The Family

Phillip and Timmy came through the doors and Breda was reminded just how powerful they were together. Timmy was smiling, he always seemed to be smiling at the beginning of any meet. It was his way of disarming the person they were talking to. He looked like any handsome man; the real Timmy was hidden away, waiting to pounce.

'All right, Jamal?'

Jamal shook hands with them, and waited patiently for the real conversation to begin. He wasn't happy about Benning being with them; he always felt uncomfortable around the Filth. But this one was tame, so he would swallow. If he was honest, he would rather this meet had been on his own turf, but Phillip Murphy wasn't the kind of person you forced your opinion on. If he wanted to meet on the moon, you found a way to get there.

'So, what can I do for you gentlemen?' Jamal was a naturally polite man, which worked for him, and he rarely fell out with people through arrogance or rudeness. His mother had drummed into him from an early age that being nice got you further in life than being mean. Especially if you happened to be black. She was a very intelligent woman, and he had listened to her closely.

Phillip waved a hand towards Benning. 'Show him.'

They were given latex gloves and, once they were on, the gun was taken out of the plastic evidence sack and placed in Jamal's hands. Jamal looked the gun over like the professional he was. It wasn't a particularly good gun, but it had a high calibre and it would easily kill someone at close range. It wasn't a make he dealt with – in fact he hadn't seen a Russian gun like this in years, it should be in a fucking museum.

He said as much. 'Russian, as I'm sure you know. Not a gun you see often these days, it's more of a collector's piece. Whoever provided this must have had it hanging around somewhere. It's been well looked after, but it's practically an antique. There's no way I would shift this, no one would want the fucker, plus there's no profit in it. Now if it was a grenade launcher, I could sell it like Tesco sells bread rolls. Sorry, Phillip, but this ain't from a regular supplier. Even the fifteen year olds want a decent firearm these days.'

'That was basically what Benning said, but it never hurts to get a second opinion,' Phillip replied.

Jamal sighed. 'For what it's worth, Phillip, I ain't heard a whisper about who might be behind this, not even a speck of gossip, and that ain't natural. Gangsta's talk, we are all guilty of it, you know what I'm saying? You sure this ain't from over the water? Spain, wherever? Because I don't think this is anything to do with the Smoke. No one could keep something like this secret for so long.'

Phillip considered Jamal's words. That was exactly what had crossed his mind, but he knew there was no one in Spain who would dare to do something so outrageously stupid. His reputation was too entrenched in the minds of everyone who knew of him for anyone without influence to even dream about taking him on.

'I know where you're coming from, Jamal, but I can't see it.'

Phillip was already investigating it though, as he was sure Jamal had guessed. He was also going to visit every fucking ponce who thought they were a villain and give them a taste of the old Murphy charm. He would find out who was behind this if it killed him, though he had a feeling it would not be him who would be getting killed. He looked at Benning, and decided to cut his fucking money down. He was as much use as a fucking chocolate teapot, you'd think a Filth might have heard a fucking whisper. That was their job for fuck's sake.

'Any new firm on the scene with dreams of the big time?' Timmy's voice was flat, but it had to be asked.

Jamal shrugged. 'They all think they're big time till they come across the real Faces, but no, no one this fucking daring. A few have possibilities, like – there's a little crew in Brixton, none over twenty-two, and they are well organised. But what the fuck would anyone there want with the south coast? They might visit the place, but they ain't gonna be living there, know what I mean?'

Phillip understood him perfectly and, his business head coming to the fore, he said with interest, 'Would these kids be any use to me? Are they up for the earn?'

Jamal nodded, and smiling now he said, 'They're good kids, Phillip. Just need a firm hand, that's all. I'll give you their numbers, you can arrange a meet. They'll be thrilled, I can tell you.'

Phillip smiled. He bet they'd be thrilled; his talking to them was the criminal equivalent of being summoned by a king.

'Well, I'm off now, and listen, your Philly is a strong little fucker, he'll be home before you know it. I got shot in the gut ten year ago, and look at me now, still eating me curry goat and rice. It's lucky it didn't hit the heart.'

They all hoped Jamal was telling the truth. Philly was too strong to die. It was what everyone was relying on.

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Three

'Once he regains consciousness I'll be a lot happier, Mrs Murphy, but he is definitely on the mend. Now, how are you?'

Christine didn't answer the doctor she looked out of the window at the lovely sunshine instead, and felt the urge to sleep again. People would be taking advantage of the weather, normal people anyway, going to the beach for the day with their kids and making her husband more money, because you couldn't go to the seaside without going in the amusements, could you? Other people would be arranging to visit their families, or have a picnic, normal people who didn't live in the shadow of violence like her family did. Now it had her son's life in the balance, her Philly's. She could still see him the moment he was shot, saw the surprise on his face, the blood as it oozed from him, but she also saw the man who had done it. She had noticed him a few seconds earlier, recognised him from somewhere, but she couldn't place him. And that was what was worrying her so much.

She yawned. She was so tired, but she knew it was because of the injections they were giving her. It was nice to slip into unconsciousness, leave all her troubles behind. Now she had an even bigger worry.

'Are you listening to me, Mrs Murphy?'

The doctor's voice was irritating her, but she answered him nicely. ' 'Course I am, Doctor. Can I go and see my son now?'

He nodded. Christine Murphy was a strange woman, and he didn't like dealing with her, or that husband of hers. They thought they owned the hospital, even going so far as to take over all the family rooms – no one else got a look in. So the sooner that boy could be moved to a private facility the better, as far as he was concerned. Everyone in the hospital treated them like celebrities and, though he wouldn't say any of this out loud, thugs like these were not people he particularly wanted to have to placate on a daily basis. They behaved as though he was their own personal physician, calling him at all hours, walking into his consulting rooms as if he was a plumber or something, not a highly skilled surgeon. They had even arranged for professional cleaners to come in. MRS A was constantly on their lips, and these were people he would have assumed had trouble saying the most basic of sentences. His wife said he was a snob, but if she had to deal with people like the Murphys every day she might understand his feelings a bit more.

There were other ill people in the ICU, people who didn't live in a world where getting shot was treated as a normal occurrence. People who were ill through no fault of their own. And he would rather spend his time and energy on them than on this shower, who seemed to think that the world turned specifically for them and their cohorts.

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Four

Finoula was tired out, but she wouldn't sleep. She was still sitting by Philly's bed, holding his hand tightly. He looked so vulnerable lying there with all the tubes and the machines around him. He couldn't die, she wouldn't let him, and thankfully the doctors seemed to think he was over the worst. As she looked around her at the bareness of the walls, and smelled the disinfectant and the underlying scent of death that these places always seemed to have, she felt the urge to cry once more.

'Hey, Philly, I've just thought, maybe me and you could go on holiday when you're recovered. A bit of sun and sangria maybe? Nowhere too far, just a few hours away.' She was always talking to him when they were alone; it