Grant sighed and shook his head. “I wish that were true, Viv, but I think I’ve blown it this time. He’s not interested in anything I have to say. He’s got his own agenda…” Vivien turned to Grant and smiled with sympathy. This man had been Aiden’s rock his entire life and it seemed a shame that, now Aiden was on some kind of war path, determined not to listen to any of them about how he lived his life, their relationship should suffer. “I tried to advise him. I offered him a job, for Christ’s sake. Nothing came of it apart from me getting an earful. He’s unapproachable at the moment, Viv. Thinks he can make it on his own,” Grant implored. Then he spat a laugh, “He probably can…”
“Can what?”
“Make it on his own,” he replied wistfully.
Vivien saw the regret in Grant’s expression. He’d wanted Aiden to be his little protégé and he was resisting him at every turn. She sighed. He was right. Aiden was being impossible at the moment. She wouldn’t press the matter further now, but she wouldn’t let Grant get away without talking Aiden out of thieving, since he had been the one to influence her boy into taking matters into his own hands. He would have to sort it out one way or another because Aiden was sure as hell not going to listen to her.
She changed the subject. “I’ve been dreaming about Beatrice again…”
Grant cleared his throat and placed his newspaper on the kitchen table. “Oh yeah?” he said.
Vivien hadn’t mentioned Beatrice Cain in a while, and he’d secretly hoped she had finally accepted that it was unlikely she would ever see her old friend again.
“I just wish she had contacted me before she vanished… just to let me know where she was going…” Grant refrained from rolling his eyes. He had heard the same reflections over and over for years. Vivien turned back to him. “Are you sure you don’t know where she is?” she asked, her eyes narrowing a touch, though it was more in deliberation than accusation.
Grant’s round face flushed, and his thick brown eyebrows furrowed in exasperation. “No, Viv, I’ve told you this a thousand times. I know as much as everyone else.”
Vivien gulped. “But with your connections…” she pressed, her cat-like eyes beseeching him.
He sighed. Beatrice Cain had been a close friend of Vivien’s. She and her husband, Tommy Cain, had owned The Bell public house in Shoreditch, which had been located just a few doors down from Duggie and Vivien’s first home, before he had bought Carlton House for them.
Tommy Cain had been a petty criminal and a ruthless, violent thug, allowing access to the back room of the pub to criminals and lower-ranking Faces of the criminal underworld of organised crime to discuss illicit business and, at times, to wreak violent retribution on those who were deemed to deserve it.
In 1970, Tommy was murdered in revenge for taking the despicable liberty of murdering the main Face of that time, Mr Patrick Brady. Mr Brady had been a major player in organised crime all over London and the surrounding cities. He had been well respected across the country and had even been in talks with a leading firm in Edinburgh before he met his untimely end.
It was discovered in the early part of that year that Beatrice had been courting Mr Brady behind her husband’s back and when Tommy had found out, he’d gone ballistic, unbelievably (even to this day), managing to abduct Mr Brady and, after torturing him to death, had proceeded to beat Beatrice to a pulp and hold her captive in their bedroom for three weeks before finally meeting his own end.
After that, Beatrice sold up and disappeared without a word to any of her acquaintances, including Vivien. Her vanishing like that had hit Vivien hard, and Grant wished he had more information regarding her whereabouts, but Beatrice had vanished for the simple reason that she didn’t want to be associated with the ‘Life’ anymore. Tommy’s death had been her ticket to freedom and it wasn’t then, and had never been since, Grant’s place to go searching for her, even if he did have the resources to do so.
Vivien turned back to the window. “Sixteen bloody years I’ve sat here wondering where my friend went, if she’s still alive.” She shot Grant a sour glare. “What if whoever murdered Tommy murdered her too? Have you ever thought that maybe she was forced to sell up then wiped off the face of the earth, like Tommy, like Patrick…?” She trailed off as Grant’s lips pressed into a hard line and his brown eyes scowled at her.
The mention of Patrick Brady always provoked such a reaction. In effect, Grant and Patrick had been long-standing friends and, at the time when Tommy’s head had been found washed up on the bank of the Thames near Greenwich, Grant had been a prime suspect on account of his time-honoured friendship with Mr Brady.
Yes, Grant knew some well-known Faces who could have carried out such a mortal deed, but no subsequent evidence had been found to consider Grant a realistic suspect in organising Tommy Cain’s death. Grant was a successful businessman, albeit in illicit transactions, but he was cleared from any suspicion of murder.
“Sorry,” Vivien muttered. She understood Grant’s dismay over the death of his friend. Grant’s fierce expression melted at her apology and the conversation ended there. Vivien went back to her sink and Grant was left with his thoughts. Silence ensued until they both heard the front door slam and, a moment later, Duggie limped into the kitchen.
Glancing at Grant sitting at his table, he snarled, “What are you doing here?” That Grant O’Donoghue, his former boss, had been a constant companion of his wife and children had been a continuous irritation to Duggie. He had never forgiven Grant for what he had done to him.
Vivien glared at her husband for a long moment then turned her attention back to the washing up. “Been down the boozer again?” Grant asked. His voice was steady, yet it was laced with contempt.
“What’s it to you?” Duggie barked in response, taking himself to the fridge to find himself a can of cider.
Grant tapped out a cigar from a packet on the kitchen table. Striking a match, he lit the end and puffed on it. Watching Duggie with a steady gaze, he replied, “Depends if it’s my money paying for you to get pissed whilst your boy goes out earning…”
Duggie blew out a derisive bubble of laughter between closed lips. “Aiden? Earning? Don’t make me laugh!” he muttered and limped back towards the door.
Grant glared at him as he passed, and sucked on his cigar as if it was the only thing stopping him from grabbing a kitchen knife and cutting the bastard’s throat. Vivien was watching him, beseeching him to turn a blind eye to her husband’s cruelty, something he had to do often.
Lifting his newspaper, he muttered, “You know, it’s only my love for you that stops me from damaging his other fucking leg…” and as his eyes skimmed the news article before him, he couldn’t concentrate on anything but his fully-fledged resentment for the man who caused Vivien and the kids such grief.
The cynical and hateful manner in which Duggie addressed his son, and the times the brute had disappointed him, was sickening to a man who adored Aiden like he was his own. A familiar image plagued his mind, of a ten-year-old Aiden begging his father to take him boxing. If Duggie was to be interested in at least one thing that his son did, Grant thought it might be his interest in the sport that he had once loved so much. Instead, Duggie had bitterly informed the child that he didn’t have the bottle or the strength to fight in the ring. For months, Aiden had believed his father’s words and only with Grant’s support had been persuaded to give it a go, with Grant’s funding.
Grant watched Vivien carefully now as he recalled her involvement in the matter. She had sided with Duggie. At the time, he had been utterly shocked by Vivien’s nonchalance over a matter that had been so dear to her son, but in actual fact, it had dawned on Grant way back when Aiden had been a baby that Vivien was never going to side with her son over her husband. It was no secret that Vivien had never warmed to Aiden. She tolerated him at best.
Another sad memory would be etched in his mind until the day he died. Even back when Aiden’s spirit had almost been broken over the talk of boxi
ng, when young Aiden had finally begun to learn that he would never have the love and respect that he deserved from his parents – a lesson that consequently conjured in him an innate desire to succeed by his own admission and on his own terms – from his sheer size, his fierce determination and strength, laced with his fascination for all things illicit, Grant had inkling that Aiden would grow up to be a force to be reckoned with.
<>
Six years earlier
Grant and Aiden stepped out from the warehouse where a large red and white sign displayed the name, ‘HACKNEY BOXING ACADEMY’. Aiden had just knocked out a boy two years his senior – not a bad feat for a kid of ten years, with just six months’ experience in the ring.
“I’m so fucking proud of you!”
Grant swung a large arm around young Aiden’s forever-expanding shoulders and beamed down at him as they made their way down the street. Aiden had a cut in his lip and his right eye was bruised, his unruly, black hair wet and dishevelled.
“I knew you had it in you, son!” Grant enthused, pulling him into a side embrace.
Aiden shrugged out of his burly grip and swaggered beside the man he had always admired, grateful once more that it was because of him that he’d been able to go into the ring in the first place. He held his head high with arrogant triumph and boasted, “It was easy.”
Grant grinned. “Don’t get too cocky. That’s just one man. In the real world, you could be up against four, five, six, at a time. You need to learn to deal with that and still come out on top.”
“I’d just get a gun and shoot ’em…” Aiden replied childishly.
Grant frowned and stopped in his tracks. Turning to the good-looking kid he adored as much as he would his own child, he took his shoulders and said, “No guns, son,” his eyes burning into Aiden’s with earnest. “Guns aren’t for men; they’re for cowards. We fight with our fists and,” he shrugged, “if need be, a weapon of some kind… but not a gun,” he quickly added.
“What kind of weapon?” Aiden asked with his usual intrigue for anything illicit.
Grant released him and continued walking, a wry smile forming on his round face. “It could be anything… pen-knife, hammer, crowbar, knuckle-dusters…”
“Knuckle-dusters?” Aiden gazed up at the big man beside him with a keen curiosity twinkling in his deep blue eyes.
“Yes, knuckle-dusters,” Grant laughed, then holding up a fist, he traced the index finger of his other hand over his knuckles. “They fit to your knuckles and have big old spikes on them. They can do a lot of damage, so you have to take care.”
“Do you have any? Can I see them?” Aiden begged, too eagerly for one so young – but this was their world. Violence, conflict… it was all part and parcel of their lives.
Grant didn’t want Aiden to be ignorant of his environment. Knowledge was power. An old friend had taught him that long ago. “No, I don’t…” he replied with a twitch of a smile.
Aiden pursed his lips in disappointment and they walked in silence for a short while until he asked, with typical curiosity, “Have you been to prison, Uncle Grant?”
Grant frowned. “No. Why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “Just interested to know what it’s like…”
“Not good.”
Aiden raised a dark, quizzical eyebrow. “How do you know, if you’ve never been?”
“I know some people that have been inside… some on long stretches… and they tell me it is not good. Don’t ever aspire to such a fate, son.”
Grant knew plenty of men who had gone to prison on account of their ignorance and greed. Aiden’s ‘real’ uncle had been in and out of the nick more times than a prostitute dropped her drawers, but Aiden did not know this.
As they approached Carlton House, Aiden turned to Grant expectantly. “Are you coming in for dinner?”
“No, not tonight. I’ve got something on.” Aiden bowed his head and nodded. The boy had gone from bravado to despondence in a second. Grant took his chin between his huge fingers and lifted his face to meet his. “What’s up?”
Aiden hesitated, then announced, “Mum and Duggie were arguing again this morning… bet they’re gonna be in a right shit mood tonight.”
Grant stared into the boy’s despondent eyes and he couldn’t resist the chance to make him happy again. He rolled his eyes. “Alright… come on, then! I’ll cancel me meeting later.”
Aiden beamed at him and, taking his Uncle Grant’s hand, he pulled him up the stone stairwell to the first floor of the block and across the walkway towards the flat. “Mum says you bought this flat,” Aiden announced, pulling out a key from his kit bag as they approached the front door of his home.
“I did.”
“Why, when you don’t live here?”
“You’re a nosey little git, aren’t you?” Grant grinned, wrapping a thick arm around Aiden’s shoulders and knuckling the top of his head, making his already scruffy black hair stand on end.
“Gerroff!” Aiden laughed.
The door swung open. “Good, you’re back. Tea’s ready,” Vivien proclaimed dejectedly.
Grant peered down at Aiden and made a face, and Aiden chuckled. Vivien didn’t notice; she had already left them to get back to her kitchen. “Told ya,” Aiden whispered, his eyebrows arching as they made their way inside. “If she’s in a bad mood, Duggie’ll be worse,” he muttered. They both stepped into the living room to see Duggie sitting in his armchair. He glanced up, and when he saw Grant his mouth set into a hard line. Grant ignored his gesture of disapproval and headed directly into the kitchen.
“How’s it going, Viv?”
Aiden trailed in after him, and when Vivien turned from the oven to see him all sweaty and bloodied, his skinny legs cut and dirty, she snapped, “Shower, now!”
“Alright! I’ve just got in the door!” Aiden retorted, his handsome young face contorting into a mixed expression of frustration and offence.
“Now!”
When Aiden stomped from the room, Grant raised his eyebrows and Vivien stared back at him impassively. “What?” she asked curtly, her clenched fists finding her hips.
“Was there any need for that?”
“He never does as he’s told!” she retorted, flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder. Turning back to the oven, she put on a pair of oven gloves and took out a casserole dish. Grant knew by the familiar smell that they would be having colcannon – a dish Vivien served up for her family at least three times a week. It was cheap and it was easy.
Grant shook his head and sat at the small kitchen table. Lighting up a cigarette, he offered one to her and she took it. She didn’t smoke often, but Grant knew her well enough to know when she was in need of one. “He had just walked in…” he pressed.
“Oh, hush, Grant!” she snapped, bending down towards the flame of his match. She puffed on her cigarette and stood up, poised with her other hand once again on her hip.
“What’s eating you today?”
Vivien’s voice lowered to a whisper. “What do you think?” she replied, pointing her smoking cigarette towards the living room.
Grant rolled his eyes, but he didn’t ask for a commentary. The subject of Duggie and Vivien’s quarrels was usually inconsequential, and nothing ever got solved as a result of their bickering. Vivien pulled hard on her cigarette. “Are you staying for tea?” she asked.
“Yeah. Aiden wants me to.”
She nodded then announced, “I need some money.”
Grant’s eyebrows shot up. “I gave you fifty the other day.”
“That went on Kate’s school trip,” she snapped, as if paying for her daughter’s education was a total inconvenience to her.
Grant eyed her speculatively then pulled his wallet out from the back pocket of his trousers and took out a small wad of ten-pound notes. “How much?”
“Thirty should do it.”
He counted three notes and handed them over just as Aiden came back into the room.
“That was qu
ick!” he announced with an exaggerated gawp, his entire focus now on the young boy, instinctively compensating for the injustice of his mother’s earlier admonishment. Vivien slipped the notes into the pocket of her trousers and went back to the oven. “Come here and give your Uncle Grant a big hug!” Grant crooned and, grabbing Aiden’s skinny arm, he pulled him onto his lap and began to tickle him.
“Gerroff!” Aiden chuckled gleefully.
“He’s a bit too old for that kind of treatment, don’t you think?”
Everyone’s eyes went to the door of the kitchen to see Duggie limp in from the living room. Aiden dragged himself off Grant’s lap immediately and raced from the room. Grant jumped out of his chair and Duggie had to stifle a flinch. Grant didn’t have to say anything but the tension in the room was tangible. His menacing glare and grave expression as he loomed over Duggie said all that needed to be said.
Leaving the room, Grant headed up the stairs to Aiden’s bedroom, where he found him sitting at the little wooden desk he had bought for him, carving aggressively into it with a small kitchen knife, his little tongue poking out at the side of his mouth. When Grant stood over his shoulder, he saw that the boy had carved the makings of the term, ‘fuck you’: FUCK Y…
“Aiden…”
“What?” Aiden replied, tears pricking his eyes. But he wouldn’t cry; he never cried.
Grant sighed and sat on the edge of Aiden’s single bed. It was unmade, the duvet scrunched up at the bottom of it. Grant watched the boy with concern.
“I’ll say it one day…” Aiden grumbled, his lips pursing as he concentrated on carving the letter ‘O’ then ‘U’ in the word, ‘YOU’.
“Say what?” Grant sighed.
“This,” Aiden replied, nodding down at his carvings.
“You shouldn’t disrespect your elders, son.”
“They hate me!” Aiden retorted, with absolute concentration on what he was doing.
Grant continued, “Many people will attempt to disrespect you in this life. You can’t get upset about everyone who says a bad word against you.”
Human Conditioning Page 4