Read ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror Online
Authors: Iain Rob Wright
ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror
***An SG THRILLERS release***
Part of the SALGAD PUBLISHING GROUP
ASBO copyright 2012 by Iain Rob Wright
Cover Art Copyright 2012 by WRIGHT IDEAS
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Acknowledgements
The biggest thanks for the creation of this novel must go to my friends, Nicola Rees, Laurie Steward, and Ashley Davis. Without their constant support and excellent proofreading this book would not be what it is. I thank them from the bottom of my heart.
I’m also obligated to give mention to James Newman, an author without rivals. His mind-blowing novel,
Animosity
, is what inspired me to write this book. While they are similar in tone and themes, the story is entirely different, so James don’t try to sue me!
My personal thanks must go to the woman I love, Sally Stote. For all of the moods and eccentricities she puts up with on a daily basis, she truly deserves a medal – but all I have to give her is my heart. I love her from the depths of my soul and it is a well that will never run dry. With her in my life, I am always winning. Thank you, God, for giving her to me.
And last of all, thank you, reader, for giving me a chance to tell you this story. I hope you enjoy it.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
When Frankie Met… (short story)
Anti-Social Behaviour Order (ASBO):
issued in response to "conduct which caused or was likely to cause harm, harassment, alarm, or distress, to one or more persons not of the same household as him or herself and where an ASBO is seen as necessary to protect relevant persons from further anti-social acts by the Defendant.
It is the failing of youth not to be able to restrain its own violence.
-
Lucius Annaeus Seneca
Violence isn't always evil. What's evil is the infatuation with violence.
-Jim Morrison
ASBO
By Iain Rob Wright
Chapter One
“Those trouble-making kids are hanging around outside again. Must be a dozen of them now. Should we call the police?”
Andrew turned to Penelope, his wife and chuckled. She was peeking out of the living room window through a gap in the curtains. “They’re just harmless kids,” he told her. “We were young, too, once upon a time. Not that I can remember that far back anymore.”
She dragged herself away from the curtain and allowed herself to crack a smile. It was a rarity these days, which made the gesture all the more attractive. “You’re thirty-eight years old, Andrew.” She inflected her words with a sarcastic tone. “I don’t think your memory is going just yet.”
“Exactly, and I can remember being a sixteen-year-old with nothing to do. Me and my brother used to get up to all kinds of mischief – him especially. Didn’t mean we were out to hurt anyone, though. Just ignore them, Pen, and they’ll ignore you.”
“Isn’t that what they say about wasps?” she said without turning around, too busy spying through the curtains to pay him direct attention. She’d been peeking now, on and off, for the last ten minutes, unable to pry herself away. Outside, the streetlamps had turned on with the arrival of dusk and cast angular shadows over her face. She looked like a private detective from one of those old American Film Noir movies.
Andrew couldn’t help but smile. “Wasps, snakes, rabid-dogs, whatever. I think it makes pretty good sense in
most
situations. In other words, stop being such a nosey-parker.”
Pen let go of the curtain and let it sweep back into place. She padded, barefoot, across the beige carpet of the living room and let out a deep sigh. “I know, I know. They just make me uncomfortable. Where’ve they come from all a sudden? Why do they have to be right outside
my
house?”
Andrew wrapped his arms around his wife, enjoying the warmth of her hips through her blouse. The flesh there was softer now than it had been ten years ago when they’d married, but still trim for a woman of forty. Pen worked the rowing machine every Wednesday and Friday, and it showed. Andrew was a lucky man. He kissed her forehead.
“I think you mean
our
house,” he told her. “Anyway, will you stop worrying? The kids outside haven’t done anything wrong, have they?”
Pen shook her head against his chest. “You’re right, I’m just being silly.”
“Don’t worry, I’m used to it. Now what’s for dinner,
woman
?”
Pen slapped him on the arm with a stinging backhand. “You’ll get put to bed on an empty stomach if you call me
woman
again, cheeky sod.”
“Did I hear someone mention dinner?”
Andrew spotted his daughter coming down the stairs in a plump, white towel. Her shoulder-length brown hair was a wet and tangled mess around her glistening, naked shoulders.
Andrew sighed. “You’re not a little girl anymore, Bex. I really wish you wouldn’t walk around half-naked.”
She rolled her eyes. “I just got out the shower. Anyway, back to my earlier question: did I hear someone mention dinner?”
“Sit down, Sweetheart.” Pen dumped herself down on the room’s bulbous, cream sofa and patted the cushion beside her. “Let me get those knots out of your hair. You look like something out of a horror movie.”
Bex walked across the living room with her arms outstretched like a badly-acted mummy. Then she collapsed on the sofa like a make-believe bullet had hit her in the forehead. Finally, she sat still long enough for her mother to run fingers through the tangled bunches of her hair. She winced every time a knot was yanked.
Andrew glanced at his fourteen-year old daughter’s naked legs and wished once more that she would cover up.
She doesn’t realise how much of a woman she’s becoming. Time she started being a little more aware of herself.
Bex caught her father’s stares and frowned. She pulled down the hem of the towel so that it was closer to her knees. “Happy now?” she asked him. “So, can we have chippy?”
Andrew looked at Pen for approval, not particularly fussed himself. He wasn’t a big eater most nights.
Pen shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t mind chips.”
Bex clapped her hands excitedly. “Cod and chips, please, Dad. Salt, no vinegar.”
Andrew laughed. “Don’t you think I know that? Been feeding you fourteen-bloody-years.”
“And if you don’t feed me again soon, I might not make fifteen.” Becky sucked in her cheeks so that she looked like a starving ghoul. Add the chaotic mess of her hair and the impression was quite convincing.
Andrew let his breath out in a whistle. “Alright, little Miss Drama Queen. I’ll get going right away; wouldn’t want you to starve. I think I’ll walk, though – save the petrol – but then the three of us can settle down and watch a movie together. Isn’t there a Stephen King film on tonight, Bex?”
“Yeah,” she replied, pulling away from her mother’s hair-straightening fingers and flopping back on the sofa. Her hair was now sufficiently straightened to pass for human. “Don’t think it’s for you, though, Dad; has monsters and stuff. You don’t like blood and violence.”
“Perhaps I’ll make an exception if it means spending some time with my increasingly-absent daughter. You never have time for your old dad anymore.”
“It’s because you smell so bad.”
“Charming. I suppose you’re too good for a bit of B.O. now that you’re a teenager.
Pen interrupted the exchange. “Can we save the banter for
after
we’ve all eaten, please? You’re as bad as she is sometimes, Andrew.”
Andrew put his hands up in defence. “I’m going.”
He left the warmth of the living room and stepped into the chillier hallway. His shoes were in the front porch and he went to retrieve them, whistling a made-up tune as he went. He could see the group of youths outside through the glass of the PVC front door. Pen had been right: there was ten or more of them now; mostly boys – but not all. Andrew counted at least two young girls amongst them about Rebecca’s age.
I wouldn’t let my daughter hang around the streets with a bunch of boys. Their parents must be mad.
Andrew still stood by what he said earlier, though: they were just bored kids with nothing better to do. It wasn’t like there was a decent cinema or bowling alley. In fact there wasn’t anything for the kids to do in Redditch town during the evenings. They would have to venture into Birmingham for anything beyond a scrappy game of football
.
The kids outside were just trying to entertain themselves. There was no reason to be frightened of them; in fact, it would likely make things worse. If you treated young people like thugs all of the time then that’s exactly how they’d end up behaving.
Kick a dog and it’ll bite.
Andrew pushed aside his shoes and decided upon a pair of trainers instead. The Nike running shoes were new and a little uncomfortable, but he wanted to try and wear them in quickly – the local squash league began again soon. He tied the laces loosely to reduce the pinching on his toes, then stood up and pulled his brown-leather wallet from his jeans, checking for cash. He had just over twenty-pounds in notes and change – more than enough to cover dinner. The final thing he did was pull on his long, black overcoat from the stand in the corner. Even from inside the porch, it was clear that the weather outside was nippy.
Tough winter ahead,
Andrew thought to himself as he
fastened the final button on his jacket.
Once he was ready, he unlocked the front door and stepped outside into the bitter, grey dusk of the autumn evening. The frosty air immediately gravitated towards him as though he was a cold-weather magnet. Andrew gave his shoulders a quick, vigorous rub and then started down the pathway.
The teenagers across the road seemed to notice Andrew’s presence as he left his property, but they paid him hardly any attention. They seemed content simply chatting amongst themselves.
Too consumed with their smartphones and iPods, probably.
Just like Andrew had told Pen, there was nothing to worry about – just a bunch of bored kids. In fact, he was going to walk right by them to prove a point. He was willing to bet that they wouldn’t make so much as a peep at him.
“Oi, mate?”
Andrew stopped in his tracks.
“Oi, mate, you fucking deaf, or what?”
Andrew turned to the group of teenagers. They were gathered just a few feet down the road and were strolling towards him. Several sets of gleaming eyeballs bore into him, scrutinising him from beneath the harsh glow of the streetlamps.
Andrew cleared his throat and tried to speak calmly. “Excuse me?”
One of the youths stepped away from the others: a tightly-muscled teenager in a red, woollen hat pulled low over his forehead. The lad seemed to have a facial twitch and a thin scar bisected his lower lip.
“Got a cigarette, mate?” the lad asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t smoke,” Andrew replied honestly.
The lad just stared at him, almost as if he recognised Andrew somehow, a spark of familiarity glinting in his eyes. It wasn’t possible though; Andrew had never set eyes on the lad before.
“I said I don’t smoke,” Andrew repeated, wondering why he was still being stared at. “I don’t have a cigarette to give you.”
The lad didn’t break his stare. His nervous twitch seemed to increase in intensity.
“Okay,” the lad finally answered. “No worries then.”
Andrew nodded and resumed his journey to the local shops. He was confused by the encounter, but not particularly upset.
See? No problem at all. A slight lack of manners, admittedly, but no worse than that.
“Get us some fags from the shop then, mate.”
Andrew stopped still and wondered if he’d just heard the youth correctly. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, considering what he should say in reply to such an audacious request. It was probably best not let it get to him and just be polite. No point getting into an argument over a bit of rudeness.