Fur Paul Addison, it wid likely be back tae his sheltered existence. He wid dae well n move on n forget, largely unscathed fae his experiences, cos they wur almost aw second-hand. Maybe that’s how he always hus a nice-lookin burd, n how he kin dae shit wae hur like go tae the pictures n even on holiday n that on his own. He looks different, Paul. It isnae just through money, even though his family hus plenty. It’s his attitude that’s different. How he wid spend his money in the town on clothes rather than on a quarter ae green or a gram ae gear, but wid happily smoke a joint or sniff a line ae yours. His styled hair n soft features scream metro compared tae somecunt like Big Kenzie, who’s aw rough worky charm. In recent months, A hud barely spoke tae Addison. He wid still oblige yi a chat n promise tae gee yi a phone, but it wid never come. We’re friends by name only noo, when we call each other mate there’s nae conviction in it. It’s just a throwaway word yi use cos yi used tae use it.

Danny Stevenson hus always been ma best pal growin up. There’s always that familiarity between us, even though we’ve drifted in recent years. He’s still that wee boy A knew sittin in his granny Agnes’s bit. We’ve been through it aw the-gither, right fae the start. Stealin drink oot our maws’ cabinets tae git our first spinny heads, goin n meetin our first burds the-gither. Aw that shit that meant suhin, cos it’s made yi who yi ir. Those first summers seem tae be aw A kin take away fae it, the only positive. Maybe even those memories ir rose-tinted. Our lot is suhin simple, there’s nuhin glamorous tae it. Nane ae us ir rich, our parents manage n provide fur us. We stay in no bad hooses n ir taken care ae. Plenty huv it a lot worse on the same streets. We’re lucky fur that. Poverty isnae part ae our story. Folk like Broonie huv nae choice in the matter. He wid plod on as always wae his da in tow, dain the best he kin wae the little he hus.

When A sit n think ae the boys A feel down. A know they’ll still be there livin that life ae ours tae the usual beat. The routine is a sort ae perfect symmetry wae the past, present n future. There’s nuhin really definitive tae any these parts ae yir life here, bar age n the passin ae days. Strangely, even wae these daft routines filled wae nuhin but drink n drugs, time seemed tae fly. There’s nuhin different goin on tae separate the days, weeks n months that drift by n time gits away fae yi. Our teenage years passed in a blur, pleasure tae pleasure n the bad times that inevitably follow. Hangin on desperately tae memories ae when it wis good, n stuck wae the damage we’ve done tae ourselves. It’s ironic really. The more yi chase the buzz, the less yi find it. The real taste ae these pleasures become suhin more n more elusive n forgotten n yi find yirsel trapped in a cycle ae constant need n yearnin fur escape, seekin release but findin only oblivion.