} 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲. › THE 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄S: ! - Blog Posts

Down, down, down. Floor after floor held it’s secrets, pregnant with the promise of a hellscape should one dare to scratch the surface. Each Locke sibling was unique, Dermot was the eldest by a minute or two, and held his father’s temperament; reckless abandon and all the charisma of a python. Handsome enough to charm anyone just long enough to strangle the light out of them. Enia had come second - the middle sibling she held the grace in the family, her mother’s daughter. She tried, she tried so very hard to be the moral compass for the three of them. Though even the hand that pointed due north had been skewed for some time. She liked to tell herself that she had gotten out, she was her own woman, not woven into the fabric her brothers had sewn… and yet. 

Down Down Down. Pipes click, floorboards creak, music and laughter flow through the halls of Locke and Co. 

The hotel and casino was their baby, but it was Philip that had nurtured it, and grown it. Philip Locke was the youngest, and had torn his way into the world kicking and screaming. Philip was different. It had been a long time since he’d allowed the light to hit his skin, to feel like he fit into places. The hardest decisions, the decisions he took to protect his family had always been his burden to bear; and so the light in him now was only saved for private moments. For moments with Blair, his Blair - for the promise of a life between the two of them that would be legitimate. Away from the blood and the violence that knitted him together.

Philip Locke. The youngest, by five minutes. The doctors said he struggled, there had been a risk to life, and yet there he was. He tried to clutch at Enia’s moral compass, but threat to family came first and it needed snuffing out. The lad was gypsy to his core, born Irish, though his father was from over the puddle, and preferred the perks that particular brand of aristocracy brought to them. His mother had taught him tongues growing up as he was the only one that had taken an interest. An old soul from the moment he took air into his lungs. The way he conducted himself was witchcraft, no doubt, but those he was unable to charm would most certainly die at his own hands. 

His make up was such that it made sense to him that Blair had been presented to him as the only woman on this earth able to harness him. Why he consulted Orla on every decision he made, and with their whiskey, and Mickey’s drugs running through the veins of most of his clientele, he was as much family to the Shea’s as the rest of them. He listened when Orla would tell him of Gypsy curses, of ghosts that whispered in his ear to warn him of trust. 

For a while now, he had been tracking a mole, an informant to one Michael Shea. Philip and his siblings had enough on with their own family affairs - nevermind that of the Shea’s. He did recognise however, that the old heart in his tin chest had a few knocks in it yet, and therefore he needed to protect all of his kin - even the extended ones. 

Orla had warned him. 

Light in the room had been snuffed out, left instead with the yellowed glow of the security lights over-head. Ruben stood at his flank, alongside Aidan - two men he would trust with his life. The tick and hiss of the boiler in the basement the accompaniment to the thuds of revellers above. Another party of his brother’s making, no doubt. Ordinarily, he preferred silence for his exploits, but they had been under his nose and so this would need to do. 

It was fitting it was in the bowels of his business - the empire they had amassed was built on bones, without a doubt. The party his brother had held was crawling with them, there were two of them sat before him. A third lay dormant on the tile. Philip sniffed, the scent of iron, sweat and wine in the air. Wrapping his hands around his knuckles, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, white shirt mottled with red, the stain spreading. 

The heel of his shoe knocked the body at his feet onto his back, just enough to hear the gurgling in his throat as the light went out in his eyes. The other two sat fidgeting, leather bound palms holding their shoulders to cracked wooden chairs. The task at hand was bloody, but of the two, it was the woman he had been balls deep in only half an hour before that seemed to hold the most resolve. Her face twisted into a smile, white teeth flashing in the dim light. 

“Ay Mr. Locke. You still owe me a hundred for helping you grieve the loss of another kid. P’haps.”

There were many things he could hold his resolve to, a stony disposition, this was not one of them. It was as if the young woman held a mirror upto his own shortcomings, and reminded him that he was still only human. “ENOUGH, eh? You didn’ even come fuckin’ close.” He had flown at her,  grasping her face in stiff palm. “Think yourself nuthin’ more than a fuckin’ recepticle.” Her eyes strained themselves to meet his, though he pushed her head to the side, lips at her ear, the feeling of disgust sticking to his skin. “Micky Shea ring any bells to you?” He sniffed, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her lip. “Think you can flash your tits and solve my problems with a shag do ya, she’s my fuckin’ WIFE, and you, diddy wee cunt, will n’er match up?”

“Coulda fooled me.” Her drawl but a whisper, and the anger in him bubbled so hot he felt her teeth crack at his knuckle. 

“Lip.” 

Aidan spat, and he turned his head. There was a softness in the man he had at his side, but to Philip, anyone that betrayed him and his was no better than a rat. He loved Blair, she had been the only one in all his years that had shown him what love was. It didn’t, however, mean the two were always honest with each other. The pain they held onto for being unable to make a life of their own meant on occasion they found solace with another when the ire of looking at each other got too much. 

“Y’alright there Aidan?” 

“Just, lets get this over and done with, shall we?”

He stood upright, the male next to the woman he held onto shivered in his chair, no doubt he had been drafted and charmed by Mr Shea just enough to think walking into the vipers den and trying to get one over on them was indeed the right thing to do. He had a knack at doing that, but he may as well be sending lambs to slaughter.

Ruben however, though younger than Aidan was made in his image. The lad idolised him, and his brother, and therefore the more he got involved with, the boyish idioms bled out of him like a haemorrhage, a puppy dog no more.

“C’mon Lip, Blair’ll be mad as hell.” 

Eyes flickered. “An’ what do you know about hell eh Ru? Might find some joy in there sometime.”

Hand slid over her clavicle, leaving a trail of red behind it, and for the first time the woman’s demeanour cracked. Not long enough for her to speak, as he wrapped his hands around her neck and snapped it. A swan, grace and beauty, fell limp in his grasp and she slithered from the chair. A ghost now like the rest of them, cursed to be trapped in the dusty pipes of this hotel forever more. 

He was an animal, the wolf in him had stretched and jaws frothed. It had become so commonplace in his life that he rarely felt the shudder of his actions between his feet. It was a strange dichotomy, to think they were capable of the things they did. Spiriod knew the people they were, they were bad people - but to them, and those that earned the protection of the Locke siblings, they were their bad people.

The man in the chair had wriggled free of Ruben’s grasp, and knocked the lad onto his back, and Philip flew, striking like a python. He and Aidan dragged him up, freeing their apprentice. 

“I’ll fuckin’ kill him.” Ruben was quick on his feet, bouncing on his toes like young men did when prepping for a fight, but this was beyond a scrap in a bar. He slowed as he watched his boss.

Philip had him flat on his back, the man reached, his hands and fingers grasping at his face. Truth be told, Philip had planned to let him go, give him a new smile to show his boss on the premise that he would never darken their doorway again. Plans change though, don’t they? Clumsy hands reached for blade, Philip wouldn’t remember this after, his heart in his throat. It had become like a blood sport for him, a frenzied attack. The man became mulch at his hands, until he, like the rest of them fell still, the black masses grew where his eyes had been.

“The sooner Michael fuckin’ Shea expires the better.” He rubbed the blood from his eyes, the taste of it on his tongue. Breathless he hoisted himself to his feet, tossing the knife at the body. He flew at Ruben, knocking the wind from him as he pinned him to a post. “Yer won’t be killin’ anyone lad - you think what we do is ALRIGHT? Look at it. Your sister would have me hung.” He let him go. 

Aidan slid out of the dark to his side, the three of them stood, surveying the damage as trickles of blood ran into one another. 

“You’ll be a Gypsy Boy forever, Lip.” Aidan noted, patting his shoulder, his voice still tremored. There was silence again, except for the clicking of pipes, the smell of iron and the rising damp.  

“P’haps - call my brother would ya? Fuckin’ lump can help me sort this, and I can have a word with him about who he invites to our events, eh?”

Philip lifted a cigarette to his mouth, running it along his lower lip, smoke replacing the taste of blood. 

—--

Philip’s brother had always been a lighter figure than he could ever be. He tried, he had his mothers wisdom, but the full weight of his father’s ferocity. Dermot was much more a free spirit, lifted by the privilege their lives gave them. 

Philip was under no illusions that perhaps Dermot was not as desensitised as he was be to scenes such as this, but figured it was best he saw, and experienced, to know why and how he stood on the privilege he did. Lip had merely made his peace with who he was, and the business he dealt in. Youngest by a fraction though he may be, he was the brains and the brutality behind the operation. It was never a playground for him to revel in, it was a desperation to hang onto all he had built, to protect his kin in ways their parents simply neglected to do for them. 

Each sibling wore that boulder around their neck like a noose, and in a way - it was. They were not untouchable, and could only bolster their lives by surrounding themselves with like minded folk. With people they could put on the payroll. It was not greed that drove Philip, but wrath. It surged throughout his extremities and propped him upright enough to function. 

He was stony faced, eyes flickering from one body to the next, the gravity of the massacre settling into the lines on his face. What were three more? He thought of Blair, he thought of his siblings and resigned to matters he always did - it had been necessary to protect them. Michael Shea was a bastard, cold and undeserving of the empire he wanted to snatch, and he looked out for his own. It also meant Blair had less death to take on of her own, he needed her to go legitimate. He needed her to start to distance herself from the lifestyle they shared, the ills they involved themselves in. She was his crutch, all he needed to lean on to say he would get out of it, this time would be the last time. 

But it was always the last time, so he needed her to be the stronger one of the pair of them. He had a wife before Blair, she was still around, Hollin, a hard faced woman who had only been made as such by her husband. Another woman he had rejected normality with and for her he wasn’t enough, the life wasn’t enough and nor were his promises. He had fought her on the divorce - no one divorced a Locke man. Only they had the say so on it, or so he thought, until one sombre afternoon, after stumbling in on him finding comfort in Blair, he signed the divorce papers. 

The sound of the doors clicking behind him broke his thought process, the movement of the other men in the room and the entrance of his brother made him turn his head. 

Dermot was cocksure, always was, so very sure of himself. To his credit, he was never afraid to get stuck elbow deep in the animalistic actions of his brother, and without a question as to why. What he didn’t understand was how to help prevent things reaching boiling point. 

Philip blinked slowly, watching him remove the cap, his suit jacket, peeling off layers of grandeur to paint himself red like the rest of them. He exhaled, slowly. 

“Who’ve we offed?” He noted, sniffing, watching the light hearted exchanges around him as his core temperature bubbled once again. “Who’ve we fuckin’ offed?”

He took a step, stopping only to wipe blood from his visage roughly with the cuff of his sleeve. “More like, Dermot threw another fuckin’ party. Another show of look who tha fuck we are. Another event where I have to clean up fuckin’ SHIT, because Micky fuckin’ Shea’s crack team o’ twats are in here tryna get ta’ us, me, YOU, our fuckin’ sister – BLAIR?”

He stopped. “Who’ve we fuckin’ offed?” Dermot repeated. The question his brother asked about the disposal of corpses hadn’t crossed his mind, but he shot Dermot the same look he had shot him, concern at the inhuman and disconnect they had towards death. “Uh, I dunno.” He turned. 

“I need ta’ speak to Orla.”