Martina Cole: The Family

'I was at Joanie's.' She knew she had said this to her mother too much recently, but it couldn't be helped. 'It's not a crime to go to a friend's, is it?'

'No one said it was, but if it was so innocent why didn't you say that in the first place?'

Christine closed her eyes and counted to ten; she had read a problem page once that said if you took a deep breath and counted to ten before you answered a question, it stopped you from blurting out things you might one day regret. That advice had stood her in good stead over the years with her mother. Not so much lying, as just not telling her the whole truth.

Her mother saw the bad in everything , in her eyes everyone in her daughter's orbit was a potential threat. Even her school- friends and their mothers. Joanie's mum had always sympathised with Christine, had seen the way her mother had demanded total control of her only daughter. Joanie's mum had told her many years ago that she was always welcome to stay there if she needed a break. It had been a watershed for Christine hearing those words. She had known then that her feelings for her mother weren't ingratitude, her mother was genuinely unreasonable.

'Why didn't I tell you? Do you really need to ask me that, Mum? You keep questioning me as if I have done something wrong, and the more you question me the more I don't want to tell you anything. You're supposed to trust me, trust what I say.' Christine was so upset she was visibly shaking, not so much with anger, though that was a big part of it, but with sheer distress. Why was her mother always trying to catch her out? She had been at Joanie's, on the night she was being questioned about anyway. She didn't get to see her friend much these days. Phillip didn't like her for some reason.

Eileen Booth took a deep breath, and looked into her daughter's eyes. Christine noted that her face was the usual mask of heavy foundation. She thought her mother's make-up made her look like a doll. Made her look unreal. She came down to the breakfast table every day in full war paint, and for as long as Christine could remember, she had never once seen her mother without her face on. Eileen never looked natural, had never looked approachable or friendly even. From her blue eye shadow to her pink cheeks she looked like a stranger. Like someone else's mum. She was very attractive, Christine knew that, saw the way men looked at her. She knew instinctively that her mother's make-up was for their benefit, not her husband's. Eileen had disregarded Ted since Christine could remember. He rarely disagreed with his wife, she was far too aggressive, far too overpowering. Christine knew he had given up trying to make any kind of point long ago. He had been worn down by his wife's constant complaints. Christine was determined that she would not have a marriage like that.

As Eileen Booth looked at her lovely daughter she felt the urge to cry. She couldn't bear to see her lovely girl waste herself on a Murphy. And waste herself she would if Eileen didn't step in and steer her in the right direction.

'I've heard a rumour, Christine, and that rumour is that you are trailing after Phillip Murphy. The Murphys are the scum of the earth, darling. Now, put yourself in my position. If you had a daughter, and I want you to think about this seriously, would you honestly want her wasting herself on a no mark like that?'

When she was really angry, as she was now, Eileen resorted to the gutter speak. It showed her up for what she really was. 'No mark' was a common expression, and Christine knew that while her mother might believe she was better than everyone, she had been born over a newsagent's in East London. The shop her husband now ran had been bought with the proceeds of that newsagent's. That she still looked down on everyone around her was a constant source of irritation to her only daughter.

Looking squarely at her mother, Christine asked sarcastically, 'What's a "no mark", Mum?'

Her mother's hand shot out and physically knocked her across the room. Then, grabbing her daughter's hair, Eileen dragged her into the downstairs toilet. Pushing her face against the mirror, she screamed, 'Look at yourself, you stupid girl! You could have anyone, do anything with your life.'

Christine was not going to cry, no matter what, so, pulling herself from her mother's grasp, she said, 'What, like you did, you mean?' The words were quietly spoken, but the implication was there for anyone to hear.

'You nasty little mare. After all I've done for you…'

'That's all I've ever heard, Mum, all me life, what you've done for me. Well, I wish you hadn't bothered, because I want out of here. Sooner rather than later, and I know you don't like Phil, but that's half the attraction. I'd shag a tramp if it got me away from you.'

Christine knew then that she had finally gone too far.

Phillip Murphy was really angry, but as usual he kept his feelings to himself. He understood only too well the value of blandness; in his job, the less people could gauge about you the less they could put away for future reference. Consequently, no matter what he was paid to do, he did it quietly, quickly and, most importantly, without expressing any kind of opinion whatsoever. He was already getting a reputation as a good earner. As someone who took the job on offer and didn't ask questions either way and, more to the point, didn't feel the urge to discuss it with all and sundry.

His attitude was it wasn't any of his business and, for that reason, he had no interest in the history of the people involved. He wasn't in the market for hearing grievances or explanations. He wanted his poke, and he would happily carry out what was requested of him to get it without a prolonged discussion. He prided himself on his knack for not caring about the people involved – not the people who paid him, and definitely not the people he was paid to visit.

Until now, that was.

It didn't mean he wasn't aware of the situations he had been asked to deal with. He always knew exactly what the score was, he just never asked the person concerned why they wanted his services. The fact that he expected a very nice fee for what he did spoke volumes. His price told the person who needed his expertise that he knew exactly what was going on, but that he didn't let it cloud his judgement in any way. If he wasn't told anything it was assumed he did not know anything. It was simple economics. He just wanted his money, he was not a fucking agony aunt. This endeared him to people because they knew he never discussed his work, and never felt the need to prove himself by running off his mouth. And his brothers were the same. But most petty Faces were banged up because they couldn't resist opening their traps. They needed people to know who they were and what they were capable of. Liked to name-drop the people they were working for, liked the fact that they felt a bit of reflected glory. Real Faces were too shrewd to let anyone know anything, no matter how big or how small. It was enough for them to know they had done it and got away with it; they certainly didn't feel the need to broadcast it to the fucking nation.

Now here he was, standing before Stan Barclay, a man he had grown up respecting, a man his father had always spoken of in hushed tones, and he was asking Phillip to do something that was not only against the grain, but an insult to boot. There wasn't much Phillip wouldn't do, but even he had his limit. He knew that Stan was relying on his reputation for discretion, and he understood that it was that reputation that had brought him to Stan's attention. But he was not about to be used by him. Being given a job that Stan would be chary of giving to his regular workforce said it all as far as he was concerned. Even though it would enable Phillip to step up into the world of serious villainy, as Stan had repeatedly pointed out to him. What Stan didn't realise, however, was that Phillip knew that Stan would make sure what he was asking him to do was never made public. That meant that Phillip himself would be a target once the job was completed. Stan was betting on his greed and that he would be too dense to work out the bottom line. Phillip was young and he was hungry, but Stan Barclay had made a mistake in thinking he was also stupid. This was a poser, this was a real dilemma. But he had to ask the question.