ASBO: A Thriller Novel

by Iain Rob Wright

“Thank you, brother. I love you. You know that, right?”

  “I know that, Frankie. I love you, too, and that’s the only reason I’m about to do this for you. I have to take care of you.”

  There was more silence; interrupted only by what must have been Davie removing a gun he had hidden in his clothing.

  Davie cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about all this, Andrew. I truly wish none of this had ever happened to you.”

  Andrew said nothing. He just closed his eyes, replacing the blurriness with full-on darkness, and waited for the end. He tried to shut out his daughter’s screams – he didn’t want that to be the last thing he ever heard. His thoughts turned to the day she was born. They had all been a family then, he, Pen, and Bex, so full of hope and love for one another. Perhaps in the next life they would be again.

  He listened to the sound of a gun being cocked.

  A pause.

  A pause that seemed to go on forever.

  Then an explosion of sound.

  The smell of smoke.

  Bex still screaming.

  Andrew opened his eyes again. They had cleared a little due to his closing them for a few moments. Though he could not make out the finer details, he could clearly see that a body now adorned the floor in front of him. The body could have belonged only to one person...

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” said Davie, from the corner of the room. “I hope this makes up for it a little bit.”

  Andrew stretched his eyes wide, trying clear away the blurriness. Frankie lay dead in front of him. Davie had shot his own brother.

  Andrew shook his head with disbelief. “W-Why?”

  Davie didn’t answer the question. Instead he said, “I’ll go and get some help.” He left the room without saying another word, dropping the gun beside his brother on his way out.

  Andrew realised that he hadn’t taken a breath in almost a minute and he took one now. He expelled the air from his lungs and the room slowly came back into focus. The first thing he was able to make out clearly was Officer Dalton on the floor beside him.

  “Hey,” he said to her. “It’s over. Help will be here soon. Officer Dalton? Laura?”

  Andrew put a hand on the woman’s chest and rocked her gently. She did not wake up. Her body slid sideways and flopped down onto the fluid-stained tiles. The blood had stopped pumping from her stomach wound and she was no longer breathing.

  Andrew mourned her loss more than he would have expected. He’d met the woman only days earlier, yet she was a massive part of the reason he and his daughter were still alive. He’d never forget what she did for him – her sacrifice.

  “Dad?”

  Bex’s voice was like music, clearing away the nightmares that battled for Andrew’s mind and replacing them with love and compassion. His daughter was safe at last, and that made his world bearable again. It was just the two of them now, and he would never let anything hurt her again.

  “Everything is going to be okay now, honey,” he told her. “It’s all over.”

  Now that Andrew’s vision finally cleared. He used it to make certain that Frankie was dead. The bullet wound in his temple made it very clear that he was. Andrew took in the deepest breath he’d ever taken in his life and then let it out slowly, enjoying the calmness it brought. He was about to lose consciousness, could feel it coming on like a smothering blanket, but before he allowed himself to fade, he smiled.

  Yep, he thought sleepily. It’s finally over.

  EPILOGUE

  April 17th

  Dear Diary

  Today is my twenty-first birthday. Dad and I spent the afternoon at Mom’s grave. We both still miss her every day. Visiting the cemetery helps alleviate some of our pain, but I know it affects Dad differently than it does me. He still blames himself for being unable to protect us that week Frankie Walker forced himself into our lives.

  It still shocks me that Davie shot his older brother that day, to save me and my father. I’ll never know the full reasons why he did it, but I can still picture him now, squeezing that trigger as though the weight of the world fought against him. It must have been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. But he did it anyway. I’ll always be grateful to him.

  After the events in the hospital, the police arrested Davie for murder, but after they took my Dad’s statement about what happened, they offered him a deal: testify against Dom and Michelle in exchange for a reduced sentence. He was looking at about five years. When my Dad got a lawyer involved, the police dropped the charges altogether. Davie still testified.

  Davie went into care after it was discovered what a poor excuse for a mother he had. His identity was withheld to protect him from the media circus that ensued to cover what came to be known as the West Midland’s Massacre. I don’t know what happened to him after that, but I hope he’s okay.

  Eventually my wounds healed and things went back to normal little by little. We sold the house and moved to the country, away from the pavements and lampposts of urban living, and away from the memories that haunted us. Somehow, I managed to get my head together enough to finish high school and move on to college. I’m at university now – my third year studying Law at Warwick. All in all, I managed to get through the ordeal Frankie put us through with my mind and body still intact. A scar across my stomach the only physical reminder of the night I nearly died.

  Dad hasn’t been so lucky. Even five years later, he still walks with a pronounced limp and is in constant pain from his shattered knee. The wounds of his mind are worse though. Sometimes when we watch TV together, he starts crying for no reason. His emotions don’t work the way they used to. If I go out without calling him every two hours, he panics.

  It’s not all bad though. After what happened, there was a media furore about how the police had failed my family, and about how all the red tape in the criminal justice system did nothing but hurt the people that needed protection the most. My dad fronted a campaign to increase police powers, and succeeded. Now young offenders can be given something called an ASBO and placed on a public register for as long as the police deem necessary. They can also be escorted back to their homes if they’re caught congregating after nine o’clock at night. It isn’t much, but it’s a start. People at least have hope again.

  After what happened to my dad, neighbourhood watch programs began popping up all over the country and existing memberships sky-rocketed. People started coming together, fighting back against the thug culture threatening our country. If anything good came from my mother’s death, it’s that the UK today is a safer place than it was when she died. Dad holds onto that fact dearly. Last year, he went into politics.

  He formed an organisation committed to protecting the streets from crime through a series of initiatives. One of those demanded that the Government allocate part of their annual budget to evening activities for impoverished youths. One of the failings that led to much of the UK’s gang violence was teenage boredom. My father helped change all that – he called it Pen’s Law. He also spearheaded an investigation into young offender’s homes and was disgusted to find out that the claims Frankie made about his half-brother were true.

  Officer Dalton was, of course, honoured for dying in the line of duty. Nobody, other than her partner, Wardsley, ever knew that she’d let Andrew go after Frankie. Wardsley asked my dad to keep the fact quiet and he was happy to. Dalton was a good woman, and once a year, we visit her grave, too. Sometimes Wardsley comes with us. I think they were more than just partners.

  I guess we’ll never know if Frankie was evil or just a result of a crippled and decaying system that failed him from the day he was born. All I know is that the world is a scary place and that, like my dad, I’m going to do everything I can to help make it safer. I don’t want any other young girls to lose their mothers the way I did.

  This is my last diary entry. At twenty-one, I feel I’ve outgrown the need to analysis my daily thoughts by writing about them. I know myself well enough now and I’m ready to face life as an
adult. So I guess I should end it here. I need to get ready. Dad’s taking me out to celebrate my birthday. At least we still have each other…

  WHEN FRANKIE MET...

  The halls of the prison were cold, not in temperature, but in their colour and mood. The grimy magnolia paint that peeled from every vertical surface threatened to show the malignant undergrowth of graffiti and blood beneath. Cells on both sides were secured by windowless doors and thick concrete. This was a place for the damned. A place where the broken came not to be fixed, but even more damaged.

  For Damien, though, the prison meant nothing. Its threats and insidious intentions were irrelevant to him, for he had been conditioned to withstand them from a young age. His father had spoke of prison as a necessary component of life, and for Damien that was exactly what it was. The six months he was about to spend in Brockworth Youth Offender’s home would be a cake walk.

  “Stand there, Banks.” The prison officer pointed to one of the cell doors. Believe it or not they all had numbers, like hotel rooms. The one the officer pointed to was 24.

  “What’s the number for room service?” Damien asked, holding his new bed sheets and toothbrush in front of him.

  The officer scowled at him, and said, “Shut it!”

  Damien smiled to himself. It was the staff of this wretched shithole that were in for six months of punishment, not him. They would have their hands full with him.

  The door to cell 24 was unlocked and Damien was ushered inside. There was already someone in there; a lad about the same age as him. He was rolled up on the bottom bunk bed in a foetal position, staring at the far wall without ever blinking.

  “Say hello to your new roommate,” the officer said. “He doesn’t say much.”

  The cell door closed and Damien sat on the single chair that filled the barren room. He examined his new acquaintance with interest. The lad was big, tall with muscles, but from the way he lying, curled up on his bed, it was obvious he was a frightened mess. Prison did this to some people, Damien’s dad had always warned, which is why it was important to beat the system before it beat you. In the nick, reputation was everything, and if you didn’t gain respect from the get go, then this was the result: a broken, shattered mess, lying alone on a rusty old bunk.

  Damien had fully intended to start his incarceration by going in strong, fighting and clawing his way to the top of the pack. There would be no point trying to intimidate this boy, however, so he decided upon pity instead. “Hey,” he said to the lad. “My name is Damien Banks.”

  There was no reply to his introduction. His new room mate continued to stare at the wall as if Damien’s presence was invisible to him.

  “Come one, man,” Damien said. “We got six months together. I can’t be having a mute as a roomie.” The lad still said nothing. It was starting to annoy him now. “Just snap out of it! We can have a laugh in here, if you cheer up. We can be like brothers or something.”

  “I already have a brother.”

  “He speaks at last! Great, so you have a brother. What’s his name?”

  “Davie.”

  “Davie? Not as tough as just plain Dave, but not bad. So what’s your name, then?”

  The lad looked at Damien and seemed to have utter distrust in his eyes. The answer eventually came, “Francis.”

  Damien sniggered. “Now that is a queer name. I think I’ll call you Frankie; much better.”

  Frankie shrugged, not seeming to care what he was called.”

  Damien looked around the cell for conversation starters, for belongs of this boy that may share something about him, but the room was empty beyond a desk, chair, and the beds. “So what are you in for?”

  “Drugs.”

  “No shit?” said Frankie. “Me too. How long you get?”

  “Three years.”

  Damien whistled, impressed. “Wow! You must have been carrying big to get a stretch like that at your age.”

  “A grand’s worth. I got done for assault too.”

  Damien couldn’t fit the crimes to Frankie, he didn’t seem right for them. “So why are you a bloody shambles if you’re a drug dealing hard man? You should have it made in here.”

  Frankie sat up in bed, and started to act a little more relaxed. “S’what I thought. I came here thinking I’d be respected for what I done, but they didn’t want to know.”

  “You have to earn respect, man. You can’t come in playing the big’un till you know the lay of the land. Who’s top dog?”

  “Conner.”

  Damien nodded. “Conner West? I know that guy. He ain’t nothing. Give me a week and I’ll deal with him. There’re a few lads in here that work for my dad so I’ll have the backup.”

  Frankie seemed to perk up. “You’re going to take out Conner?”

  Damien shrugged. “Won’t need to. Once I have enough backup and support, he’ll just step off and let me take over. Like I said, he don’t have the minerals to take me on once I’m set up. You stick with me and you’ll have an easy ride.”

  “I want Conner dead.”

  “Okay,” said Damien, taken slightly aback by his cellmate’s vehemence. “Why?”

  Frankie looked at him and seemed close to tears; there was a slight twitch on the lad’s face that must have been distracting to anyone having a conversation with him. “Because...”

  Damien examined the expression on Frankie’s face and understood the problem. There was no need for full explanation because some things in prison were pretty clear: The strong prey on the weak, for one. Conner had been raping Frankie, and perhaps others too.

  “That shit don’t go down with me,” said Damien. “You need to stick up for yourself though. I can’t watch your back twenty-four-seven.”

  Frankie was obviously fighting back tears now. “Why would you want to watch my back at all?”

  Damien wasn’t quite sure, and tried to work out the answer by speaking about it. “I guess I just don’t want to be stuck with a moping sod of a roommate all year. Maybe I could do with a few favours on the outside, too. I help you in here, you help me out there.”

  “Deal!”

  Damien laughed. “I never made an offer; it was just a hypothesis. Still, like I said, you need to defend yourself.”

  “How? Conner has too many friends in here. He even has the guards helping him.”

  Damien’s eyebrows raised. “What?”

  “Warden McMillan lets him get away with murder. In fact it was McMillan who first started...”

  “You’re kidding me,” Damien couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “The Warden?”

  Frankie nodded. “He comes in here at night sometimes.”

  “What the fuck, man. That is messed up. I expect that kind of behaviour from a bunch of caged animals, but he’s a bloody adult with a life on the outside. There’s no excuse.”

  “I think he’s a queer or something. Conner sorts stuff out fro him on the inside and McMillan uses him to keep people quiet about his...nightly visits.”

  There was silence between them for almost ten minutes while Damien thought about things. He was only here for six months, and would have an easy life by just keeping his head down and doing his time. That would feel wrong to him, though. Being locked up was the best way to build his rep and make a few contacts that could help him on the outside. For that reason, Conner had to go. But it wouldn’t be as easy as he thought with the Warden looking out for him. He would have help though, and in fact, he knew that he had help in this very cell. Frankie was broken and dehumanised, which meant he had nothing to lose; the perfect weapon for Damien to wield.

  “We take out the Warden,” Damien said suddenly. “Next time he comes in here and gets his cock out, you slit his throat. I will swear that he came in to abuse you and you tell them about what he’s been doing. I guarantee they will cover it up rather than expose something like this.”

  “You want me to murder him?”

  “What’s the problem? You don’t think he deserves it?”
/>   Frankie shrugged on the end of the bed. “I just don’t think I could ever kill anyone.”

  Damien patted his new ally on the back. “You can, my friend. We all can. And you’ll enjoy it.”

  “You know something,” said Frankie. He sounded forlorn. “After what that pervert has been doing to me, I think I would. He deserves it and my life can’t get any worse anyway. I’m in.”

  Damien was surprised Frankie hadn’t needed more convincing; the lad would be even more useful than he thought.

  “Great,” said Damien. “Then, when the Warden’s gone, we take out Conner.”

  “And his mates,” Frankie added, suddenly sounding very eager. “I’m going to make everyone of them pay.”

  Damien shrugged, “Okay, man. If that’s what you want. Your deal though, I just want the top spot.”

  “That’s fine,” said Frankie. “You get the top spot and I kill em all.”

  Kill em all, Damien thought. This guy is taking to murder a little too easy. What am I unleashing here?

  Frankie stood up from the bunk and walked over to the cell door, looking out through an imaginary window. He seemed like a new man, strong and lithe; mentally prepared. “They’ll learn to respect me whether they like it or not. I’m Frankie, fucking, Walker.”

  Damien stared at the lad from behind and smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Frankie.”

  Also by Iain Rob Wright

  THE FINAL WINTER

  ----------------------------------------------

  Chapter One

  Harry sipped his latest beer while yet another news update flashed across the pub’s dusty television. A female reporter appeared onscreen, enveloped by an over-sized pink ski-jacket and covered in snow. “Good evening,” she said politely, a slight shiver in her voice. “I’m Jane Hamilton with Midland-UK News. As you can clearly see, the nineteen-inches of snow Britain has witnessed during the previous 24-hours has left the nation’s transportation network in disarray.” The camera panned to overlook a deserted motorway. A sky-blue transit van lay overturned and abandoned in its centre; its mystery cargo strewn across – and half-buried by – the snow.