Free Human Conditioning by Louise Hirst Page B

pulled out a
handful of notes. He counted out one hundred pounds in tens and handed it over.
“Hundred now, the rest once it’s sold, as normal,” he confirmed.
    Alex took the money and
stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. Aiden offered him a cigarette and
he obliged. Taking a long pull, he stretched with tiredness and upon his exhalation,
he said, “You know, we could make this a good little earner, if you could bring
in more motors.”
    This caught Aiden’s attention
immediately. He’d been thinking the same himself. “How many do you reckon you
could pull off?”
    Alex thought about this
seriously. He had learned pretty quickly that Aiden Foster was a doer and so
took every suggestion or statement as confirmation of a firm plan. Bringing
more cars through the garage was going to be a bigger risk; that was a given. Not
only would he have to cover up materials and monies used for the deals, but
actually making sure he was never caught working on the cars and hiding the
cars from his father were the two biggest challenges he would have to face. Regular
drop-offs could cause suspicion if he wasn’t careful enough. But as always, the
money he and Aiden could potentially make was his prime motivation. “Two a
week,” he finally confirmed with conviction.
    Aiden nodded in agreement. “Alright,
then. Let me see what I can do.”
     

Chapter seven
     
    Roy Watson was a stocky man of forty-two years, with
short, spiked brown hair and green eyes constantly formed into a scowl. He had
a hard, square face with stubble covering his chin and above his upper lip, and
his nose was reddened from too much booze.
    He sat in The Stag supping on
a pint and watching West Ham play Queens Park Rangers, away. He was in an uncommonly
good mood; West Ham was playing well, though the score was still 0-0.
    When he spotted his daughter
storming into the pub, he watched her warily from his seat. He wondered what
shit she had to bring down on him this time. Gina was just like her mother:
everything was always a fucking drama. In fact, the only actual drama in
his nine years of marriage to Lynn Watson was when she fucked off six years
after Gina was born without even a note to confirm a contact number.
    Gina turned to see her father
sitting alone. She caught him glancing over at her and knew he was attempting
to avoid eye contact. He looked pissed again. She knew the signs all too well
where her father’s drunkenness was concerned. Even from afar she could tell
that his eyes would be glazed and his movement to bring his full pint up to his
mouth was slow and shaky.
    She paced over to his table. “The
heating’s gone off,” she announced bluntly, upon her approach.
    Roy looked up over his pint as
he took a gulp then placed it on the table. “So, put some money in the meter,”
he replied nonchalantly, his green, bloodshot eyes automatically reverting back
to the small television set mounted on the wall opposite. 
    “I haven’t got any money, have
I? Give me a fiver,” she spat, holding out her palm.
    “Nah, that’s all I’ve got
left.”
    “I don’t think you need much
more, do you?”
    She was referring to the
drink, and Roy knew this. He sighed. It was like a stuck record with Gina and
her complaining about him having a few drinks every now and then. It wasn’t
every now and then: it was all day every day, but he didn’t dwell on such
facts. “Fuck off will you, G. I’m watching the game. I always watch the
game. Go and put some woolly socks on if you’re cold...”
    Gina sighed irately. “You’re a
useless tosser, d’you know that?”
    “Yeah, your mother said it
enough...”
    She stamped her foot in
frustration. Roy wasn’t paying any attention to her now. “Dad!”
    “YES, FUCKING COME ON!” he
suddenly bellowed, flying out of his chair and punching his fists at the ceiling:
1-0, West Ham.
    “Dad!”
    “What, for fuck’s sake, girl?”
He slumped back into his chair and sighed in surrender. He just