that Phillip had instilled in them all, so many years ago, was still alive and rampant inside her as well these days.
If someone had said she would one day be faced with a dilemma like this she would have laughed in derision, yet, thinking back, it was a wonder something like this had never happened before now.
'You all right, Mum?'
Timmy was watching Christine from across the room. She looked spaced as usual, but he knew she wasn't on anything, she was just like Dilly Daydream, staring into space.
'I'm fine. Why aren't you at the airport with the others?'
He grinned. 'What, meeting up with the conquering hero? He's been on honeymoon, Mum, not a fucking tour of Iraq.'
He was good, she couldn't deny that. His words sounded like a joke, but she heard the underlying meaning. She watched him warily again, he was fascinating to her these days. She loved him – he was still her son, and for that she would always have some feeling for him – but it was not like before. It could never be the same again.
She glanced away from him, and saw him looking her up and down carefully in the huge antique mirror over the fireplace. Before she could stop herself she said innocently, 'Seen anything of Graham Planter lately?'
As she spoke she turned in the chair and looked him directly in the face. His pupils widened and for a few seconds his eyes were almost black. She knew that she had frightened him and she grew braver with the sensation.
'What makes you ask that?' He had recovered his composure now, but she knew he was rattled.
'I just wondered. It's funny, son, but he was never your friend. Then your dad said he saw you and him at the wedding, up by the big barn. That's where your father keeps those guns, ain't it? That Jamal delivers them. Contrary to popular belief, I see a lot more than any of you have ever given me credit for. Oh, and tell Graham I liked his hat that night at the club – nearly didn't recognise him in it.'
They were looking deep into each other's eyes now, and she could see a small tic pulsing at the side of Timmy's right eye. That she had rattled him, she had no doubt; she couldn't have made it any plainer. He knew she knew all right, he was just deciding what to do about it. It was like watching Phillip at work, it was almost uncanny. Her son had inherited his father's complete disregard for human life.
'Are you trying to tell me something, Mum?'
She shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. 'Such as? What are you on about?'
'Well, that's what I'm asking you, ain't it?'
She sighed heavily, as if all this was well over her head, and she had no idea what he might mean. 'You are a bit odd today, Timmy. Been missing your brother I expect.' She smiled as easily as she could manage with the trembling that was now threatening to take over her whole body. But she was nearly there, and she knew she had to act as if she wasn't scared of her child in the least. 'He's home tonight. Oh, and they're staying here, by the way, not at the flat. Me and Finoula are going to look over the house tomorrow.'
He nodded as if in agreement with her, but he knew she was warning him that she would be watching him. Watching out for Philly.
'I've cooked them a lovely coq au vin, used a real cockerel. There's enough for you, if you've still got some appetite after my little bombshell.'
Christine had to make him think she wasn't afraid of him.
But it was hard, so hard. Still he didn't say a word, and as she looked at him she recalled what he was like as a kid; he could go quiet for days, and they had all laughed, and said he was deep. Deep, yeah, but also dangerous. If only we could have a glimpse of the future when our kids were small how much easier life would be.
She took a deep breath before asking quietly, 'Can I say something to you, just between us, like, Timmy?'
He nodded, she could see he was more than eager to hear exactly what she had to say for herself. 'Fire away, Mum. I've always got time for you.' The sarcasm was there, along with the pun, and the smile that went with it said it was meant as a threat. He was trying to intimidate her, and the knowledge didn't frighten her, it just made her more determined to tell him what she wanted to tell him. She stood up and poured herself a large brandy and, after knocking it back swiftly, she poured herself another one.
'Don't I get one, Mum? Or are you drinking alone as usual? Good at that, aren't you? But then you've done enough of it, I suppose.'
She didn't answer him. She just carried on with what she was doing, gathering her courage as best she could before it failed her altogether. Then, walking to where he was standing, just inside the huge picture windows, she stopped right in front of him. Looking into his face she said seriously, 'If anything happens to my Philly, I will hold you personally responsible. If he breaks a nail climbing out of his car, I will assume it had something to do with you. If he fucking so much as catches the flu, I will blame you, and if he ever gets shot at again, I will blow your fucking world so far into orbit, you'll be thumbing a lift from the Hubble Telescope to get back down to earth. Do you understand what I am telling you, Timmy?'
He didn't even flinch at her words, but she could tell he was worried, and wondering how to get out of this without anyone else finding out the score.
Timmy scoffed at her, 'Like anyone would listen to you\ You're a drunk, Mum.'
She could feel the heat enveloping her body, and she knew he could smell her fear.
'You're a joke to everyone in this family, Mum, especially your Philly. No one would give your story a second's credence.'
'I'll be watching you, boy.'
He grinned then and, pushing his face close to hers, said quietly, 'And I'll be watching you, Mum. Keep that in mind, won't you?'
Before she could answer him, the door crashed open and Philly's voice was booming out. 'Hello, Mum, the wanderers have returned!'
Timmy pushed her gently out of his path, sidelining her and, holding out his arms, he said to his brother, all smiles and familial affection, 'Fuck me, look at you, bruv, brown as a berry! And where's the lovely Mrs Murphy? Don't tell me she's fucking left you already.'
As Finoula came into the room, Christine said her hellos and then, using the excuse of needing to check the dinner, she almost ran to the kitchen. What had she started? Oh dear God in heaven, what the hell had she started? She was so afraid of her younger son, she was beyond relieved to have her husband in the house with her.
That alone told her just how bad things really were.
'Please, Phillip, I've never asked you anything about your work before, but please tell me what's going down. I can sense that something is different.'
Phillip Murphy looked at his wife, clearly weighing up how much to reveal. It annoyed her more than she believed possible. Her new-found interest in everything pertaining to the businesses and the boys was getting a bit wearing as far as her husband was concerned, but she didn't care. She had to know.
He shrugged suddenly, as if he had decided something very serious, and said, 'Someone is coming to pick up the guns. Now, can we drop it, Christine, please? You know I don't like to discuss things like this, especially with you. What's come over you lately, mate? You're either stoned on the pills the doctor gave you, or you're following me around like a fucking puppy. Is something bothering you, Christine? Because if it is, you only have to tell me and I'll sort it for you.'
She felt the urge to laugh out loud; he was starting to sound like Florence, her therapist of old. And, like Florence, she could just see his face if she told him what was actually on her mind. Phillip didn't even come into the equation any more – in fact, she could cope with him, and since the shooting he had been really good. It was the boys that were sending her off her head.
Her Philly didn't even guess there was anything untoward going on with his brother, and that was the most frightening thing.
'I've got a funny feeling on me that's all, Phil, it's since Philly, you know…' she trailed off.
Christine only had to mention the shooting and Phillip was immediately all husbandly concern. He understood how deeply she had been affected by it, and Phillip had always admired how much she cared. Christine knew he was fascinated by other people's emotions, and how they affected them and their everyday lives. On a basic level, he needed to observe them, so he could attempt to imitate them. It was how he had survived so long without being sussed out. So the briefest mention of Philly being shot, and he was all over her, worried it would make her ill again, make her have to go away from him again.
Christine also knew he was still puzzling over who the culprit could be, and she had nearly told him so many times in the last few weeks. But she couldn't. She was frightened – if she did tell him, she couldn't predict what he would do. Being Phillip Murphy, he would decide whether that was a sign of strength in his son, or a weakness that meant he had to obliterate him. Even though she felt he would choose Philly, with this man you could never be sure. Like King Herod, who had killed three of his own kids, Phillip had the capacity not just for great brutality, but also great kindness. He would also assume, as she had, that he was next in line for the chop. And she didn't want anything to happen to Timmy either – not because of her anyway. It was such a quandary, and it was her fault, all because of her, and a determination many years ago to best her mother. The more her mother had been against her marrying Phillip Murphy, the more determined she was to have him.
All she had wanted was to be a part of a big, happy family; well, she had got her wish – to be part of a big family anyway – for all the good that it had done her. She had married a murderer, and she had given birth to two sons, one of whom was capable of literally anything, and another one who she felt might just have a chance at a normal life because he had married Finoula. She was a sensible girl, a decent girl. Philly respected her, and the way she had acted after he had been shot had shown them that she had the staying power needed to be married to a Murphy. Christine had a terrible feeling on her that, many years ago, Veronica Murphy had thought the exact same about her where Phillip was concerned. Had seen her as his saving grace, because if he loved her so much he had to have some good in him. Philly was ruthless, yes, too caught up in his father's world, true, but he was basically a good person, a good man and, at the moment, Christine was holding on to that fact like a lifeline. She had to believe that some good had come out of her marriage or she would never rest easy again.
After all, they had to have some of her in them, didn't they? They were carried inside her, she had given them half their DNA. Had the only thing she had given them been her weakness? Her Timmy had indeed turned out to be like the spit out of his father's mouth – someone had said that to her just after he had been born, and it came back to her now. Philly, on the other hand, looked like his father, but didn't have the same mannerisms like Timmy did. Philly did have his father's utter disregard for what other people wanted or needed though; it was all business to him.
She was worrying herself now with her thoughts. So she did what she always did, she just pushed the troubling thoughts from her head. Philly wasn't like his father, it was Timmy who had turned out like him, in more ways than one. She couldn't eat, she couldn't sleep. She couldn't think straight. But because of her history no one thought she was acting that strange, so it was giving her a bit of an insight into how bloody weird she must have seemed to them all, especially the boys. In some ways, for years she had never felt so normal as she did now. It was as if this had kicked her into touch, made her see her life and her sons' lives for what they actually were. This had to stop, this all had to stop.
The question was, how?
As Phillip left the house to go to the big barn, and get ready for the visitors, she watched Timmy and Philly from the doorway laughing together on the drive. Her heart was in her mouth as she saw Timmy look behind him, and straight at her; he waved in a friendly manner, and then Philly did the same thing. Timmy was acting as if nothing untoward had taken place between them, but she knew, deep inside herself, he was just waiting for the opportunity to finish all this off once and for all.
As she watched Philly walking towards Old Sammy, Timmy turned so he had his back to his brother and, making a pretend gun with his hand like a child playing at cowboys and Indians, he pretended to shoot her. He was laughing as he did it, and she knew then that it had gone far enough.
She walked slowly up to her bedroom and, locking the door, she took a deep breath. Then, her heart hammering in her ears, she picked up the phone and began to dial.
'Hello, Breda. Oh, look at him, young Porrick Junior.'
Phillip made a big fuss of his nephew's baby, and even though Breda knew that, in actuality, he had no real interest in it she played the game. With Phillip that was often the best way. She smiled at him and walked through to the kitchen to see Christine.
'All right, Chris?'
Her sister-in-law smiled, but Breda could see she was not right, she was a bundle of nerves again, and she sighed inwardly. This was a serious bit of business tonight, and she was relying on Christine to watch the baby for her while she was out at the big barn. Trust fucking Porrick to choose tonight to take his bird for a meal and the pictures. Still, she could have refused to babysit, they wouldn't have minded, they were pretty good like that. But she had loved this child with a passion since she had first seen his little scrunched-up red face. She looked after the child as much as possible, and her son and his bird were quite happy for her to do just that.
'You seem a bit preoccupied, are you sure you're all right, mate?'
'Fucking hell, Breda, what's this – act like the Old Bill night? I'm fine, just a bit tired that's all. Give me a fucking break, will you?'
Breda was taken aback. 'All right, relax, I was only asking,
Christine. You're fine. Fuck me, I get the picture.'
She stormed from the kitchen, and Christine felt a twinge of guilt. But it didn't last, she had too much on her mind, and she hoped to God that she had done the right thing. She felt sick with apprehension and fear at what was going to happen soon. She saw Timmy looking at her, and she turned away from him.
'Have you two had a fucking row or something?' Phillip was standing in the doorway, his eyes flicking from one to the other.
Timmy shrugged as if he didn't know what his father was talking about, and Christine just shook her head. But she was pleased to see that Timmy, for all his pretence at nonchalance, was actually nervous. The knowledge gave her a thrill, and she was ashamed of herself for it. But God, it felt good to know she was affecting him; it proved he knew she might be capable of taking him down.
'Don't be silly, Phillip! What would we argue about? Don't be so fucking stupid.'
Phillip laughed at her but said seriously, 'You haven't stopped effing and blinding all day, Chris.' Turning to Timmy he said, 'And as for you….' He smiled half-heartedly before pointing his finger at him. 'You are acting like something is on your mind too. So why not cut the fucking bullshit, and tell me what's occurred? Not another fracas like last night, I hope.'
Timmy pushed past his father, but he was careful not to be too aggressive. 'I don't know what you're on about, but about Mum's swearing, I think you're spot on. She ain't stopped since this morning.'
Christine went to the huge larder and opened it. Inside it was neatly stacked with jams and chutneys, bottled fruits and veg. To her, all it represented now was the hours she had spent trying to act like a real wife, a real mother. Feed the kids, make the jams, and pretend your life was fine.
But they had needed more than sustenance – they had needed a mother who had the guts to take them away from the hurt and the anger they had been born into. In her heart of hearts though, she knew now that for Timmy it would still have been the same. He had his father's personality for, like Phillip, he only understood his own needs, and his own wants. They would always be the most important things to him.
The larder also held the household cigarette quota and, opening a carton of Marlboro Lights, she ignored her husband's questions and said instead, as normally as possible, 'What time's Declan and Jamsie getting here? Will they want feeding?'
Phillip walked into the larder with her and, shutting the door behind him, he said quietly, 'Look, Christine, I don't know what's going on here, but it all feels a bit odd. Now tell me, has Timmy upset you? Because if he has, I'll fucking knock him out. He's getting too lairy by half lately. Do you know what he did yesterday?'
She shook her head and whispered, ' 'Course I don't, what happened?'
'He only went and hammered one of my best fucking customers. Slapped him all round the fucking arcade. In full view of the other punters.' He shook his head in disbelief at his son's idiocy. 'I've told him time and time again, never lose your rag in public, and never ever let anyone see you raise your hand to anybody. That's what God created dark alleyways and fucking empty houses for. Privacy means no witnesses. Honestly, it's like he's fucking simple or something lately. You talk to him, and he's fucking miles away and, to be frank, Christine, he's getting on my wick.'
It pleased Christine that she was getting to him, that Timmy was anxious about her and what she knew. He was worried all right. Worried she would be believed. Well, if it went to plan, she would show him once and for all who was fucking stupid. She knew he had thought she was too weak, too frightened, to tell anyone what she knew. But now he wasn't so sure.
'Phillip, will you promise me something?'
He nodded. 'Of course, anything.'
'Will you keep near me and Philly tonight?'
He laughed tiredly and said in disbelief, 'You and Philly?'
She nodded. 'Yes, Phillip, me and Philly. Just promise me.'
He rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, and she was reminded yet again just how good-looking this man she had married was. Phillip could see she was desperate for him to tell her what she wanted to hear, so sighing heavily, he said in his best placating voice, 'If it will make you happy, darling, then I promise.' He laughed, all joking and full of mischief. 'Cross me heart and hope to die!'
She smiled back at him, playing along as she had for so many years, and realising, not for the first time, just how fucking wearing it could all be. 'Good.'
She felt better now and, going back into the kitchen, she called her elder son in and made them both a stiff drink. Sitting at the big scrubbed pine table she chatted to her son about his new home, his new wife, his new life. And so began her vigil. Phillip was as good as his word and came in and out often, giving her a conspirator's wink every time to cheer her up. She was aware that Breda was annoyed about her monopolising the men. Especially as she had to empty the holdalls containing the handguns and the sawn-off shotguns herself. Eventually though, Philly got up and excused himself from the kitchen. As Christine wandered into the large sitting room, to catch sight of Timmy sitting there calmly with Philly, she nearly walked into the coffee table. Steadying herself, she went over to the window and stood with her back to the room, looking out.
Breda looked at her strangely and said, 'Are you feeling all the ticket, Christine? You seem nervous.'
She turned on her then angrily. 'I'm fine, Breda. What's the matter with you? Are you trying to pick a fight with me? Because the mood I'm in girl, you are liable to get one.' Christine's words caused a hush in the room. She saw her husband and sons stare at her as if they had never seen her before.
This waiting was killing her. Christine was sick of this, so sick of it. Breda had been walking around with a child in one arm and a shotgun in the other, her sons were both acting as if this was normal behaviour. Her husband was obviously thinking she was out of it again, when she was saner than she had ever been in her life before, even with the pills her doctor had prescribed. She felt like she was in a play. Acting out a part. Yet this was her life.
As she saw Timmy get up and go to pull his jacket on she said loudly, 'Where do you think you're going?'
Timmy laughed as if she had made a really funny joke. 'Why, what's it got to do with you?'
Breda was watching them as if they had both gone mad.
'He's going to pick up some stuff from his flat. What's wrong with you, Mum?' Philly was genuinely perplexed; he was looking at Breda now, and they were both shaking their heads at one another, as if she was the nutter on the bus.
'He ain't going nowhere.'
Timmy had put his jacket on now, and he said tiredly, 'Why don't you go to bed, Mum, and let me get on with what I'm doing.'
But Christine knew in her heart that if she let him leave this house, he would disappear from their lives, and none of them would be safe ever again. This son of hers would never rest until he had got his own back, not only on her, but on all of them.
She had inadvertently stumbled across his real agenda, and he knew she was ready to let the secret out. He was leaving all right – leaving the family for good. But she wouldn't allow that, she was determined to make sure that he never got the chance to repeat his attempt on Philly's life. Whatever had made him like this, she would probably never know for sure, but she would protect Philly if it was the last thing she ever did.
'You can't let him leave, Philly. Where's your father?' She wanted Phillip here, wanted him nearby.
Timmy was pushing past her when Phillip walked into the room and announced, 'Declan is already at the barn, and he wants me to meet him up there. Apparently him and Jamal came in through the fields. Why the fuck would they do that? Has this whole fucking family gone funny tonight? He sounds as fucking nervous as you, Timmy.'
Philly and Breda glanced at one another again, and Christine saw that they both guessed something was going down. But looking at Breda with her grandchild in her arms, and at her Philly, who didn't know his days were numbered, she knew she had to take control of this situation now. Timmy wasn't going to go anywhere without a fight, and Breda and that poor child didn't need to be caught up in the middle of this. She had made this happen, the least she could do was see it through to the bitter end.
'You stay here with the baby, Breda, I need to talk to Declan about something. Philly, do me a favour, will you?' They were all looking at her again as if she had just grown an extra tit and was feeding a lion cub with it. 'Stay here and ring Finoula for me, me and her have a surprise for you.'
She was talking utter shite, but she was desperate to keep them there so Timmy couldn't get away. Then she saw the lights from a car coming down the drive, and she felt the tension seeping out of her. He had done it. She had trusted him and he had done it for her. So when she burst into tears of relief, Baby
Porrick joined in, only louder, and with much more energy.
Phillip Murphy, shaking his head in bewilderment, went to his wife and said sadly, 'What the hell is wrong with you, Christine?'
At that moment Jamsie Murphy came in the back door and, grabbing Timmy by the throat, said angrily, 'Wait till you see what I've got in my boot, you treacherous little cunt.'
As Phillip and Philly stepped towards Jamsie menacingly, their only thought to protect Timmy who was now trying desperately to break free of Jamsie's chokehold, Christine cried brokenly, 'Leave Jamsie alone! Just listen to what he's got to say.'
She was nearly hysterical with grief now, realising the enormity of what was going to happen, and knowing it was because of her. Timmy was looking at her with such hatred even Phillip was stopped in his tracks at the sight of it. It was so deep it was almost tangible.
'You fucking drunk! You're scum, Mother. Fucking filth…'
Phillip Murphy dragged his son away from his brother, all his anger at Jamsie forgotten now he was faced with his son's disrespect for the woman who had borne him. Forcing him to the ground he said angrily, 'You never, ever speak to her like that, do you hear me?' Then he hit him, and before she knew it Christine was watching her son being battered. She was nodding her head as if egging her husband on. For the first time ever, she was taking an active role in the family's penchant for violent retribution but, as yet, no one in that room except Jamsie knew why.
Jamsie went to her and, taking her gently by the arm, he pulled her to one side. 'It's all right, Christine, you did the right thing, love.'
She was nodding again; tears were still running down her face, but they were silent tears now. 'I know, Jamsie, I know. But it's still hard.'
Phillip had stopped punching Timmy and, standing up, he looked from his wife, to his brother, to his son. Timmy was just lying there, looking at them all, no emotion showing on his face, nothing. Then he turned to his father and said laughingly, 'I was this far -' he held his finger and thumb about an inch apart – 'this far from taking you and him out. But I tell you now, Mum, I don't regret a second of it. I just wish I'd taken you out years ago. Because you're nothing, you're just a drunken fucking no one, who let him rule all our fucking lives.'
Phillip was amazed at the diatribe, and even he was loath to ask what it was about, but he couldn't help himself. 'Right, I've just about had fucking enough of this shit. What the fuck is going on here, people?'
Philly and Breda were watching it all like a nightmare they had accidentally stumbled into, even Baby Porrick had quietened down as if interested in finding out what the hell was actually going on.
Christine exploded angrily, and with utter credibility, 'For crying out loud, Breda, will you take that child from the room? He doesn't need to see any of this!'
Breda, for the first time ever, did as she was asked without an argument. She had a feeling that whatever this was about, she didn't want to know, and she certainly didn't want to get involved.
Christine looked at her husband and, nodding her head towards her brother-in-law, she said with conviction, and searing clarity, 'Now then, Phillip. You better listen to what Jamsie has to say, and you, Philly, had better get Graham Planter out of the boot of Jamsie's car.'
For once, to her amazement, they did exactly as she asked.
Christine was sitting on the sofa in the semi-darkness, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, when she finally heard the back door open, and footsteps walking across the kitchen flags. She looked at the doorway, and saw the figure of her husband standing there. Even in the half light she could see the devastation on his handsome face.
'Is it over?'
He knew exactly what she meant, and he nodded.
'In the furnace, is he?'
He nodded again, almost imperceptibly.
They were both quiet for long moments, and she knew there had been a subtle shifting in their positions in the last few hours. Phillip had not imagined anything like this could ever happen, it was beyond his comprehension really. She knew he would not see it all for what it was, that Timmy had turned out just like him, and had acted just as he would have acted had he been in his position. Timmy had learned subterfuge and treachery at the knee of the master, but Phillip would see this as someone else's fault, mainly Timmy's.
'Are you all right?'
She nodded in the darkness, then, leaning over, she turned on the lamp nearest her. Its light was as unexpected as it was brilliant. She saw her beautiful room, the antiques, the expensive carpets and curtains. Saw the beauty of her surroundings, as if for the first time, knowing she had made it all so lovely to cover up the muck and the filth that it represented.
'Do you want another drink?'
She sighed. As bad as it was, she also felt as if she had finally shrugged off some of the fear that she had lived with for so long. 'Yeah, why not.'
He poured them both drinks and, as he handed her the glass, she saw the bruises on his hands and the blood that he had not bothered to rinse off properly. She knew then that her son had not died an easy death, and yet at this moment she didn't care. She felt nothing, but this feeling of numbness would eventually pass, and then it would hit her like a ton of shit.
'I still can't believe it, Christine.' And he couldn't, she knew that.
'I am leaving you, Phillip. I should have left years ago. I can't live like this any longer. You got what you wanted, you finally made me a part of all this whether I wanted it or not.' She gestured around the room to emphasise her point. 'I had to choose between my sons, and I did what I thought was right. I know I was right, I know I was. Even though this will all haunt me for the rest of my days. But I am leaving you, Phillip, and if that means I end up in the furnace, then so be it.'
It was a good few minutes before Phillip answered her. She was holding her breath in anticipation of his words, and they surprised her when they finally came.
'Where do you want to go?'
She knew what it had cost him to say that and, as much as she hated him at times, she felt a small spark of sorrow for him, because she knew more than anyone what it had taken for him to utter them.
She shrugged. 'I don't care, Phillip. Anywhere. Spain maybe.'
He nodded. 'Do you want the farm? You can have it, Christine, you deserve it.'
She shook her head, and sipped deeply at her drink. It was seventy-year-old Scotch, and she wondered at how she could gulp it down and still feel as sober as a judge. But she supposed murder could do that to a person. She was probably still in shock.
'You keep it all, Phillip. I never want to see this place again, to be perfectly honest.'
'You can have whatever you want, Christine. I'll be generous. I suppose I owe you. I certainly owe you my life, and that's a big debt.'
'You owe me Philly's life and all. God love him, I bet he's devastated.'
'Well, put it this way, he ain't exactly celebrating, if you know what I mean.' Phillip tried to laugh it off, but even he was having trouble accepting what had happened.
Christine placed her drink on the table and, getting up, she straightened her clothes. She could feel her husband's eyes watching her every move. 'I'm off then. I've packed a bag, I'm going to me mum's.'
He nodded, and she knew he would let her go now. He had no power over her any longer. She was leaving.
'I love you, Christine, remember that.'
She looked down at him then and, smiling gently, she said frankly, 'No, you don't, Phillip, you never did. You don't know what love means and neither did our Timmy. But Philly does, so you can do me one last thing – promise me you won't take that away from him.'