ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror

ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror

Iain Rob Wright




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.





Chapter One


“Those troublemaking 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.