Human Conditioning
Page 1
Human Conditioning
By Louise Hirst
Copyright © by Louise Hirst 2013
All rights reserved
I dedicate this book to this beautiful world. To those who do not have the means to appreciate it, those who aspire to protect it and those who struggle to protect themselves.
All characters and events in this story are fictional.
Prologue
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter twenty-three
Chapter twenty-four
Chapter twenty-five
Chapter twenty-six
Chapter twenty-seven
Chapter twenty-eight
Chapter twenty-nine
Chapter thirty
Chapter thirty-one
Chapter thirty-two
Chapter thirty-three
Chapter thirty-four
Chapter thirty-five
Chapter thirty-six
Chapter thirty-seven
Chapter thirty-eight
Chapter thirty-nine
Chapter forty
Chapter forty-one
Chapter forty-two
Chapter forty-three
Chapter forty-four
Chapter forty-five
Chapter forty-six
Chapter forty-seven
Chapter forty-eight
Chapter forty-nine
Chapter fifty
Chapter fifty-one
Epilogue
The interview
Supplementary
The End
Prologue
“Some people might think that what I did in my young life and beyond was a disgrace, a liberty, but if you consider where I came from and the people who shaped my life, maybe then you might come to understand why I became the man I did.”
Aiden Foster
(1969– 2002)
HMP Maidstone
7th December 2001
In October 1991, Aiden Foster was imprisoned for thirty-three years at Her Majesty’s Prison Parkhurst on multiple charges of murder, extortion, sexual exploitation, theft and drugs distribution. On 7th December 2001, ten years after his imprisonment, and on the day of his 32nd birthday, Mr Foster agreed to be interviewed for the very first time by Kathryn Daley of the BBC. Earlier that year, Mr Foster had been transferred from Her Majesty’s Prison Wakefield, a Category A prison (where he’d been transferred to from Parkhurst in 1994), to Category B, Her Majesty’s Prison Maidstone, on good behaviour.
Marked as one of East London’s most industrious criminal minds of the past decade, Mr Foster spoke of his childhood, his relationships and how he made his fortune working on the wrong side of the law. A recording of the BBC interview was aired on national television on 24th December 2001. Mr Foster was found dead at Her Majesty’s Prison Maidstone two weeks later.
7th December 2001
“Mr Foster, I am Kathryn Daley, a reporter for the BBC,” I announce somewhat uneasily as the prison guard who escorted me to the private cell inside Her Majesty’s Prison, Maidstone, closes the heavy iron door behind me, leaving me alone with prisoner 64521 – Mr Aiden Lance Foster. “I believe I am to wish you a happy birthday, Mr Foster,” I add with a shy smile as I shuffle inside the room in my high black stilettos and grey pencil skirt. I pat down my blonde bob and run my nails through my fringe, peering down at my white blouse, knowing that I have shamefully left three buttons undone, deeming this fitting to meet a man who had once been of high appeal in the public eye, not only because of his wealth and criminal status, but because of his intriguing appearance. I have perused through several photographs of Mr Foster this past week and he is striking.
Mr Foster rises from a plastic chair behind a rectangular table that has a tray of condiments upon it. I’m surprised to see him dressed in black trousers and a white shirt; his two top buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up. I always thought inmates had a uniform and I saw some in uniform as I was led past the cells just now.
I immediately register Mr Foster’s size. All the photographs I have been given of him are head shots. I now see that he is robust, tall and muscular, his shoulders broad but his waist slim: no doubt he has a six-pack hidden beneath his shirt, which is currently tucked into his trousers. The thought is distracting and I immediately force myself to smile and hold out my hand to him. He takes it. His hand is large and hot, his fingers long, engulfing my small hand, still cold from the freezing wind and rain outside the prison’s stone walls. I peer up at his face through my fringe. He is as handsome in the flesh as he is in his head shots… very handsome indeed, and I cannot prevent myself from blushing. I feel the provoked heat in my cheeks with awkward discomfort and I wonder if he can read my discomposure because, as he releases my hand, his lips quiver. He has obviously got used to this reaction and either relishes it or is embarrassed by it. I cannot tell which.
“Please, sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his on the other side of the table. His voice is gruff, his accent typical of a man who has grown up in the East End of London. I am grateful for the distance between us as he retakes his seat behind the table, and I’m not sure if it’s because of my downright unprofessional reaction to his splendour or because, as I sit before him, I remind myself that this man is guilty of murder, of sexual exploitation. I subsequently remind myself that beauty and riches do not sanction cruelty. I set the brown, leather briefcase I have brought with me on the table and, unzipping it, I pull out my questions, typed on eight A4 sheets of paper, and my Dictaphone. I am conscious that I am avoiding eye contact with my subject.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks.
I take a breath and meet his eyes: deep, ocean blue eyes, twinkling with, what? …Anticipation, humour… insanity? I remind myself that there is a guard just outside the door. I swallow hard. “Yes, please. Milk, no sugar.”
He pursues the task of pouring the tea and I concentrate on gathering my notes and my composure. He sets a paper cup in front of me and pushes a plastic container of milk to my side of the table. I glance up and notice he hasn’t prepared one for himself.
“Do you not drink tea?” I ask, and I think it is to break the present silence.
He lounges back in his chair. “No, I prefer the harder stuff,” he replies.
I watch him intently for a moment, unsure whether he’s referring to alcohol or drugs, or both. I notice that he’s sizing me up, trying to read me. It’s rather disconcerting, but I think he probably does this with everyone he meets. I get the impression that he doesn’t trust easily. He’s polite, but his body language conveys his guardedness.
I pour milk into my tea cup and help myself to a teaspoon from the tray. “Are you happy to begin right away, Mr Foster?” I ask.
“I am.”
He relaxes, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair so that his forearms hang down either side. After stirring my tea, I place the teaspoon back on the tray and hit record on my Dictaphone. “Tell me where you were born and where you grew up,” I begin.
He doesn’t hesitate. “I was born in the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. I grew up in Hackney.”
“Yes.” He regards me with those piercing blue eyes of his. “It’s a tough upbringing,” he adds, and I am surprised by this honesty but, again, he doesn’t elaborate.
I go on, “Your father is Douglas Foster, your mother Vivien Foster.”
“That’s correct, though I heard my father died a few years back.”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I add, feeling myself blush, but he remains impassive.
I stare down at my notes once more, take a deep breath and cross my legs tightly. “Your parents had you out of wedlock…” I say. His expression hardens suddenly and he cocks his head a little to one side – intrigued, I think, by such a personal observation. I swiftly go on, “That must have been difficult; in the late sixties and your mother being from a Catholic family?”
He hesitates, in thought, then replies flatly, “Well, she didn’t really have much of a choice.”
I frown. This is not the response I was expecting and I’m not quite sure what he means. “Oh?” I press.
He settles further back in his chair and raises an ankle over his knee. “Mrs…” he pauses and glances down at my left hand. I know he sees no ring there because I do not have one and I blush, feeling almost inadequate because I am not yet married at the age of twenty-nine. He corrects himself and announces, “Miss Daley… I was a child born out of rape and I believe my mother had no choice but to marry the old man in the end.”
I am stunned into silence. I feel my mouth pop open but my mind is instantly so clouded by his confession that I cannot generate a signal from my brain to my mouth to close it. He informs me so impassively, yet a slight smile now creeps upon his lips, as if he is enjoying my momentary discomfort. “Yeah, my expression was somewhat the same when my mother decided to drop that little bombshell on me on my sixteenth birthday,” he adds as he scrutinises my every move.
I shift in my chair and finally close my mouth. I gulp and say, almost in a whisper, “That must have been difficult to hear.”
“At first, but Duggie soon persuaded me to forget it had ever happened…” he replies, again impassively.
I frown with confusion and it takes me a moment to realise that Duggie was his father. His top lip jerks up in amusement. He’s definitely enjoying making me squirm. I get the impression that whatever his father did to keep him quiet about his mother’s disclosure it was something as bad, if not worse, than her announcing such a thing on his birthday.
“What did he do?” I whisper warily, unsure as to whether I really want to know. We’ve already digressed from my set of questions, but I feel for the man and am intrigued to know what happened to him. I almost feel indignant towards his parents, yet I know little about them.
His right hand meets his face and he scratches the corner of his finely sculptured mouth with his index finger. My eyes cannot help but follow it. He’s intoxicating. So much so, that he makes me momentarily forget all the horrendous things he was found guilty of ten years ago.
He regards me again, his eyes narrowing a touch, and announces, “He beat me with his walking stick. He used to keep it under his armchair. He passed out in that chair regularly, complaining he couldn’t always make the stairs ’cos of his gammy leg, but we knew better. It was his chair.” He raises his hand and points all his fingers to a space in front of him. “Directly in front of the TV. No one, and I mean no one, was allowed to sit in it.”
I feel my mouth pop open again, but this time I rein in my astonishment and close it immediately. I decide to respond with honesty. “I have no satisfactory response for what you have just told me, but I thank you for your honesty.”
He seems to respect this response, because I receive the most beautiful smile I have ever seen on a man. His extraordinary ocean-blue eyes twinkle with pleasure and I wonder whether he’s thinking ‘mission accomplished’: in less than ten minutes he’s managed to shock the reporter.
I tear my eyes away from his and peer down at my notes once more. I clear my throat. “You have a sister, Katherine Draper, married to Mr Adam Draper?” I ask.
“Kate,” he says and his expression is back to neutral, except for a small smile that immediately persuades me to believe that he thinks fondly of his little sister.
“Kate,” I correct myself and smile timidly, as if I’ve made another blunder.
“Or ‘Bone’…”
“Excuse me?”
“I used to call her ‘Bone’… she was a really skinny child.” He beams suddenly with great affection but I sense a melancholy behind his eyes. He obviously misses her. “Does your family call you Kate?”
His unexpected question takes me by surprise. “Oh, um, yes, some,” I stutter, my eyes lifting to his momentarily before lowering back to my lap. I notice he’s cool as a cucumber now, affable even; relaxing against the back of his chair, foot over knee, elbows resting on arm rests, patiently awaiting my next question. “And you were married?” I go on.
“I am still married, Miss Daley,” he replies immediately, almost defensively, and the prickling tension is back in an instant. He shows me his left hand and I see the golden band on his finger next to his pinkie.
I shake my head. “Oh, sorry, I was informed that you have no family visitors. I assumed…”
“She doesn’t visit,” he interrupts.
I stare at him for a long moment, then my eyes are glued to my papers once more. I quickly move on. “And you have a daughter, Amy…”
“I do.”
As my eyes frantically run over the paper in my hands, I swear I can feel a renewed tension emanating from this man as I talk of his immediate family. I dare to glance up and I am captured anew by his intense stare. I am unsure whether he is vexed or just waiting for me to continue, and I find myself asking, “Do you see your daughter?” This isn’t on my list, but it’s my natural response to the revelation that his wife never visits him.
“No,” he simply replies.
And I am enthralled once more by the tragedies of this man’s life. “Never?” I whisper.
His eyes narrow, but I think he’s intrigued by my compassion more than anything. “Never, Miss Daley. I haven’t seen my daughter for ten years. My wife…” he tails off and shifts in his chair. It’s the first time he’s looked uneasy, but he composes himself almost immediately, running a hand over his face and giving me a polite, close-lipped smile. “It’s complicated,” he adds and this gives me the cue to move on.
I am relieved to be getting off the subject of wife and child, but I know there are more questions on this topic on page six or seven of my notes. I take a breath. “There has been an influx of council housing and benefit seekers over the past twenty years, and many of the estates, such as the one you were brought up on, have a reputation for breeding crime. How do you think your life was affected by where you grew up?”
He takes a deep breath and looks intrigued, as though he’s really considering my question. He replies, “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that people like me are the black sheep of society, Miss Daley. We are not bad people. We are not ill; we are not serial killers. It is not insanity that drives us to do the things we do. It is desperation.
“I’ve taken many lives and I’m paying the price for that, but I am not an evil man. It’s a simple matter of dog eat dog, fight or flight, win or lose. Except, in my world, if you lose, you don’t get much of a chance of playing again. If you lose, you die, or at least you may as well be dead. I got into the business I got into, Miss Daley, because I didn’t want to live on the charity of others like my parents did. I didn’t want to live off those privileged enough to go out and earn an honest living. Where I’m from, the chances of honest living are extremely rare. You either make money illegally or you seek benefits. I spent my whole life watching my father take advantage of the system, reaping the benefits of other people’s hard work, and I grew u
p to loathe it.”
I bravely interrupt. “Surely, making money unlawfully is taking advantage of the system too, taking advantage of our laws and our leaders and therefore our people?”
His face flushes slightly and I get the impression that I’ve stoked his notorious temper. He glares at me and replies, “I made money the only way that was available to me, the only way I knew how. When I was established, I ensured, as much as I could, that I made my fortune off those who could afford to pay their own way. What people do with their own money is their business and if they want to do business with me, then I’m happy to take it.
“And these leaders you speak of, they had no time for kids like me. Opportunity only came where opportunity could be exploited by your so-called leaders, Miss Daley. What would this country want with the likes of me – a troublesome teenager with anger issues and an acute self-loathing – when they could plough their money into moulding level-headed middle-class intelligence and reap the rewards of guaranteed success?”
His glare softens, but he continues to regard me with an intensity I’ve never witnessed in anyone before. The unusual and tantalising blue of his eyes makes me want to cower from his gaze. I tear my own blue eyes away and take a sip of my tea. Inwardly, I will myself to be strong, not to let this beautiful and powerful man intimidate me. He is obviously experienced or maybe just well read, but I don’t agree with him entirely. I come from a middle-class family and they certainly were not as level-headed as he is suggesting.