ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror(17)

Oh, I’m not a pedo. It’s just some of the local kids having fun. 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 Tuesday morning and Andrew knew that most of the people on his road had day jobs. The lack of parked cars only reinforced the assumption.

Next door, though, no 16, was home to an elderly couple. Most likely they would be his best bet as they were both retired. The chance of them being home during the day was a healthy possibility. Andrew pressed their doorbell and waited.

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

Oh well. There goes my best shot.

Andrew started to turn away from the door and 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.

“Hello,” Andrew shouted, stepping back to try and get a better view of the window. The shifting silhouette 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 to him? 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 him. 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. No smoke without fire.

They’re all going to think I’m a bloody paedophile.

I need to put a stop to this.

***

Tanner’s Avenue was a quiet cul-de-sac of terraced houses, lined on either side by leafless trees which towered above Andrew like judgemental skeletons. One of the homes belonged 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 and ask the occupants if they knew which house was Frankie’s. He chose a house with a green-painted door and a brass number plate that read: no 17.

Upon knocking, it took about fifteen seconds for the door to be opened. A diminutive gentleman, at least in his early sixties, appeared in the doorway. His hair thinned above his delicate round spectacles and he seemed withered and stressed-out.

“Can I help you?” the man asked in a tone that was in no way friendly.

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

“You know him?” asked Andrew.

“Who wants to know?”

“I do. 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 tore 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 have. 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 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.”

Andrew shrugged his shoulders and already felt like the whole thing was a bad idea. It was still the only option he had right now, though. “Can you point me to Frankie’s house anyway? I have to at least try to speak some sense to them.”

The man sighed. “Like I said, good luck. They live at number 8.”

Andrew thanked the man and moved away from his door. Number 8 was directly behind and he turned and made his way over to it. Reaching the house a mument later, Andrew was surprised he hadn’t realised sooner that it belonged to Frankie. The front door was chipped and dented, the paint peeling away in great 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 outside of the property, it would have stuck out like a sore thumb; a dilapidated slum amongst a row of far better-kept properties.