Girl who speaks no words

Peter Pete, they say, carries a gun, though he has never needed to use it. Mert, Dan and Felton do the physical side of the business so efficiently that no firearm has ever been produced.

Peter Pete walks alongside the gang, but unattached to it, like satellites in similar orbit but ultimately on their own trajectory. If they’re ever stopped, which they are frequently, Peter Pete is never with them, he’s always on the other side of the road, causing no trouble whatsoever, looking in a shop window, or tying his shoelace.

Mert, Dan and Felton on the other hand, are as loud as they want to be, and they want to be very loud indeed. They stomp down the street as if stamping out their territory, which of course they are. Short of pissing along the border zone they couldn’t be more obvious about it, they are loud, boisterous, play-fighting, though punches aren’t exactly pulled. They stagger along the pavement, laughing, bellowing, cursing each other and generally ensuring that they get that side of the pavement to themselves.

The girl who speaks no words controls the three brash, loud, giants with gesture alone, like Goldie leading an orchestra, like a shepherdess controlling a pack of sheepdogs with nothing more than a few subtle gestures and a silent whistle.

The final member of the gang, Marcus, drives the van, which follows them, or pushes ahead of them, on towards their next client, attached to them by unseen threads.

The rear of the van is padded thick with egg cartons, an amateur though effective soundproofing. The van is used as a mobile torture centre, because Mert, Dan and Felton are capable of serious business when they’re not clowning and goofing with each other.

These days, of course, the van is never needed. Dissent has been silenced and the street-life in their area is content to give the gang its cut.  A pimp, tout, or supplier will return the girl who speaks no words’ smile, greet Mert, Dan and Felton warmly, as if they were lost kittens returning home, and hand over a sum of money. Never short-changing them, always being polite.

But not in the early days. When they started out nobody wanted to hand over their hard-earned. “It’s nobody’s patch but mine,” they’d say, or just “Fuck off.” Which is when the van was brought into play, with Mert, Dan and Felton persuading the person to hand over whatever they wanted handed over, and the girl who speaks no words directing things, silently, from the passenger seat.

What happened in the van nobody ever said, for they were careful to leave no mark, and the egg cartons and some hastily applied gaffer tape to the mouth ensured that no screams were ever heard. But all who entered into the van came out converted, happy to hand over a 20% cut of all they took, and never daring to short-change or lie about what they earned. Many, it is said, simply refused to eat an egg ever again in their lives after the experience.

In next to no time the girl who speaks no words and her crew ruled a sizeable chunk of town, as far as they could walk in a week, for they circled their area collecting tariffs, regular as the postman, or at least as regular as the postman used to be, back in the days when postmen were regular. These days, of course, it’s only gangsters and the taxman that can be relied on.

Often the police would stop them, but all they ever had on them were cash, often large sums, but that’s not a crime, and bucket-loads of charm. The girl who speaks no words, of course, was silent, but to the police Mert, Dan and Felton were all charmed denial, soon on their way again, never a thing to be pinned on them.

Until one time.

A police car followed them down the street. Marcus had already driven off, as if armed with some sixth sense, or possibly just a rear-view-mirror. Peter Pete was looking in the window of a boutique, nowhere near the gang, on the other side of the road in fact. But the police must have noticed something about him. Maybe they’d stopped the gang before, possibly on more than one occasion, and recognised the unnoticeable lad who was always three yards from their shadows, not being noticed.

Whatever reason, the police car stopped, not by the gang, but on the other side of the road, and two policemen approached Peter Pete, who was watching events through the window’s reflection. He suddenly tore off, down an alleyway, with the police hot on his heels.

Felton drew out his phone to call Marcus, the rest of the gang stood watching and waiting.

Time passed. Seconds, minutes, who can tell when their pulse is pulsing. Suddenly a bang could be heard nearby, a pistol shot, followed by a second shot.

Silence.

The girl who speaks no words put her index finger to her lips, to shush any thought of speech, and the gang walked on.