The Family

by Martina Cole

  She realised then what poor Jamsie needed to do. This information would probably be old news to Phillip and Declan, but Jamsie sussing it would give him the kudos he craved with his brothers, and so she said to him sadly, 'Take it to Phillip, but make sure that Declan's there. They probably know anyway, but they will appreciate you putting them wise. Show them you've got your eyes open to what's really going on.'

  Jamsie nodded, relieved at her words. He was nervous about looking like a ponce and he still felt an outsider in some respects, but then Phillip could do that to a body on a whim. 'I'm going round Phillip's tonight to see them about the new orders, I'll mention it then.'

  Breda smiled at him, although she was under no illusions that she and Jamsie would ever really be a true part of Phillip and Declan's world. When he went she sat for a long time, trying to figure out what the fuck was really wrong with her, and why she felt so disaffected with her life. It wasn't that her life was bad in any way, it was that she felt it had nothing left to offer her. She had money, prestige, she had respect. So why did she suddenly feel as if everything she had achieved was nothing? Sighing, she went back out to the noise and bustle of the arcade floor. It was all flashing lights and the noise of money being spent, laughter was everywhere. It was undeniably a good business to be in and she told herself how lucky she was. All the same, she wondered who exactly she was trying to convince. Maybe it was the wedding, seeing Jamsie so happy, so settled, maybe she needed something permanent in her life now, before it was too late.

  * * *

  Chapter One Hundred

  Philly was nervous, but he knew exactly what he had to do. He had no other choice, and God knew he had tried to find another way out. But where was he going to get a grand from? Two, in fact? He would have to worry about the rest of the money when he had supplied her with the first lot - that was his priority. He would sell something, but he knew his father would notice if anything went missing. He was funny like that - he might ignore his kids, but he didn't ignore their possessions. If Philly could just get the money for Tiffany he would worry about paying it back later. The sooner she got rid, the sooner he would be able to breathe in peace again. He could hear the talk from the kitchen, and knew that his father and Timmy were set for the night. It was strange really, because for all the money, and the huge house, his father still felt most comfortable in the kitchen. It was a real joke that he fought hammer and tong to make something of himself, yet deep down he still felt more at home in what was essentially a woman's domain.

  Philly felt his father's haphazard neglect deeply, even though it had happened periodically throughout his life. He was either all over them like a rash, or it was like they were strangers to him. His mother had always tried to tell them that it was only because he was very busy, but he knew that was shite. His father was a nutter, and that was the long and the short of it. He thought he saw more than Timmy did. Timmy was all rugby and lashings of ginger beer. He could step outside it, go to his posh mates and hibernate from the family for a while, whereas Philly wanted, needed to be near the man who blanked him on a regular basis. He hoped every day it would change and he would be treated like the golden boy, the first-born. He had always craved his father's attention, and when he didn't get it he felt it acutely. Just thinking about it made him angry. He sat in his bedroom, biting his nails, waiting for his chance to go downstairs and do what he needed to do. He looked around him at the beautiful room he slept in when it suited him. Knew that all his mates were envious of his lifestyle. Yet he would give anything to have their lives at that moment.

  He was terrified about this bloody kid, and he could kick himself for not taking proper precautions; he had ridden her bareback, and the thought of what he could have caught was driving him mad. He had to unload her and the kid soon as, then he would get himself looked at properly, buy a gross of condoms, and get himself out and about again. But first things first, he had to assemble a grand because Tiffany would want the money tout suite. She was a thieving, lying slag. And she could be a mouthy mare into the bargain. The way he felt now, he would cheerfully kick the fucking thing out of her if he had to. Anything rather than admit he had been caught out by a fucking female scoundrel with big tits and a brain like a steel trap.

  He stood up. He was nervous and he was stoned. Slipping out the door he made his way along the landing. He could hear his mother in her bedroom; as always the TV was on, and he knew she would be sitting in bed drinking and watching crap.

  'Is that you, Philly?'

  He could hear the need in her voice and, opening her bedroom door, he popped his head round. The last thing he needed tonight was her following him all over the place, and when pissed she was capable of doing just that.

  'You all right, Mum?'

  Christine was sitting in bed; as always she looked like a picture, even her hair was perfect, how she did it he didn't know. But even pissed out of her brains she could still tidy up behind herself. It was surreal really. She nodded, pleased at his attention and for a split second he felt guilty - for all her faults she loved him and Timmy. Loved them too much really, had suffocated them since he could remember. One of his earliest memories was of her picking him up and kissing him, and him fighting to get away from her. Even then he had sensed the naked need in her for human contact, and he knew she wouldn't get that from his father.

  'You all right, son? You seem preoccupied somehow.'

  He grinned at her, his even white teeth were perfect and, winking at her, he said jauntily, 'Just tired, Mum. Granddad has me hard at it in the shops.'

  She smiled, and he saw that she was still a good-looking woman. He knew a few of his mates had harboured salacious thoughts about her when they were younger. 'He's only doing the best for you, Philly. He cares about you, son.'

  Suddenly, she was nearly in tears, and he knew it was time to go. She was so emotional lately, worse than usual. Like everyone else, he assumed it was her medication. Everyone referred to her pill-popping as her medication, it made it seem respectable somehow. But he knew that his joint tonight couldn't do half as much damage as the pills she ate like sweets on a daily basis.

  'I love it there, Mum. Me and Granddad have a laugh together. He tells me all about when you were a little girl!' He was trying to please her, but he knew immediately he had said the wrong thing. She was shaking her head as if in denial at something, though what that was he didn't know and she wasn't saying.

  'I wish you'd known me then, before…' She shrugged gently, her slim shoulders making her look frailer than ever. She got on his nerves when she was like this and, walking into the room, he went to her and kissed her on the top of her head. She smelled of Chanel perfume, cigarettes and stale vodka breath. It was a smell from his childhood and he hated it.

  "Night, Mum, I have to be up in the morning now, don't I?'

  She nodded vaguely. She was already miles away.

  He shut the door quietly behind him and, breathing a sigh of relief, he slipped down the huge staircase his father had insisted on having built, and made his way through to the small office at the back of the house. This was his father's domain, and he knew how to get into the safe that was tucked away behind a large framed photograph of Southend Seafront. The photo showed the arcades at night, with his father, his auntie Breda and his uncle Declan standing in the foreground smiling. Breda looked like she had conquered the world. His father looked like he always did whether it was a photo or real life, he just stared at the camera with that fake smile of his. Declan looked younger and happier than he had in years. Taking the photo off the wall, Philly placed it carefully and quietly against the chair beside the desk. Then, as he went to open the safe the door opened, all hell broke loose.

  'What the fuck are you doing?' His father was standing in the doorway staring at him as if he was an intruder, a stranger, not his own son. 'Are you trying to blag my safe? Nick my fucking poke?' He was shouting now, and Declan and Jamsie were already behind him, assuming he had caught someone trying t
o break in. Philly could see that neither of them expected the culprit to be him.

  As he was dragged physically from the room, and thrown into the kitchen he felt the terror envelop him. He was bleeding, he could feel it dripping from his eyebrow, and he knew he had hit the corner of the large, scrubbed pine table. He could hear Declan's voice through the roaring in his ears.

  'Stop it, Phillip! Calm down and ask the lad what he was doing.'

  Phillip Murphy was like a lunatic now. He hated thieves with a vengeance. He had discovered a weakness in this son of his and it bothered him.

  'I know what he was doing, Declan, he was on the fucking rob! He was on his way into my safe! Mine. That safe is mine. He's a fucking thief, a creeper, no better than a fucking gas- meter bandit. They rob their own and all, you skanking little cunt!'

  It took both Jamsie and Declan all their combined strength to hold him back, and it was only seeing his wife's appalled white face at the kitchen door that eventually calmed Phillip down enough to talk with any real lucidity.

  'Leave him alone, Phillip. Look at his eye, it's bleeding everywhere!' Christine was kneeling beside her son now; the noise and the blood had sobered her up, and she was trying to stem the bleeding with her dressing gown. Young Philly was letting her do whatever she wanted - he knew inside that his father wouldn't attack him again with her beside him and he was grateful to her at this moment.

  'You animal, your own flesh and blood!' Christine was heartbroken, and her voice was loud and angry.

  Phillip tried to justify his violent outburst. 'He was trying to rob his own flesh and blood, Chris. Can't any of you see how fucking disgusting that is?' He was looking around him as if he was surrounded by complete idiots.

  'What were you doing, Philly? Tell your father the truth.' Christine knew it was the only way out for her son. Phillip held great store by the truth, the hypocritical bastard that he was. Hold your hands up, that's what he had always told the boys. Hold your hands up and take the flak. She hated him more now than ever before.

  'Well! Let's hear it!'

  Philly looked at his mother before saying brokenly, 'I got a bird pregnant. I needed money for an abortion for her. I would have replaced it, Dad, I swear. But I didn't want you or Mum to know.' He had said all the right things, and he knew it. Phillip was staring down at his son, his eyes screwed up in consternation.

  'Not that White bird, Tight Fanny or whatever she calls herself?'

  Philly nodded and, pushing his mother's hands away, he saw his father bending down, trying to help her up. Phillip was all gentleness now. His huge hands were underneath her oxters, and she was letting him lift her. It was as if she knew the danger was over. Phillip sat his wife in one of the Carver chairs and, his whole demeanour changing once more, he said softly, 'You all right, Christine?'

  She nodded, all the fight gone now that the danger to her son had passed.

  Lighting a cigarette, Phillip looked at his brothers and said loudly, 'Fucking imagine impregnating a White. They are like the missing link that lot, her old man still drags his knuckles on the pavement when he walks!'

  Jamsie and Declan laughed, but it was laughter tinged with relief. There was blood all over the kitchen floor, Philly looked like he had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, and Christine was also covered in claret. It was surreal, because Phillip was acting like nothing had happened. Nothing of importance anyway. He was even chaffing his boy, making a joke about it all.

  'You dozy little sod, if you're gonna dip your wick, son, make sure you're wearing something. How much do you need?'

  Philly swallowed heavily; he felt sick, and he knew he was probably concussed. He had seen more than a few stars as he had hit the corner of the table. But he answered his father, voice thick with pretend bravado. 'I told her a grand up front and a grand after. That way I could be sure she'd get shot. Money talks, Dad, as you're always telling me.'

  Phillip digested what he had been told. 'I'll give you the money, son. It's worth it to get rid of scum like that. But the moral of this story is, tell me when things go pear-shaped and I'll help you, mate. Lie, cheat and steal and I won't.'

  Watching on, Declan felt sorry for the lad, but it was Christine that really worried him, she looked awful. Well, worse than usual anyway. Much worse, in fact. She looked like she had been drained of blood completely, her skin was a pasty white and she looked seriously ill, like she had a disease or something.

  'Are you sure you're OK, Christine?'

  She shook her head and started to heave, loud, dry heaves, and the men instinctively moved a step away from her in case she vomited over them. All except Phillip that is. He knelt in front of her and held her comfortingly until she relaxed then, smiling, he said gently, 'When were you going to tell me, babe?'

  She looked into his eyes and she knew then, without a doubt, that he realised she was pregnant. His eyes were soft, yet she could see he was mocking her. He had been waiting to see what she was going to do. As always, he was one step ahead of her, and the knowledge made her finally accept that she would never win. Could never win. Not where he was concerned anyway.

  He looked at the cupboard they kept the bin in and winked at her. So he had found the pregnancy tests. If she had not been so frightened and so pissed she would have had the sense to get rid of them properly. It suddenly occurred to her that he probably checked through the rubbish, because he had always somehow controlled her life.

  Every last second of it.

  The others saw that something was occurring between Phillip and Christine, but none were aware of exactly what it was. Standing back up, Phillip said gaily, 'She's in the club, aren't you, Chris? What a momentous night, a new Murphy.' He looked at his son as he said it. Jamsie was frightened; he couldn't handle Phillip like this, he knew as well as Declan that there was an underlying snide going on, and it felt wrong and it felt dirty.

  Declan wondered at a man who could welcome a child with a woman who so obviously needed help with not only her drinking, but her drug-taking and her mental health, yet would offer to play a part in the demise of what was essentially his grandchild. For all Phillip's Catholic beliefs he was quick enough to destroy a child when it suited him. As for poor Christine, she couldn't have another child; she was far too fragile, mentally and physically. He stepped away from the little tableau almost by instinct. There was something wrong here, very wrong, and he was as trapped as the poor mare sitting on the chair.

  Philly was in a daze, all he could focus on was the blood. It seemed to be everywhere now. He felt his eyebrow, it was sore, but it wasn't bleeding any more. It was a second or two before he realised it was coming from his mother.

  'Mum… Mum! What's wrong?'

  The terror in his voice communicated itself to the others in the room and, as Christine groaned in pain and doubled over holding her belly, Phillip said loudly, 'Oh, for fuck's sake! Call an ambulance.' Then kneeling back down he enveloped his wife in his arms, as if protecting her from the world. He was playing the worried husband now and, motioning to Jamsie, he shouted, 'Get Philly cleaned up and out of here before the ambulance arrives.'

  Jamsie had been watching it all as if it was a film. Philly was battered and bloodied and in obvious need of stitches, Declan was, for the first time in years, speechless and unable to do anything constructive, and Phillip was acting like the most concerned husband in the world. Jamsie wondered if being brought back into this family was something to be considered lucky after all. In fact, he was beginning to wish he was still the fucking outcast. At least then he would be spared all this shit. But he did as he was asked; where Phillip was concerned you didn't really have much choice in the matter.

  * * *

  Chapter One Hundred and One

  'Come here, son.'

  Declan heard Veronica's voice, and it broke him out of his reverie. He was still stunned at what had happened in Phillip's kitchen. Seeing all that, and knowing that it was just a normal evening for Phillip had reinforced his worries about
his brother and his mental state.

  He had come straight to his mother's from the hospital; he was sure that would speak volumes to a shrink. But it was the only place he could think to go, because he needed help - they had to do something about Phillip. If he wouldn't listen to him, then Veronica was his only other hope. Phillip needed her to think he was the perfect son, the perfect provider. And she believed it, to his brother's face anyway; but really, she knew better than any of them just how off the wall Phillip really was. Declan loved him, he loved him dearly, but this time Phillip had crossed a line. It wasn't the businesses. Their business was about danger and death. They knew what they were doing there; it wasn't something Phillip would fuck up. What he was fucking up though was everyone around him, and that included Phillip himself. He had never been this bad before, and if he wasn't careful he would take his wife, his kids and his family down with him.

  'Are you listening to me, Declan?'

  He walked to his mother and hugged her and, as she instinctively hugged him back, he wondered how he was going to say what he wanted to say to her. She thought the sun shone out of Phillip, and that was half the trouble. She made him think he was normal.

  'Sit down, Mum, I need to talk to you. Can I get you a drink?'

  She smiled nervously. 'Do I need one?'

  He didn't answer and, as she settled herself down at the kitchen table, he poured them both large Irish whiskies. Placing them on the table he sat beside her, and as Veronica looked at him he wondered how she had managed over the years. She had fed them, clothed them and, in her own way, loved them. Though most of her love had been for her first-born, her Phillip.

  She had married a waster, a man who without her would have faded away into the background of life. She had made him work, made him get up and get out there, and she had taken each penny and stretched it into a pound. His father was basically lazy, and they all knew it, he was a born taker and, in a way, that's where Phillip had got it from. His old granddad used to say Irishmen were either drunks or workers, and occasionally a mixture of the two. The workers worked till they made it, the drunks complained about missed chances. Phillip worked, but he begrudged anyone else having an earn; like their dad, he thought everyone else had that bit more than him. But whereas his father would bemoan his fate and lived for the pub, Phillip went out and earned - no one could take that away from him. Like the old man though, Phillip thought the world began and ended with him, and his wants and his needs.