The Family

Chapter Thirty-Six

Jamsie Murphy was in a bad way, but it was obvious to his mother that he would survive his injuries. As she had always said, no brain no pain, and that was her Jamsie all right. Her husband was refusing to sit in the room with him; as far as he was concerned it would be better if the boy did die, for he was dead to him already.

Veronica sat by her son's bed, listened to the monitors and the night sounds of the hospital ward and wondered what the hell had happened to her family for all this to come over them so suddenly. It had been bad enough with her Declan going away but that, at least, she could understand. He'd had a capture, he'd do his time and come back home none the worse for wear. But all this? Her Jamsie at death's door, her daughter responsible for it, and Phillip, her golden boy, capable of killing them all.

She was worried for Breda. Phillip was not a happy bunny. Oh, she saw his acting for what it was, she knew him better than he knew himself. That was the half the trouble. Phillip thought he had fooled her like he had everyone else, but he hadn't. Not that she had ever let on, of course, but she had guessed even when he was a child that the way her Phillip acted was not the norm. She had watched him struggle to fit into any kind of situation, he had no idea how to react to the most mundane things. She had seen then that he had a distinct lack of feelings; he loved in a way, but it was not love as most people understood it. Phillip loved what he possessed. It was his, he owned it, therefore he loved it. He had no empathy, had never had any.

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?'