Chapter Eighty
Phillip and Declan were in a favourite pub in Wapping. They had just finished a lunchtime meeting with an old mate who wanted to offload his arcades in Soho due to the recession and a very hefty tax bill he was hoping to avoid by disappearing off the face of the earth. He had a wife who was well past her sell-by date, two sons who were about as much use as a stripper in an abbey, and a girlfriend who had thighs like a Russian shot- putter's and the face of an angel. At sixty-three he felt it was time he had a bit of fun, and he was determined to get it in South America, where the dollar ruled, and the sun shone all year round.
Phillip was pleased; he had already made a few inroads into the West End, and this man's proposition confirmed that he was considered a serious player in the games world - he always got first refusal. Declan ordered them another couple of vodkas and Phillip looked around the small pub with interest. It had the usual smattering of city types and workmen which was why he liked it.
'So what do you really think, Declan?'
Declan shrugged. 'We can afford them, but they are pretty run down, and for every pound that goes in, another pound is coming out. Plus, it's a haven for the runaways; he never gets them moved on, and that can only bring trouble. From what my spies tell me, the young lads use it as a pick-up joint. But then, me and you have always known the arcades are a paedos' paradise. We've all but stamped it out on the front, but that's because we keep a wary eye out. The West End's different; it's a hunting ground for them with all the transient kids, and the free warmth attracts them like flies.'
'Well, we'll keep a few walkers on the floor - that's the best way to deal with them - and the Old Bill give us a pass because they know we make their job easier for them. Any problems with the building?'
Declan shook his head. 'The flats above are rented by prostitutes and the whole building is in need of renovation, but I think if we did the flats up as offices we'd get a much better return on them.'
'Fucking right and all, we ain't pimps.' Phillip had an abhorrence of anyone or anything to do with the sex industry; in fact, his attitude was almost Victorian. He hated it with a vengeance, and made sure they never had anything remotely to do with it. In all the years he had been married to Christine there had never been a hint of him being unfaithful to her, though no one would have blamed him if he
had
been. Her problems were well known and well documented. People thought he was a saint for the way he had stood by her. It was like his church-going, every Sunday come rain or shine they were all there, sitting in the front row; if Christine was indisposed Phillip still made the boys attend. It pleased Veronica no end, because that meant his father had to go as well, as did Declan and Breda. Jamsie was a regular anyway - he took Communion at five a.m., every morning, seven days a week.
Phillip was already bored and it showed; all he wanted was to do the deal and get on to the next thing on his agenda. It was what made him so successful - they did what needed to be done, and they moved on. Declan loved the excitement of it and, even though it was hard at times, constantly playing second to Phillip, he still knew how lucky he was to have the life he had. The Murphys were doing really well, all of them, and now that young
Philly was on the firm Declan had someone to mentor, someone to look out for. Phillip had more or less passed the boy on to him, told him to show him the ropes from the bottom up, and he was enjoying doing just that. He had a certain longing for children lately; seeing the boys becoming men had made him realise what he had missed out on all these years.
Trouble was, Declan still didn't want the permanent female presence that came with having a family. He liked his solitary life. He had a nice penthouse in the Docklands, he entertained as and when it suited him, and he liked living alone. Observing the marriages around him had never given him the urge to take the plunge himself. His mother had had a raw deal for years with that lazy bastard she had married, and seeing Phillip and the nut-bag that he had to contend with every day was not exactly a shining example of marital harmony either. Most of the men he mixed with juggled wives, girlfriends and one-night stands, or were caught up in affairs that, while they burned brightly, could only go the same way as their marriages at some point in the future. Men never changed, and it was a pretty safe bet that if they fucked about on one wife they would fuck about on the next. It was the nature of the beast. He thought it was best to stay on your tod, at least that way you had no one to please except yourself. Breda and him were the same in that way; she, like him, enjoyed her 'singledom' as she called it, and thought women who tied themselves to a man for life were mugs.
'I reckon we can wrap this up in an hour, Declan, and be home in time for afternoon tea!'
Declan laughed at his brother's obvious good humour. 'How's Christine?'
Phillip shrugged, the laughter gone now. 'Still the same.' He motioned for two more vodkas and then said gamely, 'I hear you're trumping that little dark-haired girl from the club.'
Declan grinned. 'You hear right. Nice girl, Bernice, clever and all.'
'Oooh, is it finally lurve!' Phillip was smiling again, he had heard already that it
was
love, from the bird's point of view anyway. It was the talk of the clubs - apparently she adored his brother and told everyone she came across just that. 'She's been talking you up, bruv, telling everyone how great you are. How well you treat her, how much she likes your penthouse.'
Declan could feel himself blushing, and that annoyed him.
'Oooh, Declan's doing a cherry. What's the matter with you, man, you could do worse. She's good-looking, she's willing. Knock yourself out a couple of kids with her - if you don't start soon you'll be too old to play with them.'
'Fuck off, Phil. You know my thoughts on marriage. It doesn't appeal to me.'
Phillip laughed, but it was hollow now. 'Can't say I blame you. I love my Christine, but she's fucking hard work. If I could just get her back to her old self - to how she used to be before…' He left the sentence unfinished.
'Come on, Phil, let's get going. The sooner we get this over with the better.' Declan had no intention of getting into a big conversation about Christine, because they had been over this time and time again, and there was nothing anyone could do for her. Personally, he thought that she might benefit from Phillip divorcing her, but he kept that little bit of wisdom to himself, knowing that Phillip might not appreciate the sentiment. But it was obvious to everyone around them that Christine's problem was her husband, and
his
problem was
her.
It was something that could never be resolved to the satisfaction of either of them - they were like a circle, a wedding band, they didn't know where they began, and they certainly didn't know where they were going to end. One thing he knew for certain though - with Phillip and his beliefs there would be no divorce. He was in this marriage for the duration, and he believed that he had to cope with whatever was thrown at him, because Christine was his wife, and they were married in the eyes of God. Even though their marriage was destroying her on a daily basis, they would only part in death, and that was what was so tragic about it all. He had a feeling that when it happened, it would be Christine's death that released her, not his brother's. Even if that meant she achieved it with her own hand.
Oh no, marriage was a mug's game all right, and he was well out of it. As his mother always said, there was more ways to skin a cat, and many ways to scratch an itch. And that was exactly what women were to him - an itch that you scratched for momentary relief.
As they drove along the embankment they were both quiet, each filled with his own thoughts. The good humour they had shared seemed to have evaporated, and they were both aware of that.
Chapter Eighty-One
'What will your dad do, Philly?'
Philly shrugged nonchalantly; he didn't want his friends to know how worried he really was about what had happened. 'Well, suffice to say he won't be happy about it.'
Graham Planter laughed nervously. 'It was funny at the time, but now I ain't so sure.'
'We were out of order, Graham, and my dad will be more annoyed about that than he will at us being pissed. He's funny about respecting the people who work for us. He says that the least we can do is treat the employees how we would like to be treated ourselves - it's something he has hammered into us all our lives.'
Billy Jameson said sadly, 'I wish we'd just gone home, don't you?'
Philly wasn't even going to dignify that with an answer.
The front door slammed, and the boys heard someone taking the stairs two a time. Within seconds the bedroom door was banged open and Phillip Murphy stood there like some kind of avenging angel.
'You fucker! You rude, arrogant little fucker!'
All three boys were tense with fear, the man looked like a maniac. You could almost feel the rage seeping out of his pores.
'Get out, you two, and don't let me see your faces here again.'
The boys were rooted to the spot in fear, and didn't move until he bellowed, 'I said, out!' Then they scurried from the room as fast as they could, leaving poor Philly to face his father's wrath alone.
Phillip slammed the bedroom door behind him, and stood in front of it, his arms crossed and his face set like concrete. 'Now, I want your version of events, and make sure you tell me the truth, boy, because I know exactly what happened -1 watched it on the CCTV cameras.'
'I'm sorry, Dad-'
'Bit late for that, son. Now, either tell me what happened in graphic detail or kiss goodbye to the next six months of your life, because I'll ground you like an errant dog, as big as you are.'
Even at nineteen it didn't occur to Philly to remind his father that he could vote, get married, or drink in any pub he chose to. His father was the law, and that was a fact of life in this house.
'I was drunk. We went to the arcade and I asked the old boy for money to use on the machines. He said no. So I went in the booth and took it. He tried to stop me and I pushed him out of the way, and cunted him. He fell over, and I kicked him.'
Philly's summary was short, precise, and told the main facts of the story without over-dramatising it or making excuses for himself. He knew that it was the only way he would get out of this with his skin intact.
'He's sixty-seven years old and he's worked that booth for over fifty years, and you think because you're
my
son you have the right to treat him like garbage? Is that what this was all about?'
Philly was shaking his head now in utter despair because, in reality, that is
exactly
what he had thought at the time. 'No, Dad, I swear. I was drunk, I know I was out of order. Fucking outrageously out of order, and I know you have every right to be annoyed. I can't make any excuses for my bad behaviour because there ain't any. I just want to take me punishment like a man.'
Phillip laughed nastily. 'A man you ain't! Nineteen and bullying pensioners, a nice old bloke who would lay down his life for me. An old man who was just going about his own business. If a stranger had done that to him, I would have hunted them down and flayed them alive.'
Philly closed his eyes in distress, knowing his father spoke the truth. Phillip Murphy looked after all the people who worked for him, and he made sure they were safe, even getting the women cabs home if they worked late shifts. He was a good employer, and that paid off because his workers were loyal; he remembered all their names, and asked them about their families, and their kids or grandkids. He never forgot them at Christmas, and they knew they could come to him with any problems, major or minor, and get a fair hearing. It was all part of Phillip Murphy's big 'I am' act, but Philly wouldn't say that to his father either.
'Old Donny didn't tell me about it. He wasn't about to grass you up, but one of the girls ran it by me. She was so disgusted at how you behaved she kept the CCTV as evidence. Marvellous, ain't it? Me own son hasn't got the decency to tell me, but a seventeen-year-old college student felt I should know what my son was capable of.'
'Like I say, I was drunk…'
The fist when it shot out, got him square on the chin, and knocked him backwards over his bed, until he landed in a heap on the floor under the window seat.
'Drunk. So that's your excuse, is it? You treacherous little cunt. Well, you can get up, and get down to the car, because me and you are going to do some serious apologising, then we are going to have a long heart-to-heart about the perils of drink, and the treatment of people less fortunate than ourselves.'
Philly pulled himself up from the floor and, rubbing his chin, he felt the lump already forming there. It was the first time his father had hit him in years, and he had forgotten just how strong the old bastard was. He understood his father's fury - he wasn't so much annoyed at
what
Philly had done, but was more concerned with how it looked to people outside of the family. Appearances were everything to his father, he lived for his reputation, not just as a serious Face, but as a man. Philly had worked out years ago that it was all an act, his father's whole life was an act, from his church-going to his philanthropic enterprises. He was a fucking fake, and on every level. Philly knew this because in many ways he was just like his father, he was learning the ways of their world, and this would be a lesson for the future.
He wouldn't fuck up like this again, of that much he was sure. He needed his father's support and favour if he was going to get where he wanted to go in life. And that was further than this ponce, of that much Philly was determined.