A dream back tae the days wae us aw oot roon a wee fire wae bottles n the troops aw there. That wis the start ae aw this, but suhin hus changed n gone sour along the way. Wit happened tae aw ma eld pals, the wans who used tae mean suhin? Wit promises did the next stage ae life offer? Tae keep goin doon this road tae nowhere, a deeper darkenin ae everyhin that hud come before? Tae git a scheme burd pregnant and doom yir weans tae the same inescapable cycle ae degradation, acceptance and repetition? A don’t want that, A know that noo. A’m trapped n forced in these useful moments ae incarceration tae dwell on aw this, tae think it aw through n confront that persistent self that awaits yi, when the colour n noise ae the madness ceases n yi start tae see the truth. A look at the graffiti ae ghosts scratched intae the walls n mourn, thinkin aboot Monica, if she could see me noo. Cos she’s probably on a night oot wae Dominic in Glesga – Merchant Square or Ashton Lane – gittin food n drinks n dressed-up nice. Here A’m ir, sittin wae ma white cotton socks, turned black, in a cell like a condemned man, awaitin his fate. A take the red pill ae awakenin n there’s nae goin back, cos once yi wake up, yi kin see it everywhere n it’s obvious. There’s nae light at the end ae this tunnel. Ma thoughts ae freedom ir ironic, sayin they’re comin straight fae a Strathclyde Police custody suite in Coatbrig polis station.

Twenty-six hours later, the black door opens n A’m handed ma trainers. Big Kenzie is waitin in the reception fur me. We’re given our pink slips n turfed oot without our jakits, which huv been confiscated fur evidence, in case we plead not guilty at our diet. Wae CCTV n aboot twenty witnesses, it wid be a quick day in court, guilty wae nae discount. It’s fucked. We walk oot intae the brisk March night n head fur home. Our phones ir dead n there’s nae bus fae here so we’re walkin up the road. Tam looks a bit guilty. ‘A’m sorry, mate. A know you didnae need that pish. A feel shite aboot it.’

‘Don’t worry aboot it. It’s just wan ae they things.’

‘A know, mate. Yi didnae deserve aw that, especially wae yir troubles awready n tryin tae sort yirsel oot.’

‘Wit kin yi dae, mate. A know yi wur ragin.’

‘Fuckin gutted. Imagin it wis your best mate, sittin there jaggin. Like Danny or that. You’d fly aff the fuckin handle anaw. A seen red, cuz.’

‘Don’t sweat it, big yin. Club fur a pint?’

‘Aye fuck. Nuhin else fur it.’

Yi kin only see snow on the highest peaks ae the hills noo, the faint outline ae white in the darkenin skyline. They’re always here lookin over yi. Yi wid never be lost, as long as yi huv them tae use as a reference point, like a guidin star. They disappear every night, but come back wae the sun risin in the opposite direction towards the east n Edinburgh. In an hour the sun will disappear behind them, the Campsies formin a black silhouette against the sky tae the north-west. The roads huv grown quiet n settled doon fur the evenin. Only a few motors huv passed us n we walk alone n unperturbed.