He nodded again, almost imperceptibly.
They were both quiet for long moments, and she knew there had been a subtle shifting in their positions in the last few hours. Phillip had not imagined anything like this could ever happen, it was beyond his comprehension really. She knew he would not see it all for what it was, that Timmy had turned out just like him, and had acted just as
'Are you all right?'
She nodded in the darkness, then, leaning over, she turned on the lamp nearest her. Its light was as unexpected as it was brilliant. She saw her beautiful room, the antiques, the expensive carpets and curtains. Saw the beauty of her surroundings, as if for the first time, knowing she had made it all so lovely to cover up the muck and the filth that it represented.
'Do you want another drink?'
She sighed. As bad as it was, she also felt as if she had finally shrugged off some of the fear that she had lived with for so long. 'Yeah, why not.'
He poured them both drinks and, as he handed her the glass, she saw the bruises on his hands and the blood that he had not bothered to rinse off properly. She knew then that her son had not died an easy death, and yet at this moment she didn't care. She felt nothing, but this feeling of numbness would eventually pass, and then it would hit her like a ton of shit.
'I still can't believe it, Christine.' And he couldn't, she knew that.
'I am leaving you, Phillip. I should have left years ago. I can't live like this any longer. You got what you wanted, you finally made me a part of all this whether I wanted it or not.' She gestured around the room to emphasise her point. 'I had to choose between my sons, and I did what I thought was right. I know I was right, I
It was a good few minutes before Phillip answered her. She was holding her breath in anticipation of his words, and they surprised her when they finally came.
'Where do you want to go?'
She knew what it had cost him to say that and, as much as she hated him at times, she felt a small spark of sorrow for him, because she knew more than anyone what it had taken for him to utter them.
She shrugged. 'I don't care, Phillip. Anywhere. Spain maybe.'
He nodded. 'Do you want the farm? You can have it, Christine, you deserve it.'
She shook her head, and sipped deeply at her drink. It was seventy-year-old Scotch, and she wondered at how she could gulp it down and still feel as sober as a judge. But she supposed murder could do that to a person. She was probably still in shock.
'You keep it all, Phillip. I never want to see this place again, to be perfectly honest.'
'You can have whatever you want, Christine. I'll be generous. I suppose I owe you. I certainly owe you my life, and that's a big debt.'
'You owe me Philly's life and all. God love him, I bet he's devastated.'
'Well, put it this way, he ain't exactly celebrating, if you know what I mean.' Phillip tried to laugh it off, but even he was having trouble accepting what had happened.
Christine placed her drink on the table and, getting up, she straightened her clothes. She could feel her husband's eyes watching her every move. 'I'm off then. I've packed a bag, I'm going to me mum's.'
He nodded, and she knew he would let her go now. He had no power over her any longer. She was leaving.
'I love you, Christine, remember that.'
She looked down at him then and, smiling gently, she said frankly, 'No, you don't, Phillip, you never did. You don't know what love means and neither did our Timmy. But Philly does, so you can do me one last thing – promise me you won't take that away from him.'
Epilogue
I do not wish them [women] to have power over men; but over themselves
Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-97) A Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792)
The unexamined life is not worth living
Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Two
'Hello, Finoula, how are you feeling, love?'
Christine was visiting from Spain. She finally had the life she had dreamed of, and now she had a new grandson to celebrate.
Finoula looked tired but outrageously happy. And that was how it should be – she had only given birth a few hours before, and she needed a good night's sleep and her husband to herself.
Philly was so proud of his newborn son, he looked fit to burst. He placed him in his mother's arms carefully, and Christine looked down at the child with love already in her heart. He was dark-haired and blue-eyed. He was Phillip Murphy all over again, and she was surprised that it didn't bother her as much as she had thought it would.
'He's beautiful, really beautiful.'
'We like him!'
Christine laughed at her son's unashamed pride in his new baby. 'I better warn you both that me mum's on her way.'
They laughed with her.
Then Phillip walked into the room and, looking into his wife's eyes, he said quietly, 'Hello, Christine, you look well, mate.'
She took the compliment well, and she gave it straight back. This was their new way of communicating. It was all very civilised, and she knew she was very lucky. Phillip had let her go, and she knew how hard that had been for him. She wouldn't strong it in any way. There could never be another man, not that she wanted one. She would always have to see him from time to time, because of Philly, and now this little fellow. They shared a deep secret, and it was only because of that they could continue with their lives. 'So do you, Phillip. Isn't he gorgeous?'
Phillip looked at the red-faced child and said seriously, 'Good genes, that's what it is, love.'
She didn't answer him, the words provoked so many emotions in her. She saw the baby grab her husband's finger tightly and, pulling on it to show the child's strength, Phillip said loudly, 'He's a Murphy, all right! Another Phillip Murphy – we'll end up a dynasty if we ain't careful.'
They all grinned happily, except Christine. She felt the urge to run from the room, run away from them, but she wouldn't. She was only over from Spain for a few days, then she would go back and resume her new life.
