The Family (2 page)

Christine smiled. She knew better than to argue with her sister-in-law. Breda was a law unto herself; she could make the rest of the family look like choirboys when she got a temper on her, and that was no easy feat.

The Murphys were a dangerous crowd, and no one knew that better than Christine Murphy, wife of the sainted Phillip, and the mother of his sons. She was related to the local nutters by marriage and blood, and frightened out of her wits because she was sinking deeper and deeper into their world on a daily basis. Sometimes, like now, when she saw her children smiling and laughing together in her beautiful home, saw the love that they had from their father's family, she envied them. That had been her once, caught up in their love, caught up in their excitement, their lust for life. It had been a heady drug to her then, had held her in its thrall for years. Until that day, that awful, terrifying day, when she had been forced to open her eyes and see them all for what they really were.

From her mother-in-law, with her ready smile and open arms, to her own husband, a handsome, romantic sociopath who saw her and everyone else in his orbit as his personal property. But worse than everything else was that her sons were clones of their father. Both had idolised him since they were small. Why wouldn't they? He gave them everything they wanted whether they needed it or not.

Recently she had inadvertently found out that her son had planned a murder. Planned it as if it was the most normal, most natural thing in the world. But then, in the Murphy family that
was
natural. As were death, threats and violence.

All in a day's work to them.

It had all gone wrong, but he would try again, she knew that for a fact. This was the legacy she had given them, this was the life she had brought them into. From birth they had been indoctrinated by this family's so-called code of honour. It was something she had cherished once, long ago, when she had been young and foolish. When she had still believed nothing could ever harm her or hers.

But she had to be honest with herself, in the early days she had lived with it quite happily because she had closed her eyes to it all. She had enjoyed the lifestyle, had sought it even. Her mother had crushed her from a child, never let her have a second to herself, so she had learned quickly how to be clever. How to get out and about without her mother's constant interference. But she had ended up embroiled in something she had been too immature, and too naive to really understand. She had fallen for the first boy to give her the time of day, and she had fallen deeply. So deeply he was still the only man she had ever known.

Now it was all finally coming back to bite her, as her father had always said it would. He had warned her, begged her to get away from Phillip Murphy, but she had laughed at him. She had been so determined in those days, had been convinced she knew it all. Was more than capable of looking after herself.

Oh, hindsight was a wonderful thing.

She was chuckling to herself now, and she felt the eyes of Breda on her, even though she had her back to her.

'Are you feeling all the ticket, Christine? You seem nervous.'

Christine turned to face her accuser, for it was an accusation.

Breda was like a bloodhound; she could suss out insincerity faster than she could draw on a cigarette.

'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. Breda was so shocked she didn't answer her for a few moments.

'Keep your hair on, Chris, I was only asking.'

Christine walked from the room and made her way through the large entrance hall into the kitchen. The heat of the Aga hit her, and she went to the back door; opening it, she stood in the doorway and savoured the cold night air.

It was early December, and there was already a frost covering the vast expanse of lawn. It was glistening in the moonlight, making the whole place look like a picture from a fairy tale. It seemed incongruous that all this beauty hid the filth and the hate that was a part of the Murphy family's genetic make-up.

Even her sons had not been immune, in fact they seemed to thrive on it all. Especially one of them, but she blamed herself for that. She had ignored the signs, had pretended that they didn't exist. She had believed that her boys would somehow be untouched by it, would not be part of it all because they had been given a private education and everything their little avaricious hearts had desired.

Wrong again, as she had been about so many things.

'Everything OK, Mum?'

Her elder son Phillip Junior made her jump physically. 'You frightened me!'

He grinned, the living image of his father as he had been when she had first met him. All jet-black hair, and steely blue eyes. Despite being big and overpowering, he looked as if he wouldn't hurt a fly. But as she had found out to her cost, looks could be deceiving. He enveloped her in his arms, a gentle bear hug that belied his real physical power. He had broken another boy's nose and ribs when he had been fourteen - he had underestimated his own strength apparently. His grandmother was good at making excuses for her boys. Then again she had had lots of experience.

'Please, Philly, don't do this tonight. I have a bad feeling on me. Think of Finoula, she's the important one, she's your wife.'

He laughed gently, but his voice had a steely ring to it as he said casually, 'You worry too much, Mum.'

She knew it was futile to say any more; like his father before him, once he made up his mind there was no going back.

'You know something, Mum, you need to chill out. Are you still taking the meds from the doctor?'

She nodded.

'Good. What you really need is a holiday. We'll sort something out, bit of the old currant bun and you'll be as right as rain.'

She smiled in agreement, even though she felt as if her heart was breaking. 'Perhaps you're right. I just feel tired, that's all.'

They both turned as Breda came into the kitchen; she had her grandchild in the crook of one arm, and a heavy-duty shotgun in the other.

'Do me a favour, Philly, would you take this for me? I need to get it cleaned up and put away before the Clancys get here.' She was holding it out as if it was the most natural thing in the world to have a child in one arm and a weapon in the other. Christine watched as Philly took the gun without a second's thought. He was used to firearms and it showed. He checked to make sure it was empty of ammunition, and looked down the sight, almost by force of habit.

'I'll sort it, Auntie Breda, you feed the baby. He's got a big appetite, look at the size of him already!'

Christine watched as if she was outside of it all, no more than an onlooker. The medication was responsible for that. It stopped her wanting to take the gun and mow the whole fucking lot of them down once and for all. Finish this family off, take them out of the game, as her husband would say. Turning her back, she looked once more out into the garden. She didn't see the shrug of despair from her son, but she heard the long, drawn- out sigh that told her Breda was losing patience with her.

Well, it would all be over soon; she had to keep it together long enough to make sure it was finally finished. She would try to ensure at least one of her sons would live long enough to understand why she had done what she was about to do. She feared her actions would make everyone hate her until the day she died. But that was a chance she was willing to take if it meant they would one day have a crack at a normal life.

Book One

From the deepest desires often come the deadliest hate

Socrates (469
bc-399
bc)

Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope of a fool than of him

Proverbs, 26:12

Chapter One

1985

'It must be love, look at his hair!'

Phillip Murphy laughed good-naturedly; his father was the proverbial wind-up, but funny with it.

He knew he looked good and was attractive to the opposite sex. Women and girls had been giving him the glad eye since he was fourteen years old. It was his size; he was what his mother termed 'a fine figure of a man'. Broad shouldered, he stood three inches over six feet. His thick black hair coupled with his dark-lashed blue eyes spoke of the Irish in him. His thick-lipped mouth made him look amenable, friendly, hid the steel that lay beneath his easy smiles. He always got what he wanted, it was a mantra with him. He believed his mother's advice: if you want something, you'll get it, you just have to want it badly enough. Well, he wanted better than his parents, he wanted better than everyone around him, and he was determined to get it.

Phillip liked Christine Booth because she was clean; clean and innocent in every way. She looked at him as if he was a god, and actually to her he was the next best thing. The thought made him smile again.

His mother Veronica watched her favourite child as he grinned with happiness. She knew this was serious all right; he had never brought a girl home before, not like this anyway. He had brought them to his bed, late at night, and hustled them out with the dawn, assuming she was too dense to work out what had gone on.

This one was different. All she had heard lately was Christine this, and Christine that. But, as pleased as she was that he was in love, she also knew the girl was only fifteen years old. Phillip was twenty-one, that was a big age difference to most people. But then again, five years from now, the difference between them would be nothing. It was the 'schoolgirl' tag that she was bothered about, and there was no getting away from it. Veronica knew that Christine had to be home by nine every night - not that that meant much in the grand scheme of things, people could have a bit of the other at five o'clock in the day. Early nights didn't guarantee anything, she knew that from experience. Look at her Breda. Veronica loved her daughter but acknowledged that she had a voracious appetite for men. She worried Veronica with her attitude to sex. Breda was what they would have called 'overfriendly' in her day, these days she was just called 'oversexed'.

Veronica had met her husband at the Shandon Bells Irish club in Ilford when she was fourteen years old; he had been eighteen and working on the buildings. Fresh over from Dublin Phillip Murphy had danced with her, seduced her, and married her three years later. Her father had not been thrilled but he had come round eventually, especially once her belly started to grow, and her mother had hastily arranged the wedding to save everyone embarrassment. The priest who had married them had christened their child four months later. Her father grew to love her husband Phillip and she had been blessed with a very happy marriage and a lovely family with her three boys and Breda.

These days it was different: girls were looking older, acting older than their years, but were still treated like children in their homes. In her day, a fifteen year old was out working and looking for the man of her dreams; a father for her children. At fifteen, she was assumed to be on the brink of womanhood.

This Booth girl worried Veronica. She was from a good family, well-to-do in comparison with her lot - Catholic too, so that was a bonus as far as Veronica was concerned. But she also knew that Christine's mother was a hard-faced harridan who thought she was better than everybody else. To be fair, though, the father seemed nice enough. Veronica had been to his shop many times, and he had always been very pleasant to her.

Now her son was talking engagement rings and lifetime commitment. Veronica smiled; the way young people talked about their lives today was laughable. Not like in her day. Then, you married in the eyes of God and you took what came your way: the good, the bad and the indifferent. What else could you do? There was no divorce, not for Catholics anyway, not real ones.

Veronica Murphy surveyed her home; it was gorgeous. They had bought their council house and built an extension, so now the kitchen was huge. All melamine units and shiny work surfaces. The floor was her pride and joy, black and white tiles that looked like marble. She was proud of her home, and rightly so. In comparison to the houses around her, it was like a palace. And she had made a good dinner for them all that night. A big roast, with Irish pork and honeyed parsnips. She'd also made roast tatties like the boys loved, along with colcannon and buttered peas. The aroma coming from the oven was mouthwatering. The gravy was all she had left to do, and she knew just how her tribe liked it - thick and dark. A bit like her youngest son, God love him and keep him.

As Phillip Junior began singing along to the radio, Veronica smiled to herself again. He was smitten all right.

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