– Killed his girlfriend. She had a husband and a kid, it was a bad scene, Bill. She goes back to the husband so then the boyfriend kidnaps her back, drags her away on some hell car ride, and fucking kills her. Men, youz can be such absolute cunts.

Bill sits down next to Little Mama and takes his coat off.

Rolls up his sleeve.

As she cooks, candlelight hooks her nose and crags the caverns of her eyes.

Little Mama empties the needle into her vein.

Inhales deep.

The spoon is hot and ready – it glides toward Bill.

He drops his needle into the liquid.

– He killed her for going back to her husband?

– He killed her because he was a psychopath, there’s never any other reason than that.

– Sometimes there is.

– Aye, well, they hanged him in the new gallows. Two hundred people waited ootside. The thing is, Bill, and you know this – wealthy men make mistakes. Working-class men commit murder. Then they get hanged. Not as a deterrent tae murdering women, noh, they have little reason tae try and deter that – fear ay that and rape helps keep women in oor place, it’s why they hardly ever convict them firrit. They killed that man to warn the great unwashed – to warn other working-class men – watch yer fucking step ay. We can just fucking hang your kind!

– Excessive.

– Isn’t it?

– Yes, ma’am, it is by far. So, my precious, wonderfully dark Little Mama, why are you still wasting yourself on this place?

Bill gestures around.

– What am I gonnae do, ya great big arse? Be a poet? What wummin poets are you little Beat boys supporting?

He laughs, eyes crinkle.

Little Mama is the only woman Bill has ever met who relentlessly calls him out on his bullshit. There is something highly comforting in a woman seeing who you are – without judgement. Just saying how it is, and not compromising on clear sight. Little Mama is a warmth in the glow. They are in the place beyond. No usual constrictions on a human mind. Hours pass. Songs spin. Walls breathe. They cook. Spike. Nod.

– I can feel this building, Little Mama.

– Aye, ye will.

– Dangerous isn’t she?

– Aye, something in her history that gies me the creeps.

Little Mama points over to where an ancient workbench sits, above it there is a rusty double-toothed saw nailed to the wall.

– If only I could translate the language of an ancient building.

Little Mama shakes her finger at him in warning.

She is yellow.

Nods in lotus.

Eyes closed.

Bill gathers his coat, puts his hat back on, bows to her – unseen.

Up the stair, to the door of John’s rental place on the sixth floor.

Knock softly.

– I thought you’d never get back. Where’s the rolls?

Bill kisses him on the cheek.

– What a blessing is a barely dressed angel for a wretch like me, on days like these?