The Family (36 page)

Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

    'Mrs Murphy - Christine - I know something is bothering you. I really think that if you would just share it with someone, you would feel a lot better.'

    Christine looked at this kindly woman and stifled the urge to laugh out loud. Florence Cartwright was her therapist in rehab and she meant well. Christine just wished she could say that the main thing that was bothering her was the fact that the woman wouldn't wear a bra, or deodorant. She hummed, as the boys would say.

    Christine quite liked this rehab, it was nice. She felt safe here, safe and calm. Lovely rooms, quiet time, making your own bed. She liked the people here too, all friendly, all from good homes and backgrounds. People who, like her, had secret problems that drink and drugs assuaged. But
unlike
her, those people could explore them, whereas she couldn't. Daren't. She could just see this stupid woman's face if she did decide to
share
, if she leaned forward in her chair and said confidentially, 'Well, you're right, Florence. It's my husband, see? He is a murdering bastard, nearly murdered his own sister once, but I stopped him. Because, you see, for some reason, he likes me. Loves me in fact. Well, you already know that - you keep telling me how lucky I am to have his support. He arranged for the abortion of his grandchild, while celebrating the news of another child for himself. A child I was determined would never get a glimpse of him or his hate. He is a terror to his sons.

    Either ignores them shamefully or suffocates them with his attention. His whole life revolves around criminal activity which, as you can imagine, he doesn't like me talking about. He would call it
grassing,
see, not
talking
, or self-expression, just plain old grassing, so stop writing everything down if you don't want to disappear - for disappear you will. Into the big ovens he had installed on our humungous farm. Unless he wants to make an example of you, of course, to the other therapists here, then your body
will
be found. Stabbing is one of his favourite modes of murder - more personal, like - and then your poor family will have to live with what had happened to you for ever. Believe me, I know. He even killed his mate once, his really good mate. My Phillip is an equal-opportunities killer - he doesn't care who it is - woman, man, friends, family, strangers. He also has most of the police, or Filth as he calls them, in his employ, so they aren't much use either. I am trapped in a marriage that I hate, and I can't leave, you see, because no one leaves my Phillip. He would take that as a personal insult and it would really annoy him, and believe me,
Florence
, you don't want to annoy him. So what do you suggest I do,
Florence
? What's
your
take on the situation?'

    But of course she wouldn't say a word, she wouldn't ever say a word to anyone. Christine was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them. It was strange, but since she had been here, and been off the drink and the drugs, she felt better in herself, but she was also able to think more clearly. Maybe it was the environment, knowing she wasn't going home yet, maybe that made her feel safe enough to think properly. Or it might just be that she was straight for the first time in God knew how long. She had at least a few more weeks of not having to deal with the house, and her family, and that included the boys. They were his now, she could see that more and more on each visit they made. It was Dad this, and Dad that. They were even working for him. Even her baby, her Timmy had changed from a nice, likeable lad, to a thug who even her own father thought was some kind of hero. What chance did she have against all that? What chance did any of them have?

    Christine turned her attention back to her therapist. 'I wish you'd stop saying all this to me. I just like a drink, that's all. I got used to the tranqs, liked the feeling they gave me, so I took more than was good for me. I had three private doctors at one time prescribing me everything I wanted. You know, Florence, everything doesn't have to be profound, or deep. Some people, like me, are just weak, love. Weak.'

    Florence Cartwright looked at this lovely woman and sighed inwardly. Christine Murphy was being eaten up inside and, whatever it was, until she dealt with it, she would never be cured. She had seen this time and time again - women who were unable to cope with their lives so they disappeared inside a bottle. But there was something deeply disturbing about the way this woman kept everything inside herself. She would blow one day and, when she did, the blast would be heard from Land's End to John O'Groats. It had to be something like childhood abuse, probably from someone she trusted. Florence had ruled the father out, there was genuine affection there, nothing untoward at all. Whatever this was, it was consuming this woman like a cancer; you could see the terror in the back of her eyes. Feel the fear that emanated from her at any mention of what might be the root cause of her self-abuse. One thing Florence knew though, she would keep trying to help her. She would talk to the husband again; he was such a nice man, and his obvious love for this broken woman was almost painful to observe.

    Christine lit a cigarette, and sat back in the chair. She liked Florence, but God knew, for all her so-called education she was as thick as shit where the real world was concerned. Phillip had given her the usual old flannel he reserved for what he termed posh birds. He made sure he hung on her every word, and agreed with her wholeheartedly, whatever she said. Florence, of course, had loved it. Phillip had charmed her, as he charmed everyone. As he had once charmed Christine herself.

Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

    'Do you think Mum's getting better, Dad?'

    Phillip nodded but he was distracted. He was making sure the industrial furnaces he'd installed in the big barn were running at the peak of their capabilities. He loved it in this place, it was a real buzz just to walk in here and know what had happened there and relive it. He could almost assuage his need for violence by coming here. Many a night he strolled up to the barn, with a glass of Scotch and a nice cigar, and he would sit quietly and reminisce alone about the people he had fed into the flames. 'She's on the mend, mate. You know your mum, always liked the drink, I'm afraid.'

    Philly looked at his father sadly. 'Do you think losing the baby is what done her head in this time?'

    Phillip nodded again and, turning to face his sons, he said gently, 'She lost the baby because of the drinking and the drugs and if she had carried it full-term it would have been seriously damaged. So in a way, it was a godsend. But obviously, we keep that to ourselves, boys. Never let people know the truth about your real life, right? You give people what you want them to know, and you edit your stories so they only hear what you want them to hear. Your mum's situation is something I have lived with for years, and I protect her from herself
and
from gossip, and you two have to do the same, OK?'

    The boys looked taken aback at his candour and that pleased him. Phillip believed that if Christine had her way, he would be portrayed as the bad bastard as usual, so he was just getting his side of the story in.

    'I knew about the baby for a while, and I was waiting for her to tell me. That's probably why I went for you like I did, Philly. You know, it's hard dealing with someone like your mum. As much as I love her, she is a liability in many ways. She has to be looked after, looked out for constantly, so I get a bit bad- tempered at times. It's frustrating, because I only want to help her, you know? It breaks my heart to see her like she is.'

    The boys agreed with him, and he knew they understood it from his point of view now. The baby business had made them both feel very protective of her, and he preferred it when they were nice to her. Still, they hated that she had 'problems', and he used that. Phillip smiled and said in a mock Irish accent, 'If she couldn't cook, I'd have aimed her out the door years ago.'

    The boys laughed, pleased that their father was making light of it all; they knew it had to be hard for him. But in fairness, he looked after her in every way he could, he genuinely loved her. She was the one who was always fucking everything up, not him. As he always said, he had to work, and his work was what gave them the life they had. Even Philly had changed his opinion on that, big time. He saw his father as a hero for putting up with her; he wasn't sure he would be so patient if she was his wife. Timmy, for his part, had more sympathy for his mother but felt she should try harder; after all, they could love her to bits, but unless she helped herself, there was nothing anyone could do.

    When Phillip thought they had had long enough to digest what he had told them, he changed the subject quickly and, in a businesslike tone, he said, 'Now, boys, look at this gauge. When it's getting full use, it needs to be at its hottest. So that it will incinerate anything - even bone. Right'

    They both nodded; suddenly the gauge on the furnace was the most interesting thing in the world to them.

    'Is that just for the animal carcasses?'

    Phillip nodded at Timmy, and said jokily, 'Oh yeah, many is the carcass of an animal I've put in this fucker, mate.'

    "Course, Dad, it is a farm.' This from Philly who, like his brother, knew exactly what their father meant.

    'A very
big
farm, now the neighbours have all gone!'

    The boys knew they were learning the craft from the master. Phillip intended to make them legends in their own little lifetimes, and the family would grow bigger and stronger as a result. The next step was grandkids, decent ones, from decent stock, and these boys had the education, the money and, when necessary, the finesse to pass themselves in any company.

    Phillip was energised with his plans, now, and his sons were a big part of it. 'Oh and, boys, one last thing.'

    They looked at him expectantly.

    'Jonnie Piper thinks he is going to kill me, and that means we have to get to him first. Can I count on your support?'

    He saw their eyes widen, wondering if he was joking, and finally he saw the acceptance and the desire to help him out, their father. That he was asking for their help he knew would make them feel needed, valued. They nodded in unison and he smiled at them and winked. 'I knew I could rely on you two, you're good boys - the best.'

    As they basked in his praise, he was well pleased with his day's work. Piper would never smell a rat if it was shoved up his arse by a nun! Thick, Scally ponce he was. But Phillip understood him better than he realised - if it was just him and his two lads, Piper would feel safe, feel he had the advantage. He would also have to take the boys out at the same time he took him, that was a given. And Phillip saw that as a personal affront. What had his boys ever done to that cunt he would like to know? Phillip was going to get in first, as always. And he would blood his boys at the same time - once they did the first dirty, and got it over with, it would get easier for them. They were willing lads, and he was proud of them.

    As for the Liverpool connection, Phillip still had mates up there, and he would see to it that they heard his version of events. Never knew when you might need someone somewhere, or something, so it was best to make sure you always kept a degree of friendliness with certain people. Anyway, once Piper was gone, it would leave a space that someone would feel the urge to fill, and whoever it was would owe him big time for his trouble.

    Phillip lit his cigar as they walked back to the house. Oh, what exciting webs we weave, when first we practise to deceive.

Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

    'You're joking, Declan.'

    Declan shook his head in annoyance. 'Why would I fucking joke about something like that, Breda?'

    'When did he decide this?'

    Declan shrugged. 'Who knows when he decides anything? But I talked to him and he's determined.'

    Breda sat down at her desk, she felt as if someone had actually deflated her. She couldn't believe what she was hearing, she was so shocked she couldn't really take it all in. 'But they are only lads still. He can't expect them to go through with it, surely?'

    Declan shrugged again; he was angrier than he had been in years, angry and disgusted at what Phillip wanted to do, not just to his boys, but to himself. Why would anyone want that for their kids?

    'He's calling it "blooding" them. I've already pointed out it ain't like they will be on their first pheasant shoot. They will be killing a person, a real human being.'

    Breda didn't answer him. Her mind was working overtime. If Phillip was bringing the boys into this side of it all, then he expected them to become major players, and if that was the case, where did that leave her and poor old Declan? Admittedly there had been a cooling off between them on Declan's part recently - not that Phillip had noticed anything. But she had, and she knew what had caused it. Declan must feel what she was feeling now, he had to see that Phillip, with his usual disregard for anyone else around him, was taking the boys on as if his brother and sister didn't exist. Well, she would make sure it didn't happen to her, she would prove herself to be indispensable. But it still didn't change the fact that, because of the lads, she was now worried about even having control of the arcades. A few weeks ago she had felt as if this was all she had in life. Now, if she wasn't careful, she wouldn't even have that. There was no way she could work for the boys, not until they were old enough to understand what they were doing anyway.

    And what about her Porrick? He was
older
than the boys, and he was sidelined as a fucking strong arm. Even though she knew he wasn't capable of much else, it still rankled. It seemed as though Phillip was gradually easing her and now Declan out, and she guessed, rightly, that Declan was having the same thoughts, though he would not voice them until he had considered how to explain his actions.

    'Supposing they fuck up? He'll go ballistic.'

    Declan didn't even bother answering that. That was exactly what was worrying him. The trouble with Phillip was he assumed everyone was as willing to kill and maim as he was. Declan knew it was part of their world, but he was sensible enough not to court trouble. Phillip, on the other hand, could find trouble within an order of silent monks if the fancy took him. He could be one awkward ponce. And when he decided he wanted change, he made sure those changes were implemented. It was sad really, because Phillip was an excellent businessman - none better. But it was this side of him that was the problem, and it was coming to the fore more and more lately.

    It always seemed to coincide with Christine's going off her trolley, Declan had noticed. When she wasn't around, or playing up, as Phillip so nicely put it, it seemed to make him more paranoid, more determined to prove himself. When she was away it was as if he knew he had a free rein and acted accordingly - he wiped people out on a whim. Christine seemed to keep him on an even keel, if not inside the household, at least outside it. Christine's opinion of her husband was very important to him, more important than it should be really. That boat had sailed when he had shown her his true self. Because that was the start of all their problems, especially Christine's - she had never been the same since.

    Now it appeared that Phillip was determined to get the boys fully involved and, in some ways, that would be seen as natural to most people. But those boys hadn't been brought up on the estate like his generation of Murphys had. They didn't understand death, not really. The closest they had ever come to it was playing fucking
Grand Theft Auto
, and that wasn't the same thing at all - no matter what people thought. Killing people up close and personal took a lot of bottle, and Declan's big worry, if he was really honest, was that the boys would take to it, and that would be the finish of them.

    He lit a cigarette, and coughed harshly; he really should start on the cigars like Phillip, they were better for you.

    'Come on, Breda, let's go and get drunk.'

    She laughed as she said sarcastically, 'As Phillip always says, when in doubt, do a Christine!'

    It was the nearest they had ever got to running Phillip down, and it showed them both just how the times were changing.