by Martina Cole
She remembered years ago, when they were all small, a man had leapt off a local tower block. Other kids had seen the result and, in their own ways, had felt ill, shocked, everything you'd expect. Phillip had not even batted an eyelid - he had been fascinated more than anything. It had been then that she had started to watch him. She had seen him stick up for his brothers and sister, but more because they were his family than because he cared what happened to them. It was as if to disrespect them you were disrespecting him.
When the family's pet rabbit had died he had watched the others crying, and she knew he had tried his hardest to cry with them, but it just hadn't happened. It couldn't happen, because he didn't know how to care. It was as if he was missing something in that department. She had always thought him a strange child, even as a small baby he had not reacted like the others. Quiet, rarely crying and never smiling. He was always detached somehow, and she had done what many a mother before her had done; she had made excuses for him. She had rationalised his behaviour and made it seem normal. Told the school he had always been quiet, that he didn't understand that if you cut someone then they would bleed - it wasn't that he wanted to hurt the other child, it was just that he was fascinated at how things happened. He had always had an inordinate interest in blood and death. He had devoured horror books as a teen and she had seen that as somehow proving her right, he wasn't odd, he was just fascinated by the macabre. His teachers had questioned his behaviour; he had fought like the other boys but, unlike them, he had never known when to stop the fight, had always had to be pulled off the offender before he killed them - and she had no doubt that kill them he would should they provoke him enough. Phillip lived by a completely different set of moral and ethical codes. Codes that made sense only to him.
But over the years he had given himself a polish of sorts; he had learned how to be a part of society, how to blend in. And this had given Veronica a measure of peace - until all this, of course. Now the old fears were back with a vengeance. The terror that he was without real feelings of any kind. She wiped away the tears of frustration and terror that rolled down her cheeks. Now his amazing temper was focused on his own family, and she was not sure how this night was going to end. That her own child frightened her was bad enough, but that she had no real control over him bothered her even more.
She took her rosary beads from her pocket and started a decade of Hail Marys, praying that Our Lady, the Mother of God would see it in her heart to ease the burden of her pain, and save her family for her this night.
She didn't hold out much hope.
* * *
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Phillip looked at his sister as she lay on the kitchen floor. She was curled up in the foetal position, her whole demeanour now one of fear, repentance - and pain.
He had been holding back his true nature for years now. He knew that his haphazard brand of violence was not seen as the norm by most people, but he felt that his natural instincts were what gave him the edge in his world and he used them to that end. Now, this excuse for a fucking female had made him step out of character; she had forced him to retaliate, and now the genie was out of the bottle he was seriously considering killing her. Get her off his fucking back once and for all.
That she would dare to make a fool of him in front of the very people they relied on for their livelihoods was extremely stupid, and enough to bring the fucking authorities down on them. The Filth would have a field day seeing the Murphys implode, and in spectacular fashion at that. All killing each other, and doing it in full view of anyone who cared to have a gander. That she thought she could get away with it told him he had made a grave error of judgement in trusting her. Well, that wasn't going to ever happen again. He had given her far too much leeway, had let her believe she was in control of her own life, and she had done what all fucking idiots eventually did - she had believed her own press. She thought that her silly little local reputation gave her some kind of fucking swerve where the real world was concerned. She played to the gallery, while he took the money on the door. It was the difference between them and it always would be. Well, now he had to show her just what a mega fuck-up she'd made, not just for herself, but for him and everyone they knew. She needed the lesson of all lessons.
Walking towards her he kicked her, with all his strength, in the small of her back; so great was its power that it forced her two feet across the floor, and she slammed into the bottom of the cupboard doors. The thud was loud in the quiet of the kitchen. He was grudgingly impressed that she didn't cry out, that went a small way towards abating his anger slightly. He admired people who were strong, who were able to take what was coming to them. It was this part of his sister that showed she was a Murphy.
He spat at her. 'I could kill you, Breda, for the grief you've caused me.'
She wasn't about to answer him, she knew he needed to talk now and she was happy to let him. Her eyes were tightly shut, and her instincts told her not to make eye contact with him in any way. Just let him run off his steam. Let him get it out of his system. She could hear him smoking again, the click of the lighter like a gunshot in the quiet of the room. She was in the most precarious position of her life, but there was nothing she could do about it. She had to let this run its course; even her mother had walked away from it, and that alone told her everything she needed to know. But she swore to God and all the saints that if she survived this she would never again take anyone or anything for granted as long as she lived.
Phillip smoked his cigarette slowly, sipping at his whisky occasionally. Sometimes, when he was very angry, like now, he had difficulty keeping his mind concentrated. He pictured himself doing things, right now he could picture himself boiling the kettle and pouring it all over her fucking greasy head. The thought made him smile - that would get a reaction from her all right. That would get her on the move.
He began laughing gently, almost chuckling, and this sound was far more frightening to Breda than anything else she had heard.
'All my fucking hard graft, out the door in five minutes because you couldn't resist showing off could you, eh, Breda? Had to be the hard bird, hard Breda Murphy. A bloke with tits.'
The anger was building in his voice once more. She knew she had to keep quiet and as still as possible, but her back felt like it was broken, and her face was stinging, the swelling was so bad on her lips she was having difficulty breathing. She could taste blood every time she swallowed. Breda knew she was in a bad way, and that she would be much worse before the night was through. She was praying in her head, over and over, begging the gods to help her get out of this situation. She was bargaining with the Lord like many a coward before her, only she feared it was all too late.
As Phillip walked back over to her she held her breath in anticipation, expecting another blow of equally ferocious proportions. As she tensed her body, ready, she thought she was hallucinating as she heard her sister-in-law's voice calling out loudly, 'Phil… Phillip, are you in there?'
Breda heard her brother swearing under his breath, and knew that Christine really was there, had turned up at the house to save her. Breda could feel the tears breaking through her closed eyelids; the relief was palpable now, and her body started to shudder as shock set in.
Phillip Murphy was looking at his wife as if she had just grown a separate head on her shoulders in front of his eyes as he registered the shock and the disgust in her face. He knew that his mother was behind Christine coming here, shaming him further. Oh, would this fucking day never cease to surprise him? Would this day never fucking end?
Christine walked tentatively into the kitchen, and he could sense the fear emanating from her, almost smell it. His wife's fear affected him in a way Breda's failed to, he needed her goodwill, needed her to think well of him.
'What's going on, Phillip…? Come on, Breda, get up off the floor, love, did you fall over or something?'
It sounded silly even to her own ears, but Christine knew in her heart that she had to pretend she ha
d no real idea what was going on here. She knew that her husband was not only volatile, but that he'd had some kind of break with reality. She had sensed this only a few times before, and she had been loath to explore her feelings then. She was even less inclined to think too much about it now.
She bent over Breda offering her a hand, and trying to smile reassuringly at her. The situation was so surreal she wondered briefly if she had stumbled into some kind of twilight dream world. There was whisky all over the floor and Breda looked like she had been flattened somehow, her whole face was swollen and already bruising. But it was Phillip who was worrying her - he looked vacant, unaware of what was happening around him, but she knew that he was more than aware and was watching them both with an intensity that made her feel he could see into their minds. She was pulling Breda's hands from around her head, making her let go, silently trying to impress on her how important it was to get up off the floor and away from Phillip as soon as possible. Once she was out of his sight she would be safe, for a while anyway.
'Come on, Bred, get up, will you? I'll make us a nice cup of tea and we'll all sit down and have a chat. I'm freezing, I need a hot drink.' She could hear the desperation in her own voice, hated herself for her weakness. She knew she needed to be strong tonight in order to get Phillip out of that house without doing his sister any more harm. But she was shaking with terror. This was the father of her children, and the thought that he could have passed this vicious trait on to the boys, along with his good looks, was weighing heavy on her mind.
Breda finally seemed to realise she had to move, and she slowly and gradually pulled herself up into a sitting position, all the time avoiding her brother's gaze and concentrating on Christine's eyes. Eyes that were telling her to keep calm, and do as she was told.
Phillip watched the display as if it was the singularly most fascinating thing he had ever witnessed in his life. His wife, his little Christine, helping foul-mouthed Breda, it was an incongruous situation, and it should never have happened. It wouldn't have happened if Breda had not been the catalyst for all the ills this day had brought him, and now this last humiliation was almost too much to bear. He pictured himself taking the bread knife from his mother's drawer, slicing it into his sister's liver over and over again, saw the pool of blood as it spread pleasingly across his mother's lovely floor.
But he knew that Christine couldn't see that, could never see anything like that. Christine didn't understand the real world, the world she lived in, and he didn't want her to. He didn't want her tainted with it, like the others were tainted. Christine was too good for this, she was far, far too good. In every way.
Phillip turned abruptly and walked out of the house, unable to tolerate the scene before him any longer without retaliating in some explosive and frightening way.
When the front door closed behind him, Christine felt her sister-in-law start to cry. She held Breda to her as she cried loudly, and with absolute abandon.
* * *
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In intensive care, Jamsie opened his eyes to find his mother sitting by his bed. It took him a few minutes to remember what had happened to him; when he did, he closed his eyes again, wishing he had never woken up in the first place. He heard his mother praying softly, could hear the gentle clicks as she passed the rosary beads through her fingers at the end of each prayer. It was comforting for him, reminded him of when he was a kid and she'd make them all say the rosary in May for Our Lady, Queen of Heaven.
He felt the sting of tears then; everything he had ever known was gone now, everything he had thought would always be there, that he had taken for granted, was gone. He had pulled some stunts in his time, and they were legion, but they were nothing compared to getting Declan put away. He had crossed a line, and there was no going back.
His mother leant towards him; he could smell the mints on her breath and, opening his eyes, he looked at her sadly. 'Mum?'
She stared into his eyes for a long moment before she said gently and forcefully, 'You should have died, Jamsie, you treacherous little bastard.'
* * *
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Veronica was worried. Phillip had been missing for five days, and she was once more sitting in her daughter-in-law's kitchen, watching her grandsons' antics, and hoping against hope that her boy would walk in the front door as if nothing had happened.
That was how these things usually panned out - after a bout of violence when he was young he would go off somewhere, and she would have the heart across her until he came back home. She wasn't frightened of anything happening to him, she was more worried about him hurting other people. He wasn't able to calm himself down, that was the trouble, and anyone in his path was easy prey. She knew from experience how he could get, knew that he was dangerous and incapable of controlling himself when things went too far. He had to hide away and try to wait out his immense fury. She knew the score, she was only nonplussed now because it was so long since he had experienced an episode like this one she had secretly hoped they were a thing of the past.
Yet if she was honest with herself, she doubted whether it was possible to grow out of that kind of anti-social behaviour. Phillip was, as her husband had once remarked, a complete nut-bag. She had laughed at the epithet at the time, but now it seemed to sum him up perfectly. She had seen Christine as his saving grace, had believed that his feelings for the girl proved he was at least normal enough to love on some level, and the same with the boys she had produced for him. Around his wife, he was a different person, the person Veronica knew he wanted to be. It was all a pretence, of course, she realised that now - his whole life was one big game. She looked around her at the lovely home he had provided for his family, and knew that, like Christine and his boys, this was his proof to the world that he was successful, that he was different to his peers. He saw himself as above everyone else and she knew how much store her Phillip put on how other people perceived him and his.
Now, thanks to Breda and that piece of shite Jamsie, he was back to where he was ten years previously. Between them they had destroyed their own family. She would never forgive either of them.
Her son might not be all the ticket in comparison to most other people, but he was her first-born and she loved him more than all the others put together. He needed her more than they did, even though he didn't actually realise that himself. Phillip was broken: it wasn't anything she had done, he had been born that way, and as such he was her responsibility. That, as far as she was concerned, was what being a mother was about.
* * *
Chapter Forty
Breda was like a caged lion. She sat in her mother's house and waited, feeling like she had the Sword of Damocles hanging over her head. She knew that Phillip would be back at some point, but when? And what kind of mood would he be in when he arrived? She could kick herself for forgetting just how dangerous her brother could be. She had really believed he would have thanked her for her actions towards Jamsie, and she saw now that it was this belief that had caused this terrible retribution to come down on her. She had really overestimated her own strength, and her brother's capacity for coping with serious aggravation. It was years since he had gone off on one; like her mother, she had believed he had, if not grown out of his rages, at least managed to control them.
Seeing how wrong she was had knocked her confidence completely. It reminded her of when they were kids and they had all been terrified of upsetting him. It was an unwritten rule in the household that Phillip and his strange moods, as her mother referred to them, were always given precedence. Her mother had almost made them seem normal, because she had learned to cope with them in a way that caused the minimum of fuss. They all knew, though, that Phillip was her mother's boy - especially her father, he had taken a back seat to him since he had thrown his first violent tantrum.
That Phillip could walk in at any moment and throttle her without a second's thought was forefront in her mind, night and day. Breda looked at her son and wondered if
he was to be left motherless. Phillip was more than capable of seeing to that. Veronica would cover for him as per usual, they all knew that. Even if he murdered his own sister, her mother would see it as an aberration, not as a serious event. Where Phillip was concerned her mother could, and would, paper over any cracks, no matter how monumental they might actually be.
Christine had certainly gone up in her estimation, but then she had tried to warn the girl about her husband's capabilities. Still, Breda couldn't help feeling sorry for her; judging by the shock and the horror on her face as she witnessed her husband's handiwork, that night had certainly been a learning curve for her.
Breda had been aware of her utter incomprehension of the scene in the kitchen. It would have forced Christine to rethink her whole life, and she would now be realising she was absolutely trapped. That she had, in effect, married a nutter - a handsome, charming nutter, but a headcase all the same. Christine was sensible enough to understand now that she could never leave Phillip, that he would not countenance it, would see it as a personal affront. He was more than capable of turning on her should she displease him, and the fact that Christine was having to take that onboard saddened Breda. That night she could almost feel the girl's dismay as she saw what she had tied herself to. People wondered why Breda was so set against being tied to someone for any length of time - well she had been brought up with three brothers and she had learned one important thing: men were basically scum.
She watched as her father poured himself another cup of tea and carried on happily reading the racing form in the Sun. She envied him his complete acceptance of his way of life. He had not been affected one iota by recent events - in fact he seemed to hold her entirely responsible for everything. As he said, over and over, you ask for something often enough, and you'll get it tenfold. Like her mother, he felt that Phillip could do no real wrong, and any trouble he caused was because other people didn't understand him. So this was all her fault now, even Jamsie had not suffered as much flak as she had over it all. King Phillip had been upset, and that would never do. For as long as he brought in the wedge her father would see no wrong in him.
