Chapter Fifty
Ted Booth was serving a young man with purple hair and the whole shop reeked of the smell of cannabis emanating from him. Still, the boy was very respectful, and said please and thank you.
Everyone on the estate did now. They used the litter bins provided for their rubbish, even from the chippy, and they all made sure they cashed their giros, pensions and family allowance in his post office. He made a fortune every week, especially since Phillip had got Breda to set up the loan scheme - the profits were all his and Eileen's, so that was another lucrative earner. Yet Ted was a very unhappy man. He did what he was asked and he made a lot of money, but it was wrong in his eyes; they were taking money from people who could barely afford it, who were forever in their debt and often ended up borrowing more money to pay off their existing loans. Unlike his wife, who thought it was great and very appropriate, he thought it was taking advantage of people less well off than themselves.
They had three more shops now, all on similar estates and all doing the same kind of business. What should have made him happy only emphasised to him how deeply he was now enmeshed with Phillip Murphy. If his daughter was happy he might have been able to swallow it all, but she was wasting away before his eyes, there wasn't an ounce of fat on her, and her nerves were terrible.
Yet in fairness to Phillip Murphy, he treated her like a queen; you could see his love for her and them boys. As far as Ted
Booth was concerned that was his only saving grace. He made sure they had a good earn, and he was grateful for that in some ways - it got Eileen off his back anyway. But none of it sat right with him, it was all smoke and mirrors, skulduggery, everything was a con, a scam. He would rather be back where he was, his own man and owned by no one, owing his livelihood to no one but himself.
As he looked out the door and saw the beat copper salute him, he felt the usual amazement that even the police were too frightened to question the fact that his shops were making money hand over fist on an estate that was made up mostly of unmarried mothers, the unemployed and the unemployable. But, as Eileen had pointed out, it suited the Filth, as she now referred to them in her street patois; they were glad they weren't forever having to turn up mob-handed in riot gear. If you listened to her, Phillip Murphy was the South East's answer to Henry Kissinger. Ted waved back at the young plod, and went back to perusing the stock lists; even shoplifting was unheard of these days. So why couldn't he sit back like his wife and enjoy the ride?
Chapter Fifty-One
'That smells fucking handsome, Chris.'
Christine smiled tightly at Phillip's praise, she knew he meant every word of it as well. She had dressed the lamb with rosemary and garlic the night before, covered it in fresh herbs and horseradish butter, and left it to infuse overnight in the fridge. It did smell spectacular. It was their own lamb, slaughtered in their own small abattoir, and hung until it was perfect. Every vegetable was home-grown, and almost every ingredient was from the farm. She was proud of her skills and she loved the whole concept of cooking. When she was in the kitchen she could forget about everything else; she concentrated on the recipe, on preparing her ingredients. She felt a sense of worth when she saw her sons gobbling up her food. She prided herself that they didn't eat shop-bought cakes or biscuits, that she even made the bread they ate. It was how she coped with her life, small things like that made it bearable.
'Well, Ricky and that stick insect he married will be thrilled at the effort, babe, and the table looks wonderful. You were right to serve them in here; the kitchen's a nice informal setting, the dining room would have been a bit overpowering.'
The kitchen table seated twelve; the kitchen was now forty by thirty feet, mostly encased by a huge Victorian conservatory. It was still a kitchen, but one that wouldn't look out of place in
Homes Gardens
magazine. She liked eating in the kitchen - the five-oven Aga was warming, and she also had an island with a state-of-the-art cooker that had cost more than her car. The kitchen had lovely views of the farm as well, and her herb garden always gave the room a wonderful homely smell, especially when she was baking bread. Everything her little heart could desire she had, and the irony wasn't lost on her. She knew that Deandra envied her the beautiful surroundings, and the wonderful life she had. Everyone she knew did. They couldn't understand her being plagued with her nerves and depression and if she told them everything, they wouldn't see it as a problem like she did. They would see it as Phillip being strong, and being a
man.
Her father had warned her she was not right for the Murphys and their way of life, and she knew that he hated being a part of it all - that only added to her guilt. She had dragged him into her mess, and that played on her mind a lot. As her sons were growing older she worried about what their lives would become too.
'Are you with us, babe?'
She literally jumped at her husband's words. She had forgotten he was there; it was the new pills, they were strong and she often went into little worlds of her own. 'Sorry, Phil, I was miles away.'
'That's all right, mate. You sure you're all right for tonight? I can easily take them to a restaurant.'
She sighed heavily 'Please, Phil, I'm fine, and I'd be even better if you stopped asking me if I was all right all the time.' She was looking into his eyes, pleading with him silently to just let her get on with what she was doing.
He shrugged resignedly, and then smiled gently. 'I just worry about you, Chris, the doctor said it was all about not getting overwhelmed, remember?'
'I know that, and I'm sorry I can't be like everyone else, Phil. But I'm all right, I swear. Now go and get changed - they'll be here soon. The boys are staying at Breda's tonight so let's enjoy the quiet, shall we?'
Phillip pulled her into his arms and hugged her close. 'You are perfect to me, you're my world and don't you ever forget that. We'll get you back on your feet, that's a promise, darling.'
She smiled her usual smile, but it was almost a grimace. 'I know, Phil. Listen, that's the gates, Declan must be here. I'll pour him a glass of wine while you tidy yourself up.'
Phillip left the room. She could see she had calmed him - as long as she told him she was OK he was fine. He would move the earth for her, and she was aware of that, but it still didn't change the fact that she was living and sleeping with a man she was terrified of. A man who she knew loved her in his own weird way. She opened the wine and poured two glasses; she had already drained hers when Declan came in the back door. One good thing with wine was that the pills she took worked much better with a few drinks in her. Then she could even stand Phillip making love to her, which he did nearly every day.
'That smells the nuts, Christine.' Declan was rubbing his big hands together in anticipation. 'I'm starving. I ain't eaten all day because I didn't want to ruin me appetite.'
She gave him the glass of wine with a small smile and went back to her prepping. The best thing about Declan was she didn't feel the need to talk to him. Instead he had the knack of talking to her, and making her feel included without her having to force herself to join in the conversation.
Declan watched her work, and marvelled at how Phillip couldn't see what was in front of his face; the girl was living on the edge. She was thinner than Twiggy, and her movements were either jerking all over the place, or she looked like she was walking through water. She was not right in the bonce, and he was sorry for her. In fact, he was sorry for them, because this way they lived surely couldn't go on for ever.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Deandra was watching Christine Murphy as she served the cheese plate. She had cleared the table quietly and unobtrusively, and had then placed the port and brandy in the middle before deftly taking away the wine glasses and the water pitcher and placing a plate of home-made chocolates centre stage. The table still looked wonderful, from the white damask tablecloth to the expensive white lily centrepiece. Deandra was very impressed, you could see this all came naturally to Christine Murphy - she assumed it was her upbringing. Everyone knew her mother was a snob of the first water.
She liked the way Christine worked though; she was quick, and she made it look effortless. The food had been spectacular, and even Deandra, who usually needed a government White Paper before she consumed one calorie, had found herself having seconds. Until tonight she had thought a lemon posset was a small American rodent, so she had learned something new as well. The talk around the table had been good - funny stories, and serious subjects, mixed with the usual innuendo and spattering of gossip about people they knew. All in all, she had really enjoyed the evening. She had been worried about the business, but it seemed she had been wrong there. The subject had not even come up yet and, the way it was going, she felt that Ricky's refusal would be accepted and forgotten about.
She asked Christine again if she wanted any help, and she was politely turned down, as she had hoped she would be. There was nothing worse than going to someone's house for dinner and having to wash up afterwards. What the fuck was all that about? You could clear up at home!
Christine sat down and picked up her wine glass. Deandra had been counting all night and this was her sixth glass. Christine Murphy could certainly put it away, and she looked as sober as a judge, well, as sober as a prescription junkie could look, anyway. Go Christine! Deandra wished she could drink like that. Christine was certainly a dark horse in more ways than one. Two glasses and she herself was pissed and talking bollocks, at least that was what Ricky always told her anyway. He said it was because she drank so much wine all day she was just topping herself up on a regular basis. He could be funny could Ricky, and she took it in good part; after all, nine times out of ten he was spot on about her.
She eyed Phillip and Declan and, in her wine-induced happy state, decided they were both worth a second look - not that she would do anything, but she was a young woman and she could still dream.
Phillip sat back in his chair comfortably. He poured himself and Declan a large brandy, then one for Ricky that was even larger. He was pleased with the evening so far. It had been a very congenial gathering, and he had not detected any undue undertones coming from his guest, so all in all he was a very happy man. But now it was time for the real business of the night. He would do the deal, toast their success, and everyone was a winner.
'Cheers, Rick. Now, I know business isn't fit talk for the dinner table, but we ain't Tory politicians, are we, so have you thought any further about my offer?'
Ricky was lighting one of his huge cigars, and he puffed on it for a few moments before blowing out the smoke lazily and saying in a very forceful but jovial way, 'I have, young Phillip, and I'm afraid the answer's no. I can't see what I'd do with meself if I didn't have the arcades, and there's plenty of room for all of us.'
Phillip was nodding as if in agreement, but the atmosphere in the kitchen changed dramatically. Deandra saw Declan filling up the brandy glasses, and she felt a second's panic shoot through her body.
'But the thing is, Rick, what you don't seem to understand is that I
want
them.'
Ricky heard the determination in Phillip's voice. But the mixture of wine and brandy was already affecting his usual excellent judgement and, laughing, he said, 'Well you can't fucking have them, can you?'
It was meant as a joke, but it came out as a challenge, and everyone around the table was aware of that. Especially Christine Murphy. She knew the signs better than anyone, and Phillip would not take something like that without a fight. She finished her wine quickly, and poured herself another glass; she had a feeling she was going to need it.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Veronica's long-time neighbour and friend Jeannie Brown was admiring the newly decorated house, and her praise was loud and sincere. Jeannie benefited from her friend's good fortune in that she always inherited her old furniture and fittings, and Phillip would send the decorators in to her to give her place a quick lick of paint as well. Like many people, that made her a fan of his for life. She counted herself very lucky to be in with the Murphys, and she never tired of telling anyone and everyone what good people they were. That she had hidden guns and money for them over the years she kept very much to herself. In fact, she was honoured to help them out; after all, they had repaid her a hundredfold.
'You're glowing, Veronica, positively glowing!'
As she spoke Breda came in the back door with Porrick. 'Can I leave him here for a few hours, Mum? I have to meet someone.'
' 'Course you can. He'll have Philly and Timmy for company too. God, Breda, you look lovely.'
Breda grinned. She did look wonderful, and she knew it. 'Well, don't sound so shocked about it. And don't let my Porrick have anything rich, he's been sick as a dog today.'
Her teenage son was white-faced, and his eyes looked sunken in his head. Veronica was immediately concerned. 'Come away in, Porrick love, I'll make you a nice boiled egg, shall I?'
Philly and Timmy laughed. 'Don't forget the soldiers, Nan, he loves his little soldiers.'
Veronica's world was complete. She had her grandsons and her family around her, she had the neighbours all agape at the wonderful home she had been provided with, and her husband had not even gone to the pub. All in all, life was really good.
As she saw Breda out to her car she said happily, 'How's Jamsie doing?'
Breda shrugged. 'All right. Phillip still won't acknowledge his existence, Mum, but it's a start, I suppose.'
Veronica grabbed on to that and held it to her like a charm. 'Well, you know Phillip, he does everything in his own time.'
'Listen, Mum, don't get your hopes up. Jamsie done a fucking terrible thing, and our Phillip's memory is long, and his anger never burns out. So just wait and see what happens, OK? Don't push the issue.'
Veronica nodded sagely, she knew the girl was talking the truth. But her daughter's words saddened her all the same. She hated seeing poor Jamsie so destroyed and, after all, blood was thicker than water. But she would keep her own counsel for a while; as Breda said, Phillip didn't forget easily.
She wandered back into the house but the shine had gone off the night for her.