The Family

by Martina Cole

  '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.

  * * *

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty

  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.

  * * *

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-One

  '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.

  * * *

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Two

  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 the
re 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.

  * * *

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Three

  '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.

  * * *

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Four

  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.'