ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror (28 page)

After what happened to my dad, Neighbourhood Watch programs began popping up all over the country and memberships sky-rocketed.  People started coming together, fighting back against the thug culture that was threatening to destroy 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 dearly.  Last year he went into politics.

Dad formed an organisation committed to protecting the streets from crime through a series of initiatives.  One of those demands that the Government allocate part of the 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, PC Jack Wardsley, ever knew that she let my father go after Frankie.  Wardsley asked my dad to keep that fact quiet and he’d been happy to.  Dalton was a good woman and someone we will never forget.  Once a year we visit her grave, too.  Sometimes Jack comes with us.   I think they were more than just partners.  He cries a lot.

I guess we’ll never know if Frankie was truly evil or just a result of a crippled and decaying system failing him from the day he was born.  All I know for sure 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.  I’m an adult now and have outgrown the need to analysis my daily thoughts by writing about them.  I know myself well enough now.  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 roommate 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 every one 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

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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. 

The reporter let out a breath that steamed the air and then continued.  “Major roads have now been closed off and the nation’s rail links have been terminated until further notice.  Schools are closed, along with nonessential businesses, while hospitals are doing their best to remain open.  The current death toll of weather-related fatalities is now at twenty-seven and feared to rise.  Emergency services have set up a helpline in order to assist anyone in serious need and to offer advice on how best to survive the current freezing temperatures.  That number is being displayed at the bottom of the screen now.”

Harry shook his head. 
How long they going to keep this up?  We get it, the weather’s bad!  No need to tell us every ten minutes.  Life’s depressing enough!

“Even more concerning,” the television reporter continued, much to Harry’s displeasure, “is the fact that it is currently snowing throughout every nation of the world.”  A multi-coloured map of the earth superimposed itself at the top right of the screen, then slowly turned white to represent the recent snowfall.  “From barren deserts to areas of dense rainforest, all have been subjected to unprecedented snowfall, some for the first time in centuries.  Never before in recorded history has such an event been known to occur.  Certain religious leaders are calling this-”

 “Rubbish!”  Old Graham, the most elderly regular of The Trumpet pub and lounge
,
threw his hands up in disgust and shouted in Harry’s direction.  “Bloody fear mongers; that’s what they are.  A little snow and the country trembles at the knees.”

Harry lifted his head away from his half-finished pint and glanced over at the old man.  He was pointing to the ancient, dust-covered television set mounted to the back wall by a pair of rusted brackets.  Harry shrugged his shoulders.  “Sorry, what?” 

Old Graham huffed.  “More nonsense about a few snowflakes bringing the country to a standstill.  Your generation can’t cope with anything unless there’s a video on that
yourtube
or
myface
to tell you about it!”