ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror
Page 18
His mother heard the door open and shouted out from the living room. “Davie, is that you? Get in here, now!”
Davie sighed. His mother was sprawled on the couch in her nightshirt and slippers, trying to pull herself up to a sitting position but failing pathetically. Davie moved over to help her up.
She declined his hand and continued to struggle. Eventually she made it upright and immediately began to glower at him. “Where have you been?”
“I was out with Frankie.”
“Frankie! I told you to stay away from that boy.” His mother spat. The drool landed on her nightshirt.
“I know,” Davie admitted. “I will from now on, mum, I promise.”
His mother stared at him some more, trying to focus her eyes as she swayed to and fro. She seemed totally unaware that a bandage adorned Davie’s head. “Lies!” she shouted in his face. “Don’t you lie to me, boy.”
“I’m not. I want nothing more to do with him.”
“Why? What happened? What did you boys do? I best not have the police around here. I have enough to cope with.”
“Nothing happened, mum. I just found out that he wasn’t a very nice person.”
His mother took a swig of beer and laughed. “Could have told you that long time ago. He’s been no good since the day I birthed him.”
Davie was weary. His usual tolerance of his mother’s vitriol was growing increasingly absent. “Maybe he wouldn’t have turned out so bad if you’d been a better mother.” The words escaped Davie’s mouth before he even realised he wanted to say them. Now that he had, though, he felt a cloying pressure release itself from his bones. It felt like finally doing something right.
Predictably, his drunken mother went nuclear. She threw her empty beer can at Davie, hitting his face above the eyebrows and spiking the pain in his head. “How dare you! You…you little swine. I give you a home and feed you and this is how you repay me? Twenty years of my life down the pan for you boys. I’ve a right mind to kick you both out.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” Davie said calmly.
“Oh, wouldn’t I? We’ll see about that, you ungrateful brat.”
“You won’t throw us out,” Davie said, “because you’d lose all your benefits and wouldn’t be able to drink yourself stupid every day. As for putting a roof over your head, the government only gave it to you because of me. You’d be in a skanky flat somewhere if I were to ever leave, so I don’t want to hear any more of your selfish complaining, you alcoholic, hate-filled old witch. The only person to blame for your terrible life is you, so deal with it.” Davie reached down to the floor and picked up the empty beer can that she had thrown at him. He stood up and tossed it back onto her lap. “And you can get your own beer from now on. Go outside and let the whole street see what a pathetic waster you are.”
Davie’s mother unleashed a tirade of abuse at him, but he was already out the door and halfway up the stairs before she managed to complete her first slurred sentence. It was just background noise now. The things he had said to her should’ve left him feeling elated, yet they hadn’t. There was too much on Davie’s mind to enjoy the moment and the confrontation with his mother was not enough to shift the growing numbness that was seeping through his mind. After what he and his brother had put Andrew and his family through, Davie felt unworthy of any emotion other than shame and regret. He wished he could put things right, but there would never be a way.
Nothing will ever make up for what we did.
Davie entered the cramped space of his bedroom and hopped up onto his unmade bed. Thoughts turned to his brother and then, unexpectedly, to sympathy. What Davie had said to his mother was indisputable: what chance did Frankie have growing up with her as a moral guardian? Ending up in a young offender’s home had probably been inevitable from the moment Frankie was born.
And that’s exactly where I’ll be heading, too.
Davie thought about what Damien had said about his brother’s time in prison and felt violently sick. Frankie was strong, respected, and feared. The thought of him being….being helplessly abused just did not mesh with the image that Davie had of him. It made his brain hurt just trying to consider the notion.
Even if it is true, what difference does it make? Frankie is broken and I don’t think there’s any way to fix him. Understanding a monster doesn’t change the fact that it’s still a monster.
Davie had looked into his brother’s eyes earlier and saw that there was something missing – a key piece of the puzzle that made up most people. Compassion.
Does that mean he’s evil?
No, Davie told himself, he’s my brother. His whole life he’s looked out for me. He’s not evil. He’s just hurting.
Hurting bad.
And I just turned my back on him. Just like mum did before I was even out of nappies. I’m not going to end up any better. Eventually I’ll get banged up, just like Frankie.
Davie felt a tear fall from his cheek.
He needs me.
Another tear and Davie was done feeling sorry. He wiped it away and nodded his head.
It’s time for me to look out for him now. Whatever happens, I’m the only family Frankie’s got. He needs me to look out for him the way he’s always looked out for me. I need to stop him before he gets himself into any deeper trouble. I owe him that much.
Davie rolled off of his bed and took a deep breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the revolver Frankie had given to him and examined it.
“Time to help my brother,” he said out loud. “Whatever it takes.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Trumpet bar and lounge was located in a rough housing estate opposite a rundown supermarket and a failing video store. Andrew had never been here before but heard enough stories to suggest that it was for a certain kind of individual.
Andrew took the first of the crumbling stone steps leading up to the pub’s entrance and prepared himself to go inside. The lights were on inside and a flickering glow gave away the presence of a natural fire. The thought of all that warmth welcomed Andrew as the evening’s icy rain continued to drench him. He took the remaining steps and approached the entrance to the pub. He stood at the windowless wooden door for a few moments, questioning himself about whether he really wanted to go ahead, to walk inside casually and commit cold-blooded murder?
Andrew took a deep breath, thought about his wife, and decided yes. He pulled open the door and stepped inside.
The pub was almost empty and it took several seconds for Andrew to even spot a single soul. There was a slender brunette restocking crisps behind the bar and a dishevelled old man sitting opposite with a half-empty pint of bitter in front of him. Andrew moved up beside the old man and took the adjacent stool.
“A new face,” said the barmaid, noticing him. “Don’t get many of those around here. I’m Steph and this wrinkly fart we call Old Graham.”
“You cheeky mare,” the old man replied but was laughing.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Andrew. He slid a ten-pound note across the counter. “Top the fella up and one for yourself. Mine’s a lager.”
Steph smiled. “Very generous of you.”
“Yes,” said Old Graham. “You’re my kind of man.”
“Then perhaps you could help me with something,” suggested Andrew.
The old man received his pint from the barmaid and took a sip of it. Then, as the barmaid went off to pour the next one, he turned to Andrew. “Okay. What do you need?”
“Kid called Dom.”
The old man raised his greying eyebrows in a look of understanding. “Black guy. A twin, yes?”
“Not anymore,” Andrew replied, “but, yeah. Do you know him?”
“Not really, but I’ve seen him and his brother in here on the odd few occasions. Played a game of pool with him once before the old table got smashed up in a fight.
“Has he been here tonight?”
The old man shrugged. “I’ve only just got here, pal.”
“Do you know where he went?”
Steph shook her head. “Never said more than a couple words to me the whole time he was here. What you want with him anyway?”
“I’m going to kill him.” Andrew said bluntly. He let the words linger in the air for a moment and realised that he had shocked the others into silence. Maybe they didn’t think he was serious, so he elaborated. “And I’m going to do it tonight.”
“What for?” the barmaid asked in a way that seemed like she was merely humouring him.
Andrew was happy to tell her the truth. “Because last night Dom helped murder my wife and put my daughter in hospital. He did it for kicks.”
Steph stared at him hard. She was trying to work him out, to see if he was serious or just one of the regular whackjobs that were par for the course of a barmaid’s job.
“You really don’t know where he went?” Andrew said.
Steph shook her head. “I’m sorry. Even if I did know, I wouldn’t help you commit murder.”
Andrew understood and thanked her anyway, got off his stool and begun to walk away. He stopped when Old Graham reached out and touched him.
“Are you telling the truth?” the old man asked him.
Andrew nodded.
“What are you doing, Graham?” Steph grunted from behind the bar.
The old man sighed back at her, but continued speaking to Andrew. “I don’t know where he was heading, pal, but he took a phone call just before he left.”
Andrew nodded. “And?”
“I didn’t hear most of what he was saying – he was upset and angry – but I did hear him say something about the hospital.”
Andrew’s stomach boiled hot with acidic fear and threatened to expel its contents all over the pub’s worn carpet. Jordan was dead, which meant that his brother, Dom, would have only one reason to revisit the hospital and only one thing on his mind.
He’s going to go after Bex; pay me back for what I did to his brother. The person on the phone was probably Frankie, egging him on – eager to have a potential witness dealt with. I have to get there first.
Andrew turned and addressed the barmaid. “He’s going after my daughter. Please, call the hospital and tell them that Rebecca Goodman is in danger. Rebecca Goodman, you got that?”
The barmaid just stood there, befuddled.
Andrew shouted at her. “Just do it!” Then he turned and fled, barging through the pub’s main door without stopping to acknowledge the pain that shot through his ribs. The rain had gotten ferocious in the short time he was in the pub and it now hit Andrew’s skin with enough force to sting.
Andrew stopped at the bottom of the pub’s steps and allowed himself a brief second to consider his options. He needed to get to the hospital as quickly as possible, but he was at least three miles away, with no car. There was a bus route nearby but Andrew had no idea how regular it was or even where it went to.
What do I do? What do I do?
A taxi would be the quickest option but he’d still have to wait for it to arrive. He couldn’t take the risk of it turning up late. There was only one solution that seemed viable right now: Andrew would have to race back home and get to his car.
He started to run, dodging over rain-filled divots and cracked paving stones, ignoring the pain in his leg where Frankie had stabbed him in the bathroom. Breathlessness came quickly, forcing a stitch into his side that merged with the pain of his shallow stab wound, but he had to keep going. Each second he took was a second that his daughter might not have.
He ran as fast as his legs would take him.
He ran until his chest was near-bursting, his wounded side bleeding.
But he kept going; not slowing down for even a single second. He ran like Bex’s life depended on it, because it did.
One street away from his own, Andrew was forced to slow down to a jog, the pain in his ribs growing to a point where it threatened to drop him to the floor unconscious. When he placed a hand against his side, Andrew discovered sticky blood seeping from the hole in his muscle. It felt hot as it trickled down his skin.
But there was no time to wallow in agony. Andrew put aside the pain and drew from reserves he never knew he had; he managed to round the final corner at full speed. His car was right in front of him, exactly where he had left it on the curb beside his house. For some irrational reason he had dreaded it would not be there. Thank God that it was.
Don’t worry, Bex. I’m coming.
Andrew reached his Mercedes and skidded to a halt beside the driver’s side door. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys.
“What’s up, motherfucker?”
Andrew turned around just in time to see a fist flying towards him. It connected with his jaw and sent his eyes rolling back in his head.
When he came to, Andrew found himself in the dark.
***
There was no space for him to move. Each time Andrew tried to straighten out an arm or a leg he hit against the walls of his confinement. His head was spinning and a wicked lump throbbed on the side of his head, making it extremely hard to think. It wasn’t until after several minutes of being curled up in the dark, listening to a nearby mechanical humming, that he realised he was inside a car.
I’m locked in the boot.
Andrew could tell by the sound of the engine that it was his own car. Dom must have grabbed the keys from him after throwing his knockout punch. Now Andrew was a hostage on his way to God knows where. He felt about himself for a solution to his predicament but struggled to find any. Bex still needed him and while he was trapped in the boot Frankie could have been on his way to the hospital.
If he’s not there already.
If Andrew remembered correctly, the only things inside the boot was a North Face jacket that had belonged to Pen and a Black & Decker handheld vacuum – neither would do anything to help him escape. He knew there was a tool kit somewhere in there, too, but it was hidden in a compartment beneath the shelf. There was no way to get to it while lying on top of it. Andrew did the only thing he could think of: he kicked out with both legs as hard as he could. The plastic mouldings of the car’s luggage compartment bent under the assault, but behind it was the unmovable steel of the vehicle’s chassis. Andrew had nowhere near enough strength to kick his way out. Something else suddenly occurred to him, though: he still had his knife, could feel it digging into his side. He yanked it free of his waistband and unrolled it from the tea towel. He may have had no way to escape the boot, but at least he had a weapon to use when Dom finally opened it. If it was, in fact, Dom that was driving the car.
The car began to slow down, the growl of the engine deepening as the revs lowered. Andrew gripped the knife tighter, his only hope of salvation.
The car came to a full stop and jolted as the handbrake was applied by its operator. Andrew didn’t know for sure that it was Dom driving the car, but he couldn’t see it being anybody else. His body tensed like a coiled spring as the driver’s door opened and someone stepped out. The weight of the car shifted, rocking back and forth before settling again. The ground crunched beneath the feet of the driver and Andrew could sense the footsteps approaching the boot.
Andrew held the knife out in front of him and waited.
Seconds passed by.
The boot did not open.
Andrew’s nose picked up the scent of something – something acrid, gaseous.
His ears picked up the sound of liquid, splashing and pouring.
His mind put the two things together.
Petrol. The psychopath is going to burn me alive. He can’t do this!
Of course he can. I stabbed his brother to death.
Mortal fear seized Andrew in a grip so fierce that it may have belonged to the Grim Reaper himself. Some part of him had already resigned himself to the possibility of dyi
ng tonight, but being burned alive was something else entirely.
He kicked out at the boot lid and yelled, trying to reason with the person about to incinerate him. It was no use, though, and the petrol continued to pour, seeping through the gaps in the vehicle’s bodywork and finding its way onto Andrew’s clothing and making his eyes sting. He tried to figure a way out before it was too late, frantically clawing at his surroundings. Each of the four walls was flat and featureless – nothing to grab hold of – but eventually Andrew’s hands caught against something above him. It was the locking mechanism for the boot. He fiddled with the contraption but could make no sense of it in the dark. All he could think to do was stab at it with his knife. The blade lodged into the plastic covering and stuck. Andrew pulled it out and stabbed again. And again.
Again.
Again.
Petrol continued to soak through into the boot.
He stabbed again, this time harder.
Eventually part of the casing began to come away, revealing the lock’s fittings inside. Andrew reached his frantic fingers into the gap and snatched at anything he could find in the dark. He pulled and prodded, hoping beyond all hope to find a way out.
Something clicked.
A sliver of light entered the boot space and Andrew felt his heart leap up into his throat. The person outside was still busy pouring petrol and didn’t seem to notice that the boot lid had opened a couple of inches.
Warily, Andrew edged the bonnet open further. He could see someone’s legs through the widening gap; they were lit by the car’s headlamps. Andrew took a deep breath and held it in his lungs until they began to ache. Then he unleashed his entire body, uncoiling like a striking cobra. His head and shoulders hit the boot lid and forced it open while his legs sprung out and launched him away from the car. He barrelled into his attacker and the two of them tumbled to the floor, landing in a heap. At some point during the fall, Andrew lost his knife, but he wasn’t deterred by the lack of a weapon. He shot up and managed to kick out at his attacker before they got a chance to reach their own feet. It was Dom, as he’d suspected, and the teenager rolled onto his side, cursing in pain and anger.