Eventually my wounds healed and things went back to normal, little by little. We sold the house and moved to the country, away from the pavements and lampposts of urban living, and away from the memories that haunted us. Somehow, I managed to get my head together enough to finish high school and move on to college. I’m about to start university – my first year studying Law. All in all, I managed to get through the ordeal Frankie put us through with my mind and body still intact. A scar across my stomach the only physical reminder of the night I nearly died.
Dad hasn’t been so lucky. Even three years later, he still walks with a pronounced limp. The wounds of his mind are even worse. Sometimes when we watch TV together he starts crying for no reason. His emotions don’t work the way they used to. If I go out without calling him every two hours, he panics.
It’s not all bad, though. After what happened, there was a media furore about how the police had failed my family and about how all the red tape in the criminal justice system did nothing but hurt the people that needed protecting the most. My dad fronted a campaign to increase police powers, and he succeeded. Now young offenders can be given something called an ASBO and placed on a public register for as long as the police deem necessary. They can also be escorted back to their homes if they’re caught congregating after nine o’clock at night. It isn’t much, but it’s a start. People at least have hope again.
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.