Losing noise and wanting the fuck away from it all as quick as she can. The building is bent over, looking down at her – it’s as giant as she is tiny. Around this part of the High Street, all the other buildings stand proud while No. 10 Luckenbooth Close bows to the city – ingratiates itself. What self-respecting building would ever do that? Dot understands how tiring it is to straighten a spine. Hers is twisted. The building does not stand up like a time-lord that houses the souls of humans. It is curving over. Subordinance is not for architecture. It’s not remotely safe. The housing association have put scaffolding halfway to the sixth floor. A sign reading ‘JMB Scaffold’ flaps.

It sounds like someone clapping sarcastically.

Dot glances back up the street just as the wood gives under the weight of her shoulder and allows her several inches to slip into the dim. So grateful they’ve not put a metal door on the front yet. She has been squatting here peacefully for five months and she cannot leave. Dot pulls the door shut behind her. She stands listening. Lights flicker. The building’s batteries are almost fully drained. No. 10 Luckenbooth Close is breathing its last shallow breaths.

It might not make morning.

Pulls her beanie further down. She takes out a long kitchen knife. Begins the ascent. This building has the feeling of Penrose stairs. Walking up could just as easily be walking down. After a while it is hard to tell. It’s a long climb to the ninth floor. Someone has spray-painted an alien on the second floor. There are notices everywhere. For the housing association tenants. About when they would be evicted. No attention paid to health and safety. Hope Housing Association is run by psychopaths. Much like the city council. Somehow, in amongst all of that, the building has been calling out to her.

Dot stops and pulls out a roll-up.

Liquorice papers.

Her hair is on top of her head in a bun.

Her nails are painted black.

Polo neck.

Jeans.

Hi-top sneakers.

Touch of mascara, lip gloss – it is Hogmanay after all.

Eyes bleary – she is still coming down from clubbing in the Vaults yesterday. There was an amazing guest DJ over from Berlin. Techno and proper MDMA – like the early nineties. All the Sativa Drummers were battering skins. Those drummers push back at the demons. A fleeting sense of intense belonging – that she has never once felt on the street. A pure touch of love in that room.