The Family Read online

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  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Deandra was in bits. The funeral had been huge, with people coming from all over the country and even Europe to pay their respects. The funeral car had driven slowly along the seafront at Southend, and the traders had lined the streets, hats in their hands, suited and booted, as they saw off one of their own. It had been very emotional and fitting. Every Face imaginable had turned up for Ricky; the newspapers were loving it, as were the film crews. It was a big event, and even the Mayor had turned out in full regalia to say goodbye to a man who had been well liked, and whose bloody murder had sent shock waves through the tightknit community.

  Christine watched as Phillip was feted by everyone. Even Bantry waited in line like a schoolboy to see the man he had given his first job. He had shaken his hand and told him all he wanted to hear, because that was the only way to show the proper respect Phillip Murphy demanded. She watched Breda too as she stood beside her brothers, and accepted all the handshakes as her right.

  The funeral proved to Christine just how far her husband had come. He had escorted Deandra into the church and passed her over to Ricky's older daughters, all nice-looking girls, all feeling the loss of their father acutely. They knew that the man who had killed their father was talking to them and condoling them, and they were unable to do anything about it. She watched her two sons being chaffed by all; they were enjoying themselves even though they were at a funeral. Christine knew then that she had lost them, and she wondered at how much pain a person could take before they just lay down and died from it. She saw her mother and father, standing with Veronica and Phillip Senior. She knew her mother was probably loving every minute of it, and that her father was only there for appearances' sake. Phillip would want him there, would want them to look united as a family. She saw all the people who worked for the Murphys, all in black looking suitably sad. She knew that her husband employed literally hundreds of people now, and that they depended on him for their mortgages, their car payments, the bread they ate, and the lives they lived. He was bigger than he had ever dreamed, and he was more or less untouchable now. She saw it all, and she accepted it all. Phillip had won, as she had always known he would, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Back at the house, she talked to people, said all the right things, until eventually she had a chance to catch Deandra alone. She was repairing her make-up in the big bedroom she had shared with her husband and, slipping inside, Christine shut the door behind her. Deandra was watching her warily in the dressing-table mirror; she was already well pissed, and she had also been given a couple of lines of coke by a well-meaning friend.

  'I'm so sorry, Deandra, I can't imagine what you must be going through, love.'

  Deandra didn't answer her. She was remembering the night of the dinner party; that had been the beginning of the end for her and Ricky, though she had not known that then, of course. But she had put it all together soon enough. What Ricky had told her had given her a good idea of what had occurred. As she looked at Christine Murphy she felt the hate and the anger spiralling up inside her, and the drink and the coke made it all the more raw. 'You're sorry, are you, Christine?'

  Christine nodded, knowing what was coming, welcoming it almost.

  'You know who killed my Ricky as well as I do, and you know why. Because he wouldn't sell him his arcades. My kids are fatherless because your old man wanted to expand his empire. How you've got the front to come in here… it's bad enough having to swallow that cunt pretending he's doing me a favour, but you, Christine, I thought you were a bit better than that.'

  Christine shook her head as if clearing it and, taking a deep breath, she said honestly, 'I am sorry, Deandra, genuinely sorry. Whatever you might think.'

  Turning, she left the room, walked down the stairs and out of the house. Getting into Breda's car, she said to a surprised Jamsie, 'Take me home.'

  'Does Phillip know-'

  Closing her eyes she bellowed, 'Just fucking take me home! Believe me, he'll thank you for it, because if I go back in there I'll cause a fucking war!'

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  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Phillip looked around him at the carnage and wondered how she had managed it considering how little she weighed. The whole place was wrecked; Christine had systematically gone through the house and destroyed everything with a hammer. As Phillip stood in the kitchen he felt the cold anger boiling up inside him, and he swallowed it down. His mother had taken the boys home; he had insisted on coming back by himself to see what had occurred. Jamsie had come up trumps anyway; he had called him and the ambulance, so at least she had not had too long to harm herself. She was now heavily sedated in a private mental hospital. The doctors were talking about electric-shock treatment this time. He would gladly plug her head into the national grid himself if it sorted her out once and for all.

  He turned as he heard the back door open and, seeing Old Sammy standing there in his pyjamas and dressing gown holding a bottle of Scotch, he felt a moment's gratitude that this old man had waited for him to come home.

  'I thought you might need a stiff drink, son.'

  Phillip nodded sadly and welcomed him into what remained of the kitchen.

  'She certainly had a good go anyway, I could hear her screaming from my cottage.'

  Phillip found two mugs that had escaped Christine's wrath, and poured two large whiskies. Sitting at the kitchen table they toasted each other in silence.

  'What was she saying?'

  'Just swearing really, screaming obscenities and smashing anything that came in her path. Swearing and talking rubbish.'

  Phillip knew Sammy was trying to warn him, and he appreciated that more than he could ever express.

  'I told the ambulance people she was delusional, but they said they knew that. I stayed with them until they gave her a shot, like, until she went to sleep.'

  Phillip digested the information. 'She has a lot of problems, Sammy.'

  The old boy nodded in agreement. 'My mother was the same, mad as a March hare most of the time - went to my school once in her nightdress, I hated her for that. But me father always said, women ain't got the mental ability of the male. He was right.'

  Phillip watched as the old man sipped at his whisky and tried in his own way to comfort him. It was strange, but he did feel better for him being there. Sammy had a quiet way with him that made the people and animals around him feel calmer just by his presence.

  'Jamsie said you came in and talked her down. Thanks for that.'

  The old man shrugged. 'It wasn't hard, she was spent by then. I just said that maybe she had better quieten down because she was frightening the pigs!'

  Phillip laughed ruefully.

  'She's a very sad girl, Phillip. The madness takes them like that sometimes. Had a horse once, well bred, high spirited, but she had the madness in her. All you can do is leave her in the hands of the professionals. They know what they are doing, see. She'll come out of that place better than ever, you mark my words. I think that funeral was a bit too much for her, it's been on the news and everything.'

  'I hope so, Sammy. I love that woman, she's my world.'

  'Do you know what, Phillip? She just needs to find out how to cope with life in general. She's not the first to be afflicted by it, and I daresay she won't be the last. Now then, I have a bit of good news for you: the boar did his job, and the sows are all in farrow. So that'll keep us occupied for a while, eh?'

  Phillip smiled gently, pleased at the news despite everything.

  'He got stuck in there, I said he was a good 'un, didn't I? Knew his way around a sow that one did, God bless him.'

  'Thanks, Sammy, I appreciate you doing all this.'

  Sammy shook his head in denial. 'Listen to me, son, you've been better than my own boys to me, and I would do anything to help you out, in any way I could. You remember that.'

  Phillip understood what he was saying and he also was under no illusions that the old boy knew far m
ore about what went on in this house than he let on. Tonight was a real eye-opener, that was for sure.

  As Phillip lay in bed a few hours later he wondered what he was going to do about his Christine. Because there was one thing he knew now for sure: this couldn't go on. It was all getting a bit too dangerous now, for all of them, himself included.

  * * *

  Book Three

  Don't get mad, get even

  Late twentieth-century saying

  Never say that marriage has more of joy than pain

  Euripides (c. 480 bc-406 bc)

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  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  2004

  'Don't talk to me like that, Philly. I'm not deaf, I can hear you.'

  Philly looked at his mother and felt a moment's shame at his words. But she was acting weird, and he had some mates coming round. She wasn't as bad as she had been before, but she was drinking again, and that made her talk shite, as his father so nicely put it. He wasn't like Timmy - he couldn't laugh it all off. He thought his mother was an embarrassment. 'Eccentric' was Timmy's word for her, 'out-and-out nut-bag' was his. Look at her now - seven in the evening and still in her dressing gown, half-pissed and already slurring her words. Still, at least she wasn't morose and depressed; that was something to be grateful for he supposed.

  'Go and get dressed, Mum! I've got Graham and Billy coming round.'

  Christine laughed. This son of hers was so bothered about appearances, he was like a fucking woman at times. 'All right, son, keep your wig on. I'll slip on a pair of jeans, is that good enough for your mates? Or shall I wear a designer suit and diamonds like Billy's mum does? She's the weirdo, not me. She'll never see forty-five again and if she has one more face-lift she'll have a beard!'

  Philly had to laugh at that, because it was true. Billy's mum was always in hospital having 'procedures' as she insisted on calling them. Billy said he had planned to get her an electric blanket for Christmas but was frightened his mother might melt during the night. But at least Billy's mother didn't go into hospital because she was a fucking loony. Though, in fairness, his mum hadn't been away for a few years now. But both he and his brother expected her to lose it again at some point. It was the pattern of their lives.

  Philly hated that his mother was like she was, and he thought his father was a saint to put up with her. Any other bloke would have outed her a long time ago, and who could have blamed him? Not Philly - he would have understood his father's actions better than anyone. After all, he had to live with the stigma of her illness as well, and it wasn't easy tiptoeing around her all the time. Depression was one thing, and he appreciated that, but she was way past all that now. He felt sometimes that she played up her illness just to get on their nerves, or get what she wanted. He felt bad thinking like that, but she was always upset about something, and it bored him. She didn't give a thought to how her behaviour affected their lives, her sons' lives. And if she stopped drinking so much, maybe she wouldn't act so fucking stupid and show up herself and her family. Her breath was disgusting, sour and vicious. You could smell it from across the room sometimes, and it was rancid.

  He saw her pour herself another Jack Daniel's and Coke and sighed heavily. 'Do you really need another drink, Mum?'

  She mimicked him then. 'Do you really need a slap across the face, son?'

  He walked out of the kitchen before he said something they both regretted. Anyway he had other things on his mind. He had made a monumental cock-up, and he wasn't sure how to sort it out. He knew he had to tell his father though - if he didn't and Phillip found out another way he would go ballistic. But the issue was how Philly would tell him, he needed some way to sweeten the pot.

  As he worried about his father's reaction to this latest gaffe, he heard his mother singing along to Simply Red's 'Holding Back The Years', and knew a crying bout was on the cards. She cried at films, she cried at songs, sometimes for no reason at all she just cried. Any sympathy he had for her had long ago disintegrated.

  Frankly, she just got on his fucking nerves.

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  Chapter Eighty

  Phillip and Declan were in a favourite pub in Wapping. They had just finished a lunchtime meeting with an old mate who wanted to offload his arcades in Soho due to the recession and a very hefty tax bill he was hoping to avoid by disappearing off the face of the earth. He had a wife who was well past her sell-by date, two sons who were about as much use as a stripper in an abbey, and a girlfriend who had thighs like a Russian shot- putter's and the face of an angel. At sixty-three he felt it was time he had a bit of fun, and he was determined to get it in South America, where the dollar ruled, and the sun shone all year round.

  Phillip was pleased; he had already made a few inroads into the West End, and this man's proposition confirmed that he was considered a serious player in the games world - he always got first refusal. Declan ordered them another couple of vodkas and Phillip looked around the small pub with interest. It had the usual smattering of city types and workmen which was why he liked it.

  'So what do you really think, Declan?'

  Declan shrugged. 'We can afford them, but they are pretty run down, and for every pound that goes in, another pound is coming out. Plus, it's a haven for the runaways; he never gets them moved on, and that can only bring trouble. From what my spies tell me, the young lads use it as a pick-up joint. But then, me and you have always known the arcades are a paedos' paradise. We've all but stamped it out on the front, but that's because we keep a wary eye out. The West End's different; it's a hunting ground for them with all the transient kids, and the free warmth attracts them like flies.'

  'Well, we'll keep a few walkers on the floor - that's the best way to deal with them - and the Old Bill give us a pass because they know we make their job easier for them. Any problems with the building?'

  Declan shook his head. 'The flats above are rented by prostitutes and the whole building is in need of renovation, but I think if we did the flats up as offices we'd get a much better return on them.'

  'Fucking right and all, we ain't pimps.' Phillip had an abhorrence of anyone or anything to do with the sex industry; in fact, his attitude was almost Victorian. He hated it with a vengeance, and made sure they never had anything remotely to do with it. In all the years he had been married to Christine there had never been a hint of him being unfaithful to her, though no one would have blamed him if he had been. Her problems were well known and well documented. People thought he was a saint for the way he had stood by her. It was like his church-going, every Sunday come rain or shine they were all there, sitting in the front row; if Christine was indisposed Phillip still made the boys attend. It pleased Veronica no end, because that meant his father had to go as well, as did Declan and Breda. Jamsie was a regular anyway - he took Communion at five a.m., every morning, seven days a week.

  Phillip was already bored and it showed; all he wanted was to do the deal and get on to the next thing on his agenda. It was what made him so successful - they did what needed to be done, and they moved on. Declan loved the excitement of it and, even though it was hard at times, constantly playing second to Phillip, he still knew how lucky he was to have the life he had. The Murphys were doing really well, all of them, and now that young

  Philly was on the firm Declan had someone to mentor, someone to look out for. Phillip had more or less passed the boy on to him, told him to show him the ropes from the bottom up, and he was enjoying doing just that. He had a certain longing for children lately; seeing the boys becoming men had made him realise what he had missed out on all these years.

  Trouble was, Declan still didn't want the permanent female presence that came with having a family. He liked his solitary life. He had a nice penthouse in the Docklands, he entertained as and when it suited him, and he liked living alone. Observing the marriages around him had never given him the urge to take the plunge himself. His mother had had a raw deal for years with that lazy bastard she had married, and seeing Phillip and the n
ut-bag that he had to contend with every day was not exactly a shining example of marital harmony either. Most of the men he mixed with juggled wives, girlfriends and one-night stands, or were caught up in affairs that, while they burned brightly, could only go the same way as their marriages at some point in the future. Men never changed, and it was a pretty safe bet that if they fucked about on one wife they would fuck about on the next. It was the nature of the beast. He thought it was best to stay on your tod, at least that way you had no one to please except yourself. Breda and him were the same in that way; she, like him, enjoyed her 'singledom' as she called it, and thought women who tied themselves to a man for life were mugs.

  'I reckon we can wrap this up in an hour, Declan, and be home in time for afternoon tea!'

  Declan laughed at his brother's obvious good humour. 'How's Christine?'

  Phillip shrugged, the laughter gone now. 'Still the same.' He motioned for two more vodkas and then said gamely, 'I hear you're trumping that little dark-haired girl from the club.'

  Declan grinned. 'You hear right. Nice girl, Bernice, clever and all.'

  'Oooh, is it finally lurve!' Phillip was smiling again, he had heard already that it was love, from the bird's point of view anyway. It was the talk of the clubs - apparently she adored his brother and told everyone she came across just that. 'She's been talking you up, bruv, telling everyone how great you are. How well you treat her, how much she likes your penthouse.'