The Family

by Martina Cole

  'When you find out who it was, what are you going to do, Phil?' Her voice was quiet, matter-of-fact.

  He shrugged, his smile once more without warmth. 'I'll mark their card, Chris, that's all, darling.' He opened his arms in a gesture of innocence, as if he was completely unaware of what she really meant by the question. It was like a game they played where he told her blatant lies and she accepted them as truths. 'What do you think I'm gonna do? I need to know for the future. Fuck me, Chris, this is my brother we're talking about. Even the Filth think he was stitched up. That's why they are coming round here, to set the record straight.'

  She turned away from him, and poured them both out a mug of coffee, the strong aroma of the freshly ground beans heavy in the air. She knew he was bullshitting her but, then again, that suited her down to the ground. Someone had once said that knowledge was power, but, as far as she was concerned, in this world she lived in, knowledge caused nothing but trouble. So she turned the other cheek as always, pretending she was happy to go along with her husband's lies and subterfuge.

  'OK. Whatever you say, Phil. I never discuss anything with anyone anyway, why would I?'

  He slipped his arms around her slim waist and hugged her to him, enjoying the slightness of her frame, and the familiarity of her body. He felt himself getting hard, and she smiled at his reaction to her.

  'You're a blinder, Chris, do you know that? Together me and you will go places. We'll fucking own the world.' He spoke to her in a hoarse whisper, but she could hear the determination in his voice, and she wondered briefly what the price would eventually be for their good fortune. Everything they had they got at someone else's expense, so there had to be a price eventually, she was convinced of that much. It kept her up at night, was the reason she popped her happy pills as Phillip called them.

  But she didn't answer him, instead she turned and pushed herself tighter into his embrace, kidding herself that what she didn't know couldn't really hurt her.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Breda was angry. She had heard the chatter about Phillip and his cronies, had seen that he was more than aware of his brother's incarceration being through a grass, and knew that he was moving heaven and earth to find out who the said grass might be. She also wondered why she was not party to the investigation - that really rankled. She understood Jamsie being sidelined, he was a prize cunt in most respects. But she saw herself as a valid and important member of the family businesses. After all, she brought in a serious earn, and that alone should be enough to include her in everything that was going on; if she was a bloke, of course, there wouldn't be a problem. So being overlooked like this pained her. She worked as hard as any of the men around her, harder in some ways because she had to constantly prove herself worthy of her position. Well, she was determined that this time she would prove her real worth.

  She had never wanted the married and pregnant life, she had too much go in her to settle for some bloke. She wanted to be someone in her own right, achieve things through her own graft. It was the eighties, women were running the country now, and were more than capable of making their own lives, their own luck. She knew she should have moved into her own drum by now. But, in all honesty, her mother's house suited her these days. She had a babysitter on hand, as and when she needed one, and she had all the perks of a family life and none of the hassle of the bills and the loneliness living alone would incur. Besides, her mum needed her at home - Veronica Murphy had trouble letting her daughter go, and Breda knew that worked in her favour. She was still blessed with an almost-single life; her parents allowed her the freedom she craved, and in return she allowed them unrestricted access to their first grandbaby. That was something no one could put a price on. That her son took second place these days to Phillip's offspring she didn't let bother her too much. She had what she wanted and that was enough for her.

  As she drove along a dark country lane in Upminster, she looked out for a dark-green Land Rover. Spying it, she slowed down and then parked neatly behind it. She sat in her silver BMW and waited patiently for the man she was meeting to slip into her passenger seat. Smiling slightly, she watched him as he walked slowly towards her - this was a man she had bedded on more than one occasion. She hoped that there might be a bit of sexual palaver after they had talked. She remembered he was well endowed - not exactly possessed of any finesse in that department, but what he lacked in technique he more than made up for in willingness, and that, as she always said, more than compensated for the lack of small talk.

  As he slid into the seat beside her she was aware of him in every way. The excitement of what she was about to find out only made her feel more powerful sexually. It was about power with her. Always about the power.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Peter Knolls was dressed for work. As a nightclub doorman, he wore an expensive suit and hand-made shirts, and God help anyone who came within two feet of his attire. He was big in every way and he knew it. His sheer brute strength had made him feared and that was a big help in his chosen profession. The rougher clientele of certain establishments were much less likely to kick off when Knollsy, as he was known, was on the door. He was also a dyed-in-the-wool racist, and unafraid to use a firearm. He had all the natural accoutrements his job required, and then some. Add to that his fascination with the female form, and his reputation for shagging till the crack of dawn if he could stay up late enough, and his job was made for him. He spent all night watching strange and collecting phone numbers, while deciding who could deal in his club and who couldn't. He earned a serious wedge and he loved hurting people; all in all it was his dream job. He also listened to everything around him, and his natural quietness made people forget he was there. This stood him in good stead; he was happy to pass along information for certain monetary rewards. Which was what he was about to do now, only this time he was worried about what he had heard whispered. Not that it affected him as such, but because it was such an explosive bit of knowledge, worth a good deal to the right people.

  'All right, Breda? You look well, love.'

  He was staring at her ample breasts as he spoke and she laughed at his audacity. She lit a cigarette, the blackness around them was comforting somehow. It was funny but the dark didn't bother her, she had always embraced it. It hid a lot, and it encouraged you to think. The darkness of this lane was enveloping them, making them invisible to the world. Peter Knolls opened the window; he hated smoking, especially women smoking. It was a filthy habit and he loathed the way his suits stank after a night in the clubs. Breda, knowing this, blew cigarette smoke right into his face. 'What you found out, Pete?'

  'How much you got on you?'

  She sighed. 'Enough. Or would you rather I got Phillip to talk to you? Only he's the one who is moving heaven and earth to find out the score about our Declan. It's up to you.' She was cold towards him now, the hardness of her eyes evident even in the dimness of the car.

  'All right. Fucking relax. No need to get out of your shopping trolley.'

  He was offended and she knew that. It was a calculated gesture. She wanted him annoyed, she was making him aware of who was boss. She knew he could play the game, so she wasn't bothered about it. She had rattied him more than she thought and that was evident when he said quietly, 'You swear that you'll never let on I told you this, not to Phillip, Declan, anyone?'

  She frowned slightly at his words. 'Phillip will give whoever spills his guts the fucking Victoria Cross. I don't know where you've been hiding but he's given word that anyone with any kind of knowledge only had to let him know.'

  Peter Knolls shook his head sadly. 'He might not want to know though, have you thought about that? Neither might you when you find out, did that ever occur to any of you?' He was looking at her face now, staring into her eyes. 'I'm only talking to you now because we're mates.'

  She didn't answer him, she was already working out what he was actually saying to her. Or more to the point, what he was tryin
g to say to her. It wasn't rocket science. She looked him in the eye as she said, 'Before we go any further, how did you come by this information?'

  Peter sighed again. He wished he had never come now, he was in well over his head already. Breda was one thing, but Phillip, he was a different entity entirely. Whereas Breda was all action, quick words, and hasty decisions, Phillip was the opposite. He thought things through, so not only did he make the right decisions, but he also made them at the right time - generally a time that was very advantageous to himself. Always his justice was swift and without any preamble. It was all very easy to Phillip Murphy. He never troubled himself with what ifs, or if onlys. You fucked up, you paid the price.

  Peter's worry was that Phillip might turn out to be one of those people who felt the need to shoot the messenger; after all, this wasn't something he would want broadcast to the nation.

  'You've come this far, you must know you can't go back now. Is it Jamsie, is that what you're trying to tell me?' Breda was screwing up her eyes at the incongruity of it. James was a fucker, a fool, but he wasn't a grass - was he?

  Peter Knolls shrugged. 'Jamsie was caught with three keys of cocaine and a fifteen-year-old girl in his car; he was out of his nut. He was caught over by Heathrow, and the Filth there were convinced he was part of an importing ring. You know how thick they are on the airports, like anyone would try and bring it that way! He offered a deal to get out of it. Sorry, Breda, he might be your brother, but he's a fucking waster. Anyway, the Filth took it and one of them is on my payroll, he bounces for me on the side. A big cunt, all brawn and no brain. He let it slip one night when he was in his cups, so to speak. Jamsie was playing up and they had a bit of a confrontation. I heard the gist of it, and now I don't know if I'm doing the right thing or not. On the one hand, if he was my brother I would want to know, on the other hand, if he was my brother I'd rather not know. So there you have it.'

  Breda was quiet for long moments, her heavy breathing the only sound in the car. 'Who's this Filth? What's his name and where does he live?'

  'What are you going to do, Breda, go round there and knock on his front door?' His voice was slightly mocking and that fuelled Breda's already gathering anger.

  'I ain't scared of the Filth, I ain't scared of no one, and that includes my brother Phillip. He'll want to know what you told me, you do realise that.' She threw the last bit in to frighten Peter, to pay him back for his disrespect of her and her reputation, a reputation that was gaining momentum by the week. She would not be treated like a second-class citizen by anyone, especially not nightclub doormen whose only job requirements were a broad chest and a penchant for fighting drunks. She wasn't going to let him have his wicked way either. He could kiss that goodbye and all.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty

  Jamsie was stoned - not just mellow, he was stoned out of his nut. As he rolled himself another joint he wondered at how easy life could be if you just had the good sense to plan everything down to the last detail.

  June Pines was lying in the bed watching him languorously. Say what you liked about Jamsie, he could fuck for England, stoned or not. He was a waster, as her mother was constantly reminding her, and she knew that well enough. It didn't stop the attraction though, in fact it only enhanced it for her. He was good-looking and she liked the danger of him. She liked the knowledge that his name was feared around their way, and she got a kick out of the fact that her mother was more than aware of it. If she was honest, she would admit that it had been a big part of his initial attraction for her; now it was developing into a genuine romance, at least she hoped it was. She had been round the turf more times than a greyhound, and she knew that there were not many who could satisfy her like Jamsie Murphy. Christ Himself knew, she had tried out enough blokes in her lifetime. In fact, she was considering a move if this thing with Jamsie didn't work out. Her reputation was preceding her these days and only being with someone like Jamsie could hold the remarks in check. She had a cousin who lived near Birmingham who said that she was welcome to come and share her flat with her; she had a baby and, by all accounts, the talent up there was for the taking. It was something to think about anyway.

  She took the joint gratefully from Jamsie and pulled on it deeply, letting the grass envelop her mind and iron out any problems she might foresee. She loved the feeling of floating above herself. Feeling the fluidness of her own body. Jamsie was noisily trying to clear his throat and, as he coughed over and over again, his eyes caught hers and they both started to crack up laughing, as if it was the funniest thing they had ever heard. Really laughing, their eyes running with tears.

  The peculiar buzz that grass produced had reduced them to hopeless wrecks of laughter, but now they were quiet again, both engrossed in their own thoughts. Jamsie was lying beside her, and she was tucked under his arm, enjoying the feel of him, the smell of him. Somewhere outside a car went past and the familiar sound of Bob Marley was wafting up the stairs. 'Redemption Song' was one of her favourite tracks. She closed her eyes and let the music wash over her, she felt so relaxed again. The sound of feet on the stairs didn't bother either of them at first, but the door being kicked in alerted them both to the fact that something serious was about to occur.

  Breda Murphy's red, furious face told them that it was trouble. As Breda and her henchmen dragged Jamsie bodily from the bed, screaming obscenities at him all the while, June was relieved that the woman hadn't come looking for her. She looked angry enough to commit murder.

  As June scrambled into her clothes and ran terrified from the chaos in the bedroom, she decided there and then that Birmingham was suddenly the high spot of the universe. She was packed and on a train north within two hours. She had a feeling she should get out of Dodge, as her father was always remarking, his penchant for the cowboy films of his youth always spattering his daily conversations. She liked Jamsie a lot, but his family, especially his sister, seemed to feel differently about him. She didn't know what had caused the commotion but she was sensible enough not to hang around to find out.

  She didn't know that much about the gangster lifestyle, but even she knew that when your own sister and three men with baseball bats set about you, it was a serious breach of familial etiquette. She repaired her make-up, got herself a coffee and sat back in the train seat with a sigh of relief. This was just the push she needed to start her young life anew. She had no intention of being pulled in as a material witness by the Old Bill. As far as she was concerned her life in the Smoke was well and truly over. She sighed with relief; it had been a close shave all right, and she wanted to put it as far behind her as possible. She wondered briefly if Jamsie was OK, then she forced him from her mind. She knew that whatever happened, she would be the furthest thing from his mind, and she was determined to return the compliment.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Phillip was seething, only now the anger was directed at his sister. How dare she take this matter into her own hands! Who the fuck did she think she was?

  As he drove towards his mother's house he could feel black fury consuming him. Not that anyone looking at him would see that of course, at least no one who wasn't really close to him. He knew his biggest strength was the fact he never look harassed about anything. He always looked cool, calm, and, as his mother often joked, collected. But inside he was a writhing mass of hate and that hate was right now directed at Breda. She had gone too far this time. Fucking baseball bats in public, letting the world know their fucking business. He had already received three calls about it before he had left the house. What did she think, that her little escapade would be overlooked? She had just advertised to the world that their brother was a fucking grass, and she thought that would help them in some way? Why not go the whole hog and have it advertised in the fucking Romford Recorder and the London Daily News? The silly, stupid bitch. And as if that wasn't bad enough he now had to go and sort out his fucking mother, who was terrified of what was going to happen to her only da
ughter, let alone her fucking battered and bemused son! It was like living in a circus, they were all fucking clowns of one type or another. He was already trying to minimise the damage that dozy mare had caused; the Filth were being weighed off, and that wasn't fucking cheap at any time. Breda had made them look like a bunch of muppets. Incapable of getting their own house in order in a private and dignified manner.

  Well, he was going to take her down a peg, and she would remember this fuck-up until the day she died.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  'What possessed you, girl? Your own brother!'

  Veronica's voice was thick with tears, she was still unable to comprehend what had taken place in her own family.

  'He grassed up Declan, how many fucking times, Mother!'

  Veronica screamed back at her daughter, her thick Irish accent even more pronounced with her anger. 'I don't believe it! I won't believe it! James Joachim Murphy might not be the brightest star in the constellation but he wouldn't be that fecking stupid. Use your head, Breda! He'd have to be halfway to the county home to even dream of doing something that fecking stupid.' She looked to where her husband was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a large Scotch. He shook his head at her then, refusing to get involved.

  'Will you talk some sense into your daughter, Phillip, not just sit there like the fecking village idiot.'

  There was dread in her voice now, fear that all she had heard was true. If it was true her Jamsie, the biggest eejit this side of the Irish Sea, would indeed be safer in a mental institution than in his own home. Breda was bad enough, but Phillip, her eldest, he would be like a man demented. There was no way he would let Jamsie walk away from something like this; it was inconceivable that it could even have happened. Surely they had it wrong and some begrudger was telling them lies to try and cause trouble between them all? Wasn't it bad enough she had lost her lovely Declan without them taking her Jamsie away from her as well?