But over the years he had given himself a polish of sorts; he had learned how to be a part of society, how to blend in. And this had given Veronica a measure of peace – until all this, of course. Now the old fears were back with a vengeance. The terror that he was without real feelings of any kind. She wiped away the tears of frustration and terror that rolled down her cheeks. Now his amazing temper was focused on his own family, and she was not sure how this night was going to end. That her own child frightened her was bad enough, but that she had no real control over him bothered her even more.
She took her rosary beads from her pocket and started a decade of Hail Marys, praying that Our Lady, the Mother of God would see it in her heart to ease the burden of her pain, and save her family for her this night.
She didn't hold out much hope.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Phillip looked at his sister as she lay on the kitchen floor. She was curled up in the foetal position, her whole demeanour now one of fear, repentance – and pain.
He had been holding back his true nature for years now. He knew that his haphazard brand of violence was not seen as the norm by most people, but he felt that his natural instincts were what gave him the edge in his world and he used them to that end. Now, this excuse for a fucking female had made him step out of character; she had forced him to retaliate, and now the genie was out of the bottle he was seriously considering killing her. Get her off his fucking back once and for all.
That she would dare to make a fool of him in front of the very people they relied on for their livelihoods was extremely stupid, and enough to bring the fucking authorities down on them. The Filth would have a field day seeing the Murphys implode, and in spectacular fashion at that. All killing each other, and doing it in full view of anyone who cared to have a gander. That she thought she could get away with it told him he had made a grave error of judgement in trusting her. Well, that wasn't going to ever happen again. He had given her far too much leeway, had let her believe she was in control of her own life, and she had done what all fucking idiots eventually did – she had believed her own press. She thought that her silly little local reputation gave her some kind of fucking swerve where the real world was concerned. She played to the gallery, while he took the money on the door. It was the difference between them and it always would be. Well, now he had to show her just what a mega fuck-up she'd made, not just for herself, but for him and everyone they knew. She needed the lesson of all lessons.
Walking towards her he kicked her, with all his strength, in the small of her back; so great was its power that it forced her two feet across the floor, and she slammed into the bottom of the cupboard doors. The thud was loud in the quiet of the kitchen. He was grudgingly impressed that she didn't cry out, that went a small way towards abating his anger slightly. He admired people who were strong, who were able to take what was coming to them. It was this part of his sister that showed she was a Murphy.
He spat at her. 'I could kill you, Breda, for the grief you've caused me.'
She wasn't about to answer him, she knew he needed to talk now and she was happy to let him. Her eyes were tightly shut, and her instincts told her not to make eye contact with him in any way. Just let him run off his steam. Let him get it out of his system. She could hear him smoking again, the click of the lighter like a gunshot in the quiet of the room. She was in the most precarious position of her life, but there was nothing she could do about it. She had to let this run its course; even her mother had walked away from it, and that alone told her everything she needed to know. But she swore to God and all the saints that if she survived this she would never again take anyone or anything for granted as long as she lived.
Phillip smoked his cigarette slowly, sipping at his whisky occasionally. Sometimes, when he was very angry, like now, he had difficulty keeping his mind concentrated. He pictured himself doing things, right now he could picture himself boiling the kettle and pouring it all over her fucking greasy head. The thought made him smile – that would get a reaction from her all right. That would get her on the move.
He began laughing gently, almost chuckling, and this sound was far more frightening to Breda than anything else she had heard.
'All my fucking hard graft, out the door in five minutes because you couldn't resist showing off could you, eh, Breda? Had to be the hard bird, hard Breda Murphy. A bloke with tits.'
The anger was building in his voice once more. She knew she had to keep quiet and as still as possible, but her back felt like it was broken, and her face was stinging, the swelling was so bad on her lips she was having difficulty breathing. She could taste blood every time she swallowed. Breda knew she was in a bad way, and that she would be much worse before the night was through. She was praying in her head, over and over, begging the gods to help her get out of this situation. She was bargaining with the Lord like many a coward before her, only she feared it was all too late.
As Phillip walked back over to her she held her breath in anticipation, expecting another blow of equally ferocious proportions. As she tensed her body, ready, she thought she was hallucinating as she heard her sister-in-law's voice calling out loudly, 'Phil… Phillip, are you in there?'
Breda heard her brother swearing under his breath, and knew that Christine really was there, had turned up at the house to save her. Breda could feel the tears breaking through her closed eyelids; the relief was palpable now, and her body started to shudder as shock set in.
Phillip Murphy was looking at his wife as if she had just grown a separate head on her shoulders in front of his eyes as he registered the shock and the disgust in her face. He knew that his mother was behind Christine coming here, shaming him further. Oh, would this fucking day never cease to surprise him? Would this day never fucking end?
Christine walked tentatively into the kitchen, and he could sense the fear emanating from her, almost smell it. His wife's fear affected him in a way Breda's failed to, he needed her goodwill, needed her to think well of him.
'What's going on, Phillip…? Come on, Breda, get up off the floor, love, did you fall over or something?'
It sounded silly even to her own ears, but Christine knew in her heart that she had to pretend she had no real idea what was going on here. She knew that her husband was not only volatile, but that he'd had some kind of break with reality. She had sensed this only a few times before, and she had been loath to explore her feelings then. She was even less inclined to think too much about it now.
She bent over Breda offering her a hand, and trying to smile reassuringly at her. The situation was so surreal she wondered briefly if she had stumbled into some kind of twilight dream world. There was whisky all over the floor and Breda looked like she had been flattened somehow, her whole face was swollen and already bruising. But it was Phillip who was worrying her – he looked vacant, unaware of what was happening around him, but she knew that he was more than aware and was watching them both with an intensity that made her feel he could see into their minds. She was pulling Breda's hands from around her head, making her let go, silently trying to impress on her how important it was to get up off the floor and away from Phillip as soon as possible. Once she was out of his sight she would be safe, for a while anyway.