Short Story Of Gangs

Jen saw the dogs first, their short muscular bodies scudding along the pavement like torpedoes. The Brothers and their men came after, followed by the girl and the fat woman. The shoppers and the tourists sensed the change in the atmosphere and parted instinctively, allowing them to pass. Jen hung back, keeping close to the buildings. Daniel and Joseph Avery were dangerous; catch their eye, come into their orbit, and you would become their victim. They stalked the streets like warlords, their dogs always by their side, their gang of sycophants never far away.
The rest of the gang had split up and were begging for money or cigarettes. Alone, they were invisible or abused; together, with the dogs as their messengers and the Brothers as their
Her feet hurt, her back ached, and all she wanted was to get home and rest. The noise in the street had gone up a level; the schools were out, and teenagers from the local Academy swarmed around her. Locked into their world, their interest in each other disguised as mock fights or insults, she was invisible to them, an obstacle they avoided but didn’t acknowledge. Groups of boys huddled together, pretending not to notice the girls that sashayed past them. All of them held their phones as if they were passes to the VIP lounge in a member’s only club. Angie wanted a new phone. They’d argued about it last night. Remembering their argument drove any speculation about the man out of her
‘How was school?’ How feeble, how idiotic she sounded; Jen waited for the sarcasm.
‘How do you think it was? It’s school.’
Jen left. She didn’t have the energy for another argument, not tonight; tonight she wanted to kick of her shoes and watch something mind numbing on the television. Back in the kitchen, she started to make herself a sandwich, then opened a bottle of wine instead, took it through to the sitting room and turned on the television. The six o’clock news was over; it was officially night-time, her drinking time, and she poured herself a glass.
She woke dry mouthed and sweating. The television was blaring away in the corner, and she switched it off. On her way to bed, she looked in on Angie. Even asleep, she looked guarded, her knees drawn up, her forearms crossed over her chest, her hands gripping her shoulders. The supper plate was on the floor by the bed. Jen was too relieved she’d eaten the meal to worry about a dirty plate. Fussy eating was fashionable at her school; half her class swore they were wheat intolerant. She groped under the bed and retrieved a mug and a knife and