When Aiden entered the room, Vivien glanced at him. “You hungry?” she asked, as curtly as ever. Aiden had learned to understand from a very young age that his mother addressed him merely out of requirement rather than want. She had never warmed to her son; the child she had not asked for at just eighteen years of age.
“No,” he replied in the same curt tone.
Lighting up a cigarette, he sat at the round table by the kitchen door and assessed the shabbiness of the room. It really had deteriorated over the years. He couldn’t remember entirely, but he was sure it hadn’t always been such a wreck. It had never bothered him when he had been younger, but now he loathed the squalor he was forced to live in.
He studied the cheap cupboards made of metal strips and chipboard, stained and chipped from overuse. The laminate flooring was worn and curled upwards where it met the cupboards. He looked down at the table. It had seen better days, stained with tea and wine rings and burned with hot rocks. He felt an overwhelming feeling of suffocation at the thought that he could possibly be stuck in this place for the next two, three, four years. Who knew? He had no prospects…
When Duggie Foster entered the room, dressed in striped boxer shorts, white vest and slippers, and with a fat cigar between his thin lips, Aiden stubbed out his cigarette and made to leave. Being in the same room as his father was not something Aiden tended to do unless it was imperative.
Duggie was a handsome man; tall with a wide, square jaw, piercing blue eyes and jet-black slicked hair. He was forty-six years old – twelve years the senior of his wife – yet he had the appearance of someone older. The injury to his leg prevented him from walking without a walking stick, and years of alcohol abuse had taken its toll on his naturally robust physique – a physique inherited by his son. He was a hard man: obstinate and domineering, ill-mannered and insensible.
Aiden hated his father. He had not grown into a dependable figure in any of their lives. He clearly didn’t believe in responsibility, and Aiden felt that his whole family had suffered because of that fact. Duggie hadn’t ever contributed to anything in Aiden’s or his baby sister’s life, and their mother was too petrified of him to kick up any real stink about it. For as long as Aiden could remember, his father had sat on his arse in the same armchair drinking cider and smoking cigars, the only break in the familiar portrait that tainted their living space being when he was down the pub.
“You still shaggin’ that Watson girl…?” Duggie asked snidely before Aiden could leave the room. Duggie paraded around the kitchen with his stick as if he were the lord of the manor – which he thought he was, even if he paid sod-all for the privilege. “Ain’t she bored of you yet?” he pressed.
Aiden didn’t reply, but the usual overwhelming feeling to beat the crap out of this poor excuse for a man was present as always. “Why don’t you just go down the pub and drink away some more money…?” Aiden retorted as he barged passed him.
“Where’s your keep, eh? And you have the audacity to call your old man a waster,” Duggie spat sardonically, shaking his head.
“Fuck off!” Aiden called from the living room.
“Aiden, that’s enough!” Vivien scolded.
Aiden stepped back into the kitchen and scowled at his mother in wonderment. “How can you side with him? He causes every piece of shit that lands on our doorstep! If you hadn’t married the useless ponce you might be living with a real man, who provides for his family and pays his fucking way!”
Duggie chose to ignore this. He’d heard it all before. He had another agenda. “I see her with Jason Ryan the other day,” he persisted, intentionally attempting to vex his son over the movements of his recent lady-friend.
Vivien went back to her colcannon and attempted not to get involved, yet the familiar stir of apprehension from these two arguing was once again in the pit of her stomach. She did not revel in the daily quarrels between father and son because she never knew how far either one would take it.
Aiden stared at his father through narrowed lids. “You what?”
“Yeah, saw her all over him, in The Stag… a couple of days ago, it was. I reckon they’re courtin’.”
“You don’t know that, Duggie,” Vivien intervened nervously, in an attempt to calm the impending situation.
“I don’t really give a flying fuck. Just stay out of my business, alright!” Aiden retorted.
Duggie pulled a face and rubbed his beer belly. “Just trying to warn you, son. I told you she’d amount to whoring, the moment I see you with her…”
“I don’t fucking love her… I just shag her!”
Vivien’s mouth dropped open. “Aiden!”
“Well, that’s all he does with you, ain’t it?” Aiden yelled, pointing a stiff finger at his father. “And you fucking let him!”
Duggie rested his walking stick against the wall and sat at the kitchen table. Picking up the newspaper that Vivien had bought him from the local newsagents that morning, he began to flick through it with a conspicuous smirk on his face. He enjoyed the rage he could so easily ignite in his son. Mission accomplished. He’d only wanted to cause a distraction. If Vivien was pissed off with Aiden, it would distract her from the fact that he had spent that week’s social money at the bookies.
Aiden walked away, back into the living room, but he knew his mother wouldn’t leave it there. Vivien Foster was a pushover when it came to the man she had married, but she didn’t take disrespect from her children. She stormed into the living room as Aiden switched on the television and slumped himself down on the couch. “You little bastard!” she screamed. “Don’t you dare bloody talk to me like that! Whether you respect us or not, Aiden Lance Foster, we are still your parents!”
Aiden’s eyebrows rose in mock horror. “Yeah, fucking right…” he muttered and sparked up another cigarette. “You don’t have to worry, anyway… I’ll be out of here soon.”
“Oh, and what you gonna do, eh? You think you can make a living from thieving cars?” Vivien mocked. “Because I know that’s what you’ve been getting up to, son, I have ears, and people talk…”
“I don’t really care what you think, to be honest. Whatever gets me out of this shithole is good enough for me.”
Vivien’s cat-like eyes glared down at her son as she attempted to think of something wicked to respond with, but she was so angry that her mind came up blank, like it so often did when they quarrelled. Whatever she said to Aiden, he always had an answer for it!
Aiden puffed nonchalantly on his cigarette and added, finally, “Do you know what, muvver? I reckon you ain’t got any dignity left in you anymore, so why don’t you just go back to him in there and stay out of me face…”
He then stood and left the room, grabbing his jacket from the stairs as he went.
Vivien flinched when the front door slammed.
Reggie Driscoll was a thirty-eight-year-old, six-foot-five Rastafarian, with short knotted dreadlocks and a neck as thick as a rugby player’s. His eyes were bright mint green. He could get away with murder with those eyes, and he had got away with murder once before. The police had had their suspicions since the convenient disappearance of Mitchell West the day after his breakin at the local post office, but they couldn’t prove a thing. Mitchell had initially walked away with £10K, £5K of which had been owed to Reggie, although following his ‘disappearance’ the £10K had eventually found its way into Reggie’s hands.
Reggie was the drug dealer for the Hackney borough; the man you went to see for any type of buzz from weed to speed to cocaine. He greeted Aiden with a genuine smile when he opened the door of his flat to see the lad standing on his doorstep. He liked Aiden Foster, thinking of him as a determined little fucker, and he had inkling that one day the kid would make something of himself. He had kept in mind to offer Aiden a job and now that he was legally out of school and inevitably looking to make some cash, he considered this to be the day to offer him the gig.
“Come in, son…” Reggie sang, gesturing towards his living
room. Aiden smiled fondly and walked into the flat. The familiar smell of skunk hit him as he strolled into the room he’d spent at least an hour a week in since he was twelve years old. Reggie had always supplied him with what he’d needed to help him relax, to keep him level-headed. Aiden was no addict, but he’d been a hard user of marijuana for a few years and had eventually dabbled in speed and bass, and Reggie had always sorted him out, giving him bits and bobs on tick when Aiden couldn’t find the money to pay.
Reggie had been good to Aiden, better than to most of his other customers. Aiden had never really known why Reggie had taken such a liking to him but he didn’t really give it much thought. He liked Reggie and he didn’t genuinely like many people.
“Sit down. You’re making the place look untidy,” Reggie announced, smirking. This was a running joke between them. Reggie’s flat had always been and always would be a shithole. He didn’t believe in cleaning up after himself; he left that job to his old mother who visited once every two weeks with a hoover and mop in hand. Though if you ever dared to throw a Rizla or brush your tobacco onto his beer and hot rock-marked carpet, you were in for a hiding.
Reggie lived by a strict set of rules: be polite, be respectful and pay on time. Anyone who didn’t adhere to these simple requests got seriously hurt and never made the same mistake twice. Although he was an aggressive bastard, he wasn’t a naturally malicious man. On the contrary: get on the right side of Reggie Driscoll and you found that he was a generous ally who would have your back in any situation.
Aiden had gained Reggie’s loyalty from day one, and he basked in the big man’s affection. It was good to talk to someone who didn’t go out of their way to talk you down, which was a regular occurrence in his own home.
Aiden took a seat on the brown velvet sofa, subtly brushing away a mixture of crumbs and tobacco onto the cushion next to him. He peered around the room, and the longing for more stirred again deep in his gut. His desire to get out of the rut he’d been born into had grown worse in the past couple of months, since he’d decided to fuck off his exams. Finally being free from the restraints of the educational system, he desired to make something of himself before he was lured into the convenience of a shit but regular wage.
He wanted more than that. He had no prospects – that was a given in these parts – but he knew he was special, that he could handle living without the establishment and living on the wrong side of the law. If nothing else, he had the balls to make it work, and he was a fast learner and was willing to start from the bottom if necessary. So when Reggie announced that he’d like to offer him a job, he was ecstatic.
“Doing what, like?” he replied.
Aiden attempted to play it cool, but Reggie saw the twinkle of excitement in his extraordinary blue eyes. He smiled fondly at him. “Well, I’ll start you on deliveries, but I don’t see why you can’t work your way up to collecting debts within a few months. You’re a big lad; you can handle yourself. But let’s start you off with deliveries, see how you get on. I want you to learn the ropes, Aiden. Watch, listen and learn…you do exactly what I tell you to do and you’ll be earning a nice wedge within the year.”
“Sounds like a plan…”
Reggie held out his large hand, laden with golden sovereign rings, and Aiden shook it. “Good. Just one thing,” Reggie added, pointing a stiff finger. “You steal from me, son, and you won’t see your seventeenth birthday, got it?”
Aiden nodded then added, on a different note, “What you got for me?” as he searched his jeans pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note.
“No need for that, Aiden boy! You’re one of mine now. You work hard and you won’t have to pay another penny for a hit, son. Just as long as I know what’s being taken. Don’t get too fucking greedy. I’m generous, Aiden, but I still expect the job to be done. We ain’t no layabout junkies, right?”
“Nah, ’course we ain’t,” Aiden replied, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I ain’t a mug.”
“Good to hear it. Now…” Reggie opened up his secret stash that was always kept in a red cake tin in his mum’s old dresser. “Get a load of this!” He pulled out a large pre-rolled joint and lit it. Inhaling deeply, he held in the smoke for a few seconds and exhaled as he passed it to Aiden. “It’s called Afghani. It’s fucking potent!”
Aiden took a drag and had to stifle down a cough. “Fuck me…”
“It’s the future, my boy!”
“So, when do I start working, Reg?” Aiden asked with eagerness glowing in his eyes.
“Tomorrow…” Reggie replied, then passed him a small wrap from his personal stash of Afghani and gave him a wink. “Take it easy, yeah? I gotta get off…”
That was Aiden’s cue to leave, and it suddenly dawned on him that Reggie was looking abnormally smart, dressed in jeans, a floral shirt and shoes. Reggie’s usual attire was sweatpants, a t-shirt and trainers. “You got a bird on the go, Reg?” Aiden smiled his white-toothed smile and, rising from the couch, he stuffed the hashish into the back pocket of his jeans.
“None of your business, you little bastard. Go on!” Reggie laughed and swatted his large gold-laden hand towards Aiden’s ear. Aiden expertly ducked out of his way and held up his fists in a friendly manner. Reggie laughed again. “We’ll get you to fisticuffs another day.”
Chapter three
Vivien stared out of her kitchen window onto flat stone roof tops and grey sky as she scrubbed the burned edges of a baking tray with a scourer. She was in the company of Grant O’Donoghue, who sat in his usual spot at the kitchen table, casually reading a newspaper.
Grant was an old friend and was an influential force in the Foster household. A heavily built man of fifty-seven years, he still had his strength and wits about him to thrive in the East End of London. He’d had to live in these parts through World War II, and whatever hardships kids thought they had nowadays, it was fuck-all compared to what he’d had to live through back then. Times were forever changing, but he’d always managed to tick over nicely and, nowadays, he merely made his money on East End soil, living as quiet a life as he could in a large four-bed house in Hampstead.
Once Duggie’s manager, he had trained and developed the young Douglas Foster into one of the best bare-knuckle boxers in the East. Duggie had been looking at a fine and affluent future, but the night he had tried to fix one of his fights in another man’s favour had sealed his fate of becoming just another nobody. Yes, Grant had beaten Duggie to within an inch of his life, damaging his right leg and preventing him from ever fighting again, and he would have finished the cunt off if it hadn’t been for the young woman before him.
Duggie had always been a difficult and unreliable sod, albeit he had talent, and the moment Grant had met Vivien – then Vivien Lee – he had felt an overwhelming responsibility to make sure she was looked after, financially and emotionally.
He wasn’t sure what it had been about Vivien that had made him so adamant to protect her all these years. Maybe it was because she was the closest he had ever come to a daughter, having never had a family of his own. Vivien had been far more naive and vulnerable back then, before she had married Duggie. Time had changed her for sure. She was harder now, colder, but he had remained her ally up until this day, despite the fact that Duggie had sworn to loathe him for eternity.
Grant was, as ever, smartly dressed in a white shirt, brown trousers and brogue shoes. He had discarded his tie and jacket in his Jaguar parked outside Carlton House – Grant always had the latest Jaguar, though his favourite model, his E-Type, sat in his double garage at his home.
Grant O’Donoghue was an affluent man and had been financing the Fosters ever since the incident between him and Duggie in 1969, the same year little Aiden had been born. It was simple: Grant had taken away Duggie’s ability to earn when Vivien had needed money the most, so he had made it right by supplying her with a regular income to support her family. He had bought the flat at Carlton House outright and extra money had always been available for the kids.
Typically, Duggie had taken full advantage of his contributions, seeing it as his right not to bother working and providing for his family himself. According to Duggie, Grant had destroyed his career and so should pay for that for the rest of his days. It was a despicable liberty, but Vivien had no chance of forcing Duggie to get off his arse and she wouldn’t let Grant touch him, so there was nothing to be done. Grant had been supporting them all for so long now, it was just the norm. They all just stopped questioning it.
For Grant, it had never been about the money. He loved Vivien and he loved the kids. He’d do anything for them, especially Aiden. In reality, he had been a better father to those kids than Duggie had ever been. He had spent a lot of time at Carlton House when Aiden had been a child and when Kate had arrived two and a half years later.
“Grant, I want you to have a word with Aiden about these stolen cars,” Vivien announced out of the quiet.
Grant looked over his newspaper. “And say what?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing with angst. Vivien had a habit of asking him to talk to Aiden about ‘delicate’ matters. Ever since Aiden had learned how to argue back, she had quickly got into the habit of not confronting him herself. It was all about self-preservation. Confronting Aiden had never been an easy task, and nowadays the boy didn’t seem to give a toss what any of them said to him.
Vivien glanced nervously at Grant. In a small way, she knew she was taking liberties, but then again, Aiden had looked up to Grant all his life. He didn’t ever listen to her or his father. Grant was the safest bet. “Look, I know you two aren’t seeing eye to eye at the moment, but he’s more likely to listen to you than he is me,” she pressed.
Human Conditioning Page 3
