ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror(85)

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.