A wake up para fae the night before. A hud fuckin lost it. Smashin Matty wis a natural reaction but headerin his burd wis too far, even if she wis tryin tae set aboot us. We dished oot violence fur violence without blinkin, but cunts who huv nae limits otherwise, huv high morals when it comes tae certain things. Cunts in the jail fur hittin wumen ir labelled ‘beasts’, same as paedos n predators n cunts who hurt weans. It’s a dirty term n it’s comin. A never really stopped tae feel bad aboot any it, cos it’s just the way things ir aboot here. We exist within a culture ae violence. If yi dished it oot this time, yi would end up on the receivin end next time. Involvin somecunt’s burd is aw sorts ae bad news but. If yi crossed that line, yi wur fair game fur anyhin. Nae calls or texts yit but A’m sure it’s gonnae come. A’m constantly on edge, half expectin ma maw’s windaes tae come through or the door tae git booted aff its bronze hinges. A’m huvin fits ae mad paranoia aboot the million n wan ways ma ain demise wid come. A kin see green wine bottle shards gittin stuck in ma neck n me bleedin oot as the latest trainers kick ma heed in. A see cold flashes ae kitchen knives n lock-backs piercin ma body n young Azzy dyin in a frantic scrabble n confusion. How wid it come n how long wull they mourn me? A cannae justify it tae maself this time, even in revenge. A’ve gone too far.

Everycunt is takin Toffey’s death bad. Naecunt hus been on the computer talkin as usual. The Orange Hall hus been empty n cunts seem tae be keepin the heeds doon. Everycunt’s maw n da wid be worryin like fuck n keepin them in. Ma ain maw looks as if she’s aged another five year since Tam n Monica brought me home that night. A sat in the shower fur hours listenin tae the water runnin doon the drain then fillin the bath n emptyin it again. A did this until there wis nae hot water left in the taps n A wis lyin in a cold bath, wrinkled tae fuck n shiverin.

The door gits chapped n A dive up n grab ma baseball bat n clutch it. A’m creepin doon the stairs still wae a fag stuck between ma lips. The nicotine n smoke burn ma nose n eyes n ma pulse is poundin in ma temples. ‘Aye?’ A shout fae the other side ae the closed door. ‘Alan? Is that you?’ an unusual voice asks. A’m peekin through the letter box. A see a pair ae smart brown shoes n navy trousers. Ma first thought is it’s the polis n A go tae run. Maybe A’ve git a warrant oot fur smashin Matty n his burd. If that’s the case, then A’ve broken ma bail conditions n A’m goin straight tae Polmont or Addiwell on remand. If it’s the polis, A’m oot the back door n over ma neighbour’s fence, then Tijuana, Mexico.