ASBO: A Thriller Novel Page 5

  Guess everyone gets the smile, he thought. Not just me.

  “Look,” said Charlie, leaning forwards and speaking in a hushed voice. “Like I said, I don’t want to get involved, but I can tell you that Frankie lives somewhere on Tanner’s Lane. I know because a girl who used to be my best friend is now a drugged-up skank, thanks to him. They’ve been going out about two months or so, pretty much since Frankie got out. I haven’t spoken to her in almost a month now, but that’s where she used to go see him when we were still friends.”

  Andrew nodded and said thanks, but Charlie was already serving the new customer, acting as though the conversation had never happened. Probably for the best, Andrew thought as he left the shop and headed for home.

  So Frankie lives nearby? Perhaps he has parents living there too? He’s still just a kid after all. Someone has to be in charge of him.

  Andrew didn’t hold out much hope, but it was his best option. Maybe Frankie would leave him alone if his own family knew of his behaviour. Andrew considered making the journey to Tanner’s lane later that evening. It could turn out to be a bad idea, but there was little else he could think of.

  Maybe I can put a stop to this before anything else happens.

  He turned the corner and lost his breath at the sight that met him there. His bright-red Mercedes had been modified. Its expensive bodywork was now streaked with coarse, black gloss-paint, spelling out words in several places.

  The words read: PEDO.

  PEDO, PEDO, PEDO.

  ***

  Andrew fell back into his armchair and stared into space. The sound of his family’s voice was a faraway droning, swishing in the distance like a breeze in a forest. He could hear their words but was unable to assemble them into any cognitive meanings. Eventually he had to actively force his mind back to reality.

  “…ell are they playing at?”

  Andrew looked up at his wife, standing before him and shaking like a leaf. “Huh?”

  “I said what the hell are they playing at? Who behaves like this? Animals!”

  Andrew leant his head back against the armchair’s headrest and examined the ceiling. The wind in his lungs seemed to stick in his throat as he let out a breath. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I still can’t believe any of this has happened.”

  “Why you, though, dad?” asked Bex from the sofa. She seemed to be holding up well, but Andrew knew that deep down she was just as unnerved as her mother.

  Andrew lowered his head and shrugged. “Don’t know, sweetie. If it wasn’t me then it would have just been someone else.”

  “I still don’t understand why you won’t call the police again,” said Pen. “They said to call them.”

  “It won’t do any good. Unless someone saw it happen, the police will have nothing to go on, same as before.”

  Pen clicked her fingers and motioned for him to get up. “Well, bloody go find out if anyone did then. Ask the neighbours if they saw anything.”

  Andrew took another moment to stare into space, before eventually nodding his head. It was a good idea. “Okay. Maybe someone did see something.”

  He stood up and left the room without another word. He was already wearing his shoes – not something he usually did indoors but the carpet was already ruined with chip fat anyway – so he stepped through into the porch and opened the front door. Outside, his eyes again came to rest upon his vandalised vehicle and the disgusting words written all over it. There was no way he could drive to work now until it was repainted. It led Andrew to think about what exactly his explanation would be when he dropped it off at the garage.

  Oh, I’m not a pedo, mister. It’s just some of the local kids having fun. Ha! Ha!

  Yeah right!

  The street was deserted – the vandals come and gone without any remnant of their presence. It seemed unlikely that anyone had witnessed the crime. It was a cold, Tuesday afternoon and Andrew knew most of the people on his road had day jobs – I’m supposed to have one as well. The lack of parked cars in driveways only reinforced the assumption that everyone would be out. Next door, though – number 16 – was home to an elderly couple. They would be his best bet, as they were both retired and seemed to spend most of their time indoors. The chance of them being home during the afternoon was a healthy possibility. Andrew approached their house and pressed the doorbell.

  It was a full minute later when he pressed the bell again.

  Oh well. There goes my best shot.

  Andrew just started to turn away from the door when he noticed a twitch in the living room curtains. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though there had been someone looking out the window at him. Now they had slunk away, ignoring him.

  “Hello?” Andrew shouted it out, stepping back to try and get a better view of the window. The shifting shadows confirmed to him that someone was indeed inside. “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to talk to you, if that’s okay?”

  Nothing.

  Andrew stood motionless, at a loss for what to do. Why wouldn’t they talk to him? Why would a nice elderly couple, that had said hello to him for years, not want to open the door? When he turned around he realised the reason why: the words written on his car.

  PEDO, PEDO, PEDO.

  It was becoming clear that whatever happened from now on, no one was going to help Andrew. The panic-inducing power of the words on his car was enough to turn his neighbours against him. Innocent or not, he would be seen as a deviant in their eyes. There was no smoke without fire, they would assume.

  They think I’m a bloody pedophile.

  Andrew needed to put a stop to this, now.

  ***

  Tanner’s Lane was a quiet cul-de-sac of terraced houses, lined on either side by leafless trees towering above Andrew like judgemental skeletons. One of the homes could belong to Frankie – if what Charlie had told him was correct – but as for which one, Andrew had no clue. There were at least twenty identical properties, each with the same drab lawns and featureless facades. Andrew decided the best thing to do would be to just pick a house at random then ask the occupants if they knew which house Frankie lived at. He chose a house with a green-painted door and a brass number plate: 24.

  Upon knocking, it took about fifteen seconds for the door to be opened. A diminutive gentleman of at least sixty appeared in the doorway. His grey hair thinned above his delicate round spectacles and he seemed withered and distressed.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked, in a tone that was in no way friendly and a little bit suspicious.

  “Hello there,” said Andrew. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was hoping you could tell me if you knew where a young man named Frankie lives?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and he took a half-step backwards.

  “You know him?” asked Andrew.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I am. He’s been causing problems outside my house and I wanted to speak to his parents.”

  “Ha!” The man laughed so hard it sounded like something had torn loose in his throat. “Good luck! There’s only his mother to talk to, and she’s just as bad as him. Ruined this street that bloody family has. A plague on all our houses.”

  “The family?” asked Andrew. “The whole family is a problem?”

  The man nodded. “That Frankie is an evil little bleeder, no argument about it, but you’ll hardly blame him when you meet his degenerate of a mother. Never seen the woman sober the whole time she’s lived here. Even passed out in the middle of the road once and pissed herself. Lucky someone didn’t run her over…more’s the pity in fact.”

  Andrew shrugged his shoulders and already felt like the whole thing was a bad idea. It was still the only option he had. “Can you just point me to the right house anyway? I have to at least try to reason with them.”

  The man sighed. “Like I said, good luck. They live at number 21.”

  Andrew thanked the man and moved away from his doorway. Number 21 was directly behind and he turned to make his way over to it
. Reaching the house a moment later, Andrew was surprised he hadn’t realised sooner that it belonged to Frankie as it seemed obvious now. The front door was chipped and dented, the paint peeling away in great, crumbling chunks, whilst the path leading up to it was overgrown with weeds and discarded beer cans. One of the upper windows of the house was boarded-up while another was emblazoned with a faded England flag. If it were not for the bushes obscuring the property, it would have stuck out like a sore thumb – a dilapidated slum amongst a row of far better kept properties.

  Here goes nothing, Andrew told himself as he made his way up the path, stepping over a rotting condom on one of the slabs half way. There was no buzzer on the door – no knocker, either – so he was forced to rap his knuckles against the sharp splinters of the wood.

  No one came to answer, but Andrew could hear commotion from somewhere inside of the house. It was the sound of someone clumsily making their way through the reception hallway, bumping into furniture en route to the door. Andrew held his breath and realised that his stomach was deeply unsettled. Having to wait so long for the door to open made the feeling even worse. It was a full minute later when it finally did.

  A dishevelled woman appeared; her hair wild on one side, but matted and damp on the other, as if she’d been lying in a puddle – most likely beer or vomit. “Wahya wan?” she asked.

  Andrew smiled at the woman who, he now noticed, was wearing nothing but a flimsy nightgown that was a size too small. “Are you Frankie’s mother?”

  She gave Andrew a drilling stare. “Who are ya? Don’t look like yer from the social.”

  “That’s because I’m not.”

  “So wahya wan then?” The woman was shouting now, her words coming out in aggressive slurs and bad breath – alcohol and smoke. “Wahya wan with my Frankie?”

  “So you are his mother? I was hoping you could have a word with him for me?”

  “About wah?”

  Andrew took a deep breath and tried not to let the woman’s inability to have a polite conversation deter him. He still believed that everyone had the capacity for rationality – it was just deeply buried in some people. Especially when they’re drunk and possibly stoned.

  “He’s been causing me some problems,” said Andrew. “He broke into my home last night and today he vandalised my car.”

  The woman snorted back a nose full of snot. “Got proof?”

  “Do I need it?” asked Andrew. “I’m simply asking you to talk to him. I don’t wish to cause any trouble for you, ma’am. I just want Frankie to leave my family and me alone.”

  The woman huffed. “He don’t listen to me. Does wah he wans, that boy.”

  “But you’re his mother.”

  “Don’t mean a thing. Speak to im ya’self.”

  Before Andrew had chance to stop her, the drunken woman was shouting up the stairs, yelling for Frankie to come down. Andrew felt his skin get tight as he anticipated another encounter with the young thug. Sure enough, Frankie appeared behind his mother only a moment later, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts.

  “Man says you been both’rin him,” his mother said.

  Frankie looked out at Andrew and his face lit up with recognition. Then he started to smirk. “Dunno what the bloke’s on about. Never seen him before.”

  Frankie’s mother shrugged her shoulders at Andrew. The motion made her night dress ride inappropriately up her thighs. “Never seen ya in his life, he sez.”

  “With all due respect,” said Andrew, “that’s a lie.”

  Frankie pushed past his mother and occupied the doorway with his muscular frame. “Who you calling a fucking liar, mate?”

  Andrew sighed. He wasn’t going to get drawn into an argument. “Frankie, can we please just stop this? I have done nothing to you. You’ve upset my family.”

  Frankie’s smirk returned. “I think you need a lie down, mate, cus I ain’t got a clue what you’re on about. Like I said, never seen you before.”

  Andrew clenched his fists, but then willed them to open again. Losing his cool would not help the situation. “Frankie, the police know all about you and what you’ve been doing. If you don’t stop now, you’ll end up in trouble.”

  “I don’t see how,” said a young girl, appearing in the hallway beyond. It was the same one who had been in Frankie’s group the night before – the one who had called Andrew a perv. She was wearing a skimpy pair of pink shorts and just a bra. Her bellybutton was crudely pierced. “He’s been with me,” she said. “Last couple of days and nights we ain’t even left the bedroom, except to eat.”

  “See, yer wrong!” Frankie’s mother slurred at Andrew. “Wanna watch who ya start accusing.”

  “I am not wrong,” said Andrew. “This young lady has been just as much involved in what’s been going on as your son has.”

  The girl laughed at him mockingly. “You must be high. I would remember an old perv like you if I met one. You’re talking a load of shit, mate.”

  “You’re Charlie’s friend, aren’t you?” asked Andrew, putting two and two together.

  A spark of confusion flittered through the girl’s eyes and, for a moment, her mocking contempt was completely diluted. A moment later it was back in full force. “Don’t know a Charlie, mate. Who is he?”

  Andrew lost his temper. “Look, you little bastards. If you come near my family again, you’ll regret it, okay? You’ve had your fun, but now it’s time to move on. No more games, okay. My patience is gone.”

  Frankie leapt out of the doorway and shoved Andrew back along the path. “You think you can come down my manor and threaten me? You must be trippin, mate.”

  “Yeah,” Frankie’s mother added. “Get away from my house before I call the police.”

  “You’ll call the police. That’s rich!” Andrew was about to say more but realised it was pointless. He put his palms in the air and backed away. “Fine,” he said. “Have it your way, but this is going to stop one way or another.”

  “Just fuck off!” Frankie shouted. “You come here again and you’re a dead man.”

  Andrew sneered. “Same goes for you, my friend.”

  “He ain’t your fucking friend,” the girl shouted.

  “You’re right, he’s not.” Andrew turned his back and walked away. He couldn’t help wondering if he’d just made things a whole lot worse.

  The walk home was a long one.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Davie had watched Frankie and the older man from atop the stairs. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen his brother in a doorstep argument and no doubt it would not be the last. Their mother getting involved and making things worse wasn’t particularly unusual, either.

  The man at the door had been middle-aged, older than the usual type Frankie had misdealings with. He had been angry – irate, even – but seemed more desperate than anything else, like he just wanted to call a truce. Davie assumed it was the same man Frankie had punched in the stomach and stolen the trainers from. Frankie hadn’t mentioned it himself directly, but Dom and Jordan had been laughing about it at the party last night. Davie also assumed it had something to do with what Frankie had dragged him into earlier. A couple hours before, he’d agreed to keep watch for his brother while he’d rushed off with a can of black spray paint, but had kept his eyes facing down the road the whole time, not wanting to witness anything that could get him in trouble. He’d known, of course, that his brother was committing vandalism, but hadn’t known to what end. It seemed pretty clear, now.

  Frankie had started up the stairs, casually, as if nothing had happened. He was flanked by his latest girlfriend, Michelle (thankfully now having found her top from earlier). Davie hadn’t minded the girl when she had first come on the scene, but once she’d gotten started on his brother’s drugs, she’d become spiteful and twisted. Both of them were currently laughing between themselves.

  “Hey,” said Davie. “Who was that?”

  “Fuck knows,” said Frankie, “but the guy has a death wish to
get all up in my face like he did.”

  Davie shook his head. “Don’t shit me. Who was it?”

  “Just some perv,” said Michelle. “Don’t worry about it, D.”

  “My name is Davie. How did he know where we live?”

  Frankie shrugged. Michelle answered again. “Stupid bitch, Charlie, must have told him. He knew we used to be friends so she obviously spoke to him at the chippy or somewhere.”

  “Okay,” said Davie, “so what did he want?”

  “Fuck should I know?” said Frankie.

  Davie looked at his brother and sighed. “I’m your brother, man. Tell me the truth.”

  After a couple seconds, Frankie finally relented and let his guard down, his demeanour softening. “Okay, little bro, you’re right. He’s just some geezer I had to teach a lesson in manners the other night. I gave him some grief and he just came round to kick off about it.”

  “So will you leave off now, then?”

  Frankie laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “Hell no! Shit is just getting started. Now get out my way. This bitch needs seeing to.”

  Michelle punched Frankie on the arm, but giggled as she did so. Davie got out of his brother’s way at the top of the stairs and didn’t say another word. He wasn’t in the mood to argue. Frankie would do as Frankie wanted; that was the way it had always been.

  Davie decided to go downstairs rather than return to his room. He entered the hallway and was planning to go to the kitchen. It was unlikely there would be anything to eat – there never was – but stranger things have happened, he supposed. The malodour of alcohol and weed was stronger downstairs than up and managed to permeate every corner of the house. The sound of garrulous daytime television polluted Davie’s ears just as much as the smell polluted his nose (the additional racket of Frankie and Michelle, now fucking loudly upstairs, only added to the assault on his senses).

  “Shouldn’t you be at school?” his mother shouted to him as he tried to sneak past the living room door.

  “Half-term,” he told her truthfully.

  Davie’s mother stared at him, trying to work out if he was lying or not. Davie stared right back at her and eventually she seemed satisfied. “Okay, sweetheart. Come sit with your old mom.”