She looked up then, into Philly's eyes, and saw he was looking at her.
'Oh my God! You're awake!' She was almost screaming in her excitement. Throwing her arms around him, she kissed his face and cried uncontrollably. He was awake, he was talking, and he was the love of her life. God, she knew, really was good.
* * *
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Five
'Now this is much more like it!'
Philly laughed at his brother's words. The private hospital was like an expensive hotel, and he thought it was great. Sky Sports, the lot. 'I bet it's costing a pretty wedge?'
Timmy grinned. 'You always have to price everything, don't you? Who cares, we can afford it.'
'Oh, don't worry, bruv, I ain't complaining.'
Finoula had left them to talk, she was good like that, and Timmy said as much. 'That Finoula was nearly out of her mind with worry, Philly, she's a fucking diamond bird.'
It was strange hearing Timmy talk at times; he spoke Mockney, like Guy Ritchie and other posh boys who thought they were Cockneys. He had always had a lovely speaking voice, and he could speak like the Queen when the fancy took him. But then Philly supposed he was the same in many respects. But he took umbrage, for some reason, at his brother referring to Finoula as a 'bird'.
'I'm marrying her, if she'll have me.'
Timmy grinned widely, he had been expecting this, they all had. 'You should, Philly, she never wavered, bless her, not once. Most girls would have been on the trot at the first whiff of cordite.'
Philly laughed, because it was true. 'Anything yet?'
Timmy shook his head in bafflement. 'Not a fucking word, it's just not possible, is it?'
Philly didn't answer his brother. That was what was bothering him so much. It was as if he had been shot by a fucking phantom and, as they all knew, that was not something that was easily accomplished. Especially not when it involved people like them. No one would be willing to do the dirty deed, it was too risky. It was like all this shit about Bantry calling people in to work the drugs in the clubs. Bantry, if he had still been alive, of course, wouldn't have touched something that high profile in a million years. That was a young man's game. Dealing was never part of their businesses. They controlled it, yeah, but they wouldn't get involved in the day-to-day, so none of it made any sense. It was the old bullshit baffles brains scenario, but he would suss it out eventually. He was missing something, they all were, it was just a matter of finding out what.
'Is Dad still dragging people out of bed at three in the morning and interrogating them?'
Timmy laughed as he said, 'No, thank fuck. He nearly found Bin Laden a couple of times in East London! He fucking went after everyone - Asian, Greek, fucking Slovakian… You name any country, and I bet he has threatened at least one of its citizens.'
Philly was roaring now; they often laughed at their father's actions, though never to his face. But Philly was pleased to know that his father was determined to get to the bottom of all of this. It was a diabolical liberty, and it was personal. Phillip Murphy would never let this one go, and neither would his elder son. It was funny, but getting shot had done Philly a lot of good, made him realise that life was for living. More than that, it had given him a personal insight into the damage a gun could do. It would definitely be his weapon of choice for the future and, like his father before him, he now believed wholeheartedly in the old adage: shoot first and ask questions later. Wipe the fuckers out, off the face of the earth, never leave anyone in a position to come back at you. Somewhere along the line, someone had been nursing a grudge, and that was why he had been singled out. He believed that his brush with death was not because of something he had done, it was payback for something his father had done in the past. Someone had waited, and they had planned, and they had eventually felt confident enough to act on their feelings.
These were thoughts he would keep to himself for a while; he would keep a close eye on exactly what came out in the next few months, and only then would he give voice to his inner thoughts. It seemed he was more like his father and brother than he had been given credit for.
* * *
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Six
'Are you sure, Finoula? I mean, love, he's just been shot. Remember that - you could have been burying him, and been left with a couple of kids all on your own. Not that I'm saying a word against him, mind, he's a lovely lad. But I want you to be sure about what you're taking on.'
Finoula loved her dad, but he was a worry-guts at times. 'I understand what you're saying, Dad, but I love him, and I want to marry him. This has just made us both realise how much we want to be together.'
Jack McCormack nodded, it was what he had expected. But, as her father, he needed to say what he had said. One thing was for sure - if the boy had died and left her a widow, she would never have wanted for anything, and that counted for a lot in his world.
'Then you've got my blessing. Congratulations, Finny. He's a good one, even with a belly like a tea strainer.'
Mary Mac was pleased too; she had always liked Veronica Murphy, and the two women would enjoy sharing a marriage like this.
'So when is the happy day?'
Finoula shrugged. 'Soon, Dad. Philly wants you and Mum to come in the hospital and talk it all over with his mum and dad.'
Mad Jack grinned. 'Come here, and give your old dad a kiss.'
* * *
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Seven
'I think she's a wonderful girl, Philly, and you'll both be very happy, I know it.'
'Thanks, Mum.' He knew she meant every word she said. It was funny but her and Finoula got on like a house on fire, which was strange in a way because a lot of people didn't really get his mum. She could come across as a bit odd. But Finoula seemed to understand her, and she treated her with the utmost respect.
'How are you feeling, son, really?'
Christine asked the same thing ten times a visit, and he answered with the same words. 'I'm fine, Mum, truly. Now stop dwelling on it.'
She didn't answer him, she knew he wouldn't tell her anything of import, none of them ever did. She was like a child as far as they were concerned, not to be worried with trivialities. But she knew who did it, and the knowledge frightened her. It wasn't so much what she had seen that was bothering her now, it was what it meant for all of them.
'Do you think you'll ever find the culprit, son?'
Philly shrugged. 'I hope so. It's something I would like to know because I think shooting someone is a pretty serious action, don't you? I want to find the person who wanted me dead, Mum.'
She nodded. 'If you did find them though, you or your father or one of you lot would kill them, wouldn't you?'
He remained silent. It was the first time she had ever referred to his life in the business, and he wasn't about to get into any discussions with her about serious matters that had fuck-all to do with anyone except the people concerned. He could just imagine her face if he decided to tell her the truth about the lives they led, especially as it had already sent her into the madhouse on more than one occasion. She was a strange cove, this mother of his. The weirdest thing was that, for once, she seemed genuinely interested in what was going on; he supposed that was because she had nearly lost him. He looked at her then, sorry she had been given all this worry, and appreciative of how much it must have affected her.
'Come on, Mum, let's drop this now, eh?'
Christine smiled sadly, and he saw that she was genuinely vexed. Hugging her to him, he said loudly, 'Let's get this wedding arranged, shall we? You and Finoula will make sure it's a blinder.'
But Christine couldn't hold back her tears. She was crying now, sobbing, and he held her gently to him, wishing she wouldn't do this to him when he still felt so weak and so tired. But he understood the fright she must have experienced, and he knew it was his job, as a son, to put her mind at rest as best he could.
* * *
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Eight
&nbs
p; Declan was annoyed, but he knew it was a futile emotion. They had turned over every stone in the fucking Smoke, Spain and even fucking Portugal, and still there was nothing to go on. Not even a murmur.
It had been three months since the shooting, and they were no nearer to finding out any more than they had been at the beginning. Initially they had believed that they would be inundated with fucking accusations, theories, the lot. They had expected the usual nutters trying to get an old score settled by saying their mortal enemy had done it. But no. Nothing. Had he really thought they were in with a chance of naming the fucker concerned? How naive were they, thinking it would all be over in a few days? It seemed now that whoever was responsible had the nous and the clout to make people forgo a hundred grand reward. That took a serious amount of fear; most people they dealt with would grass up their own fucking grannies for a tenth of that. Even Phillip was beginning to think they would never solve this fucking mystery, and if he was getting disheartened then things were bad. But no one seemed to know anything, and that in itself was suspicious. Someone, somewhere, had to be in the know.
Breda knew what they were all thinking, so she said what was on her mind. 'Look, Phillip, your Philly is a bit of a hothead at the best of times, are you sure he ain't had a tear-up with someone and conveniently forgot about it?'
Phillip shook his head. 'Crossed my mind, don't worry, Breda, but he says no, and so do his associates. Anyway we would have heard a whisper about something like that. People talk. Stands to reason.'
She nodded. That made sense, someone would have mentioned something so obvious. 'This is fucking mental, it's like they shot the wrong person or something!'
Phillip was in absolute agreement. 'Don't think that hasn't occurred to me and all, Breda.'
Declan sighed, and wished he was anywhere else on the planet but in this office, on Southend Seafront. He said slowly and deliberately, 'Well, we're out of fucking options, Phillip. Even though it grieves me to say that, but you know the old saying, it all comes out in the wash. This will come out eventually, it's just waiting till that happens.'
Breda's mobile rang and she answered it quickly. After a brief conversation she called off and, looking at Phillip, she said tersely, 'That was Timmy. Christine's on a bender, he had a call from the Moonraker pub. They want her out by the sounds of it, in case you find out she's been served, Phillip. They've got a new barmaid by all accounts, didn't realise the score.'
Most of the pubs in Southend knew better than to serve Christine Murphy, Phillip had seen to that years ago. But she still slipped past the safety precautions occasionally. Plus, there were a lot of pubs these days that changed hands frequently thanks to the ridiculous no-smoking laws. People were going out of business hand over fist. So it was getting harder and harder to police her.
Phillip rolled his eyes to the ceiling in frustration. 'Oh for fuck's sake! This is all we fucking need. Her on a fucking tear-up around Southend Seafront.'
Breda sighed. She felt sorry for Christine a lot of the time, she thought she had been doing well, and she said as much. 'Well, be fair, Phillip, she has been good until now. I don't know if I could have coped so well had my Porrick been shot.'
Phillip was furious now and he said snidely, 'Your Porrick wouldn't even notice if he got shot. He's a fucking moron - no brain, no fucking pain, him. I hope that baby his bird's having ain't as thick as him.'
Declan saw Breda's face drain of any colour at the vitriol in her brother's voice. Standing up she said quietly, and with tears choking her voice, 'Thanks a fucking lot, Phillip! That's my boy you're talking about. Whatever he might be, he's still my son, and I love him. Just because he ain't a fucking intellectual you look down your nose at him, but he earns his wage and you know it. Still, it's always good to know where we stand with each other, ain't it?' Then she left them.
Declan looked at his brother and, standing up, he shouted in abject disbelief, 'Feel better now, Phillip? You've just hurt your sister, and not just hurt her, but embarrassed her and insulted her. Well, do you know what, mate., fuck you. Because Breda is a fucking grafter, and you should remember that before you put your fucking mouth in gear. You're a bully sometimes, because you know she can't fight you back. You know there aren't many people who can fight back where you're concerned. I thought you hated bullies, Phillip. That's what you've always said, ain't it? Now I am going to see that she's all right. You can do what you fucking like.'
When the shock of his brother's words had worn off, Phillip remembered his son years ago, when he had attacked old Donny, and he had accused him of being a bully. Yet Phillip was the bully now; he had just destroyed poor Breda for no other reason than because he felt like it. He was annoyed, so he had taken it out on her. Where was the man he had prided himself on being all those years ago? Who was known for his good manners and his care for the people around him. He had understood, at a young age, that when you did the kind of work he did, goodwill was mandatory. If the people you grew up with wished you well, and the people you employed thought you were a good person, you were on the way to untold riches. He liked that people thought he was a good person; it was all the more important to him because if they believed it, then it must be true.
Phillip ran from the office suddenly and, tearing through the packed arcade, he burst out of the front entrance into the late September sunshine. Seeing Breda and Declan standing together on the pavement by her car, he went over to them. He had to make this right, he knew that much. She was crying, and he realised for the first time ever, that Breda was not just his sister, or his colleague, she was an intrinsic part of his life, and she was one of the main reasons it ran so smoothly. She took a lot of the shit from him, and she sorted it out without complaining. He also knew that without Declan he would never survive, Declan's loyalty meant a lot to him. He was one of the only people he actually respected.
'I'm sorry, Breda, I am so fucking sorry, darling.' And he meant it, because whatever he might think inside, he knew that he was lucky to have his family around him. They were grafters, and they relied on him to an extent. But he knew that without them he couldn't run any of the businesses as well as he did now. You couldn't trust anyone like you could your own flesh and blood. So for that alone, he would make sure Breda didn't think she was unappreciated.
'I'm so fucking eaten up with my Philly, and now Christine out on another fucking bender. I daren't walk round to the pub to get her, I'll fucking lay her out the mood I'm in.'
Phillip was looking at his sister with what she saw was genuine remorse. Breda was so amazed at the turn of events, she couldn't even speak a word.
Declan saw that Phillip had understood his warning very well.
Breda - all of them, actually - needed a little bit of respect and a little bit of encouragement sometimes.
'I love your Porrick really, you know that, Breda, and he's already asked me to be godfather to the baby, so I can only say I'm sorry, love.'
She was nodding, but even she thought Phillip was stronging it now. He hardly said two words to the boy. She appreciated the sentiment anyway. At least this would clear the air if nothing else.
If Declan knew one thing, it was that they would have to draw a line under this soon, because it was causing them to start infighting, and that could be fatal. Something like this made onlookers think, look for a chink in the family's armour, and it was a time when they needed to be seen as tighter and stronger than ever. If they weren't careful, this would become bigger than them. And there was nothing bigger, or more important than the family.
Phillip knew that, which is why he was outside the arcade trying to placate his sister. Normal service had to be resumed as soon as possible. Not that this would all be forgotten, of course, that was a given, but it had to stop being the only thing they focused on.
* * *
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Nine
Christine was happier than she had been for ages. Vodka could do that, she found. It was ages since she had been on a real
drink-up, and today she had decided, quite suddenly, that it had been long enough between bouts. Starting early, she had bought a half bottle of Smirnoff from the local off-licence in Leigh-on-Sea, because they didn't know her there, and she had polished that off in no time in her car. She realised with a jolt that she had left the car somewhere, but she couldn't remember where. The police would find it, they always did, and they would have it delivered to the farm. It was handy being Mrs Phillip Murphy at times. She had gone to the Wheatsheaf next, a lovely old pub, and she had downed a lot more vodka there before walking to the Three Crowns, where she sat outside looking at the sea, drinking herself even further into oblivion. She vaguely remembered getting in a cab, or being put into a cab if she was being totally honest, and ending up at the Moonraker, which was where she was now.
She was looking at her son, and wondering why she was so anxious to get home. Phillip would be annoyed; he hated it when she tried one on like this, he said he was worried about what could happen to her. But she didn't believe him, she thought it was because he couldn't control her when she was drunk. The thought made her laugh.
'What's so funny, Mum?'
'Nothing. Why, who are you, the laughing police?'
Even Timmy smiled at that.
'I want to see my Philly, take me to see my Philly!'
'Philly is at home, Mum, remember? Finoula's there with him.' He was talking to her as if she was a child, and a stupid child at that. She hated feeling like this, maudlin and depressed. She wondered if she had any pills stashed at home. She didn't think she did, but you never knew; she was always the optimist.
As they drove along, she watched her son's profile, it was dark now but, in the light of the car, he looked like his father with his pursed lips and his obvious annoyance at her condition. She knew the boys hated her drinking, but they were grown men now. Philly was getting married soon. She was a grown-up as well - if she wanted to get pissed then that was her right, surely? It was probably in the Magna Carta or something. After all, she was an adult; not that they treated her like one, of course.