The Family

Christine smiled nervously, embarrassed at her predicament. 'To be honest, I'm already late, Mrs Murphy.'

Veronica grinned, her round face thrilled at the girl's obvious decency. Her Phillip had chosen a good girl and, in this day and age, they were few and far between. She only had to look at her Breda to know that. And if not her Breda, then the papers. Young girls were like men these days, sex was everywhere, and girls were bombarded with so-called choices. The world had gone shagging mad, as her mother would have said.

'My mum is a bit of a tartar about me being home on time. She worries about me.'

Veronica laughed easily. 'And who could blame her? Sure, you're a dote, that's what you are, Christine, a dote.'

Veronica glanced at her husband for support and he winked at the girl, as thrilled as his wife with his son's choice of mate. Like his wife he knew that his son was serious. Phillip had been attracting girls, and women, since he was a lad, and he'd got away with a lot over the years. Seeing him with this little one and knowing that if he had brought her to his parents' house he had to be serious about her, pleased Phillip Senior as much as it did his wife. He knew better than anyone what the wrong mate could cause in a man. His younger brother had married a whore of the first water, and he was doing life for his mistake. She had escaped his wrath – you didn't hit women – but her fancy man had met a knife in the ribs, and none of them thought his brother had done the wrong thing. The whore had produced a child and the parentage had been very suspect. It had been blonder than a Swedish au pair, with nonexistent eyebrows and a harelip. As the old saying went, it was a wise child that knew its own mother, but it was a very wise child that knew its own father.

Who would take the chance on something like that? Why would you put yourself through it? If you chose wisely from the off, got them young and innocent, and never shat on your own doorstep, then you were guaranteed a happy marriage and peace of mind. Women were like horses, you stabled them and gave them a stud. If you did it right the first time and kept them close, you had a marriage that could only bring you children and lasting happiness. He had told his three sons that from the off, and it seemed his words had struck a chord. With this one anyway. His daughter, on the other hand, lay down for any man she liked the look of. His words of wisdom had seemed to send her in the opposite direction altogether; sure, she delighted in her loose ways. But she was his only daughter so he overlooked a lot in that respect. In any case, he saw it as his wife's job to keep Breda on the straight and narrow. And he wished Veronica good luck with that. Breda was like his own mother: strong, capable and able to have more fights than John Wayne in the course of the average day. Plus, if he was really honest, he felt a small iota of respect. Breda's voracious appetite for men, sex and adventure came from his side of the family. Strong women the lot of them and proud of it.

Phillip admired his daughter's sense of self. She was eighteen, full-blooded and full-figured – a real beauty, and every man knew that beauty and brains were a lethal combination. His Breda was as savvy as any man he had ever known, and therefore he wanted her to have the same chances as his sons. He knew what was in store for his Breda if she wasn't careful, and though he was quite happy to see the likes of Christine get trapped by love, he still wanted a bit more for his own wayward daughter. She had already had one child, at fifteen no less. Who the father was no one knew – she refused to tell. He suspected she didn't know, but he didn't allow himself to dwell too much on that. Young Porrick was a handsome, strong boy and she loved him.

However she chose to love, Breda was his daughter, and that was enough for him. After all, if he didn't look out for his own who would?

The hammering on his front door broke Phillip Senior out of his reverie and, like his three sons and his wife, he expected the worst. It was what was termed in their street 'an Old Bill knock'.

As the Murphys crowded into the small hallway, Christine hung back in the kitchen, fearful of the way everyone had assumed it was trouble coming. In her home, a knock on the door was considered normal, no one would be worried about it or assume it was something dangerous. She was really scared. She wished suddenly that she was at home, and safely tucked up in her own bed.

This banging was sinister, and Phillip and his family's reaction made her fears seem valid. All the things she had heard about his family were crowding her mind: that they were dangerous, that they were Faces. That no one messed with them, they were a law unto themselves.

That they were capable of all sorts.

Veronica opened the door while the rest of the family stood together like a human wall; the Murphys knew instinctively to stand close to each other, and make sure that nothing or no one could get past them. Each was determined to protect the others around them no matter what.

But it was only Joanie, Christine's friend, and her presence on the doorstep gave rise to a general sigh of relief. She peered around the Murphys to see Christine.

'Your mum's looking for you round ours, Chris, you better get a move on.'

Everyone turned to look at her then, all amazed that this little girl could have been the cause of so much fear.

Grabbing her coat and bag, Christine slunk from the house with a muttered 'thank you' and a heartfelt goodbye to Phillip, aware of the tension her friend's presence had inadvertently caused them all. She hated her mother anew for making this night such a bloody abortion. She had been really enjoying herself but, as always, her mother had managed to ruin it. Christine was more determined than ever to get away from her.

Chapter Six

'Fucking hell, Phil, did you break into a nursery? She's jailbait.'

Phillip Junior, who was normally very good natured with his sister, turned on her then, and everyone in the hallway was shocked at his words. 'Shut your fucking trap, Breda, just because she ain't a dog like you. She's only fifteen, of course her mother is looking for her. We all looked for you at the same age if you remember. Not that it did us much good.'

Breda being Breda was not about to let that go. 'What do you mean by that, Phil? Are you having a pop at me then? I was making a joke…'

Phillip turned to her and, poking a finger in her face, said quietly, 'Well, I ain't in the mood for jokes. So take my advice, and keep them to yourself.'

They were interrupted by the sound of crying coming from upstairs. Phillip looked at his sister and said sarcastically, 'You better get up there, Bred, sort your boy out. Let's face it, it ain't like his father's gonna turn up and help out, is it?'

'You nasty bastard, how dare you talk to me like that! Just 'cos your little girlfriend done a runner with her mate. Don't take it out on me.'

James, the youngest of the Murphy boys, stepped in then, seeing the hurt that Phillip's words had caused not just his sister but also his mother.

The father of Breda's child was what was commonly known as a wonderer – everyone wondered who he might have been.

Breda had never let on, and now at two years old, young Porrick was the darling of the household.

'He don't mean it, Breda, he's on a love job.'

Phillip looked at his sister and felt ashamed at his words, even though he knew that there was a bit of him that believed she was in the wrong. Deep down inside he thought she was a fucking slag. A baby at fifteen, and no fucking answer to the who-did-it question? It was hardly rocket science. He knew what people were saying about her; it was only his reputation that stopped them saying it to her face.

His family loyalty, though, was stronger than his bigotry and, whatever he might really think, he would defend her to the death if necessary. Opening his arms wide in a gesture of forgiveness, he said seriously, 'Come on, Breda, give me a break, me bird's just run home to her mother, how do you think I feel? I'm sorry, mate, you know I don't mean it…'

Breda wasn't to be placated though and, shaking her head slowly, she said heavily, 'I'll give you a heads-up, shall I? Sister to brother. Christine is a lovely girl, but she will be trouble, Phil. You'll never believe that, you will only ever see the good girl, the wilting virgin. How you were first in, and