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.
Here goes nothing, Andrew told himself as he made his way up the path, stepping over what looked like a rotting condom on one of the slabs about half way. There was no buzzer on the door – no knocker either – so he was forced to rap his knuckles against the sharp splinters of the rotting wood.
No one came to answer, but Andrew could hear commotion from somewhere inside of the house. It was the sound of someone clumsily making their way through the reception hallway, bumping into furniture.
Andrew held his breath and realised that his stomach was deeply unsettled. Having to wait so long for the door to open made the feeling even worse. It was a full minute later when it finally did open.
A dishevelled woman appeared. Her hair was wild on one side, but matted and damp on the other, as if she had been lying in a puddle – most likely beer or vomit.