‘Depressed? Me? Nut. A’m luvin ma wee fuckin life! Danny Bhoy partyin aw the time on top non-stop, gees a fuckin yaaaldi!’

A cannae even laugh along wae the cunt n A’m no sure if he’s tryin tae be a dick or he’s just oot it. A light a smoke in silence n sit on his bed, lookin aboot me.

‘Welcooome tae peeerty central! Azzy fuckin bhoy, back in the mix two kay six, ya pricks! The number wan fuckin man, Alaaan de la Williams!’

This time A dae laugh n shake ma heed.

‘Wit you laughin it, haaard maaan?’

A wait tae see if he’s serious. His heed is doon n he’s growlin over at us. ‘You, ya fuckin nugget! Look the nick ae yi! Lyin in this dump fuckin talkin a power ae shite. Yir tuned tae the moon, ya cunt.’ The cunt looks at me, aw vacant, n blinks. Noo genuinely offended, instead ae the big man routine.

‘Well excuuuse meee! Tryin tae git a weee fuckin perty wae the boys!’

‘Wit boys, ya maddy? Yir sittin here melted oot yir fuckin nut on grass n blues n cans, depressed oot yir scone!’

Danny seems tae chew on this a minute. Poutin his lips n blinkin away. He isnae even fuckin on this planet. The cunt’s hand goes tae another strip n starts a fidgetin wae the wee pills.

‘Want me tae git that fur yi?’

‘Thaaat wouuuld be lovely.’

A lift the strip aff the floor where he’s dropped it n throw it right in the bin. It hits aboot ten empty beer tins n piles ae used tissues n bounces ontae the floor.

‘Cluuumsy bastert!’ Danny reaches doon tae pick up the pills n decks it right aff the seat n knocks the bin flyin. There’s a knickerbocker glory ae fag n joint douts, empty cans ae lager n balled-up hankies spillin aw over the boggin laminate. Danny is lyin among it aw laughin n mincing his curses.

‘Fuck sake, son. Let us help yi up.’

‘NAAAW!’

A sit back on the bed n light another fag. Danny’s still huntin fur his lost strip ae diazepam among the rubbish. A see it lyin n pick it up n stick it in his hand.

‘Awww cheeers, Alan son.’

‘Wit’s fuckin happnin, Danny mate? Wit huv yi pushed the button fur? How kin A fuckin help yi?’

‘Yi cannae heeelp me, son. A’m fucked.’

‘Naw yir no. Yir just huvin a hard time the noo. Things wull git better, mate. A’ll help yi git aff the blues n git yirsel up on yir fuckin feet again.’

Danny’s sittin cross-legged among the mess. ‘A thought you hated me, eld son.’

‘A never fuckin hated yi. A wis just angry cos Wee Toffey.’

‘Thaaat wisnae ma fauult.’

‘A know. A’m sorry. A shouldnae huv lost it at yi. Furget it, mate.’

Different Paths

Addison heard A wis back n texts while A’m sittin in ma maw’s. He tells me he’s gonnae come roon n say awright. A bounce oot n light a fag n wait fur the cunt. He flies roon the corner n pulls up in a new reg, silver BMW 320i coupe, a fuckin beaut. A’m drivin a black Mark IV Golf GT TDI, but an 03 plate wae ninety thousand on the clock. He’s his usual trendy self in a black knitted jumper wae styled hair n designer stubble. There’s a tall blonde sittin next tae him wae hur chin up smokin a Marlboro Gold oot the windae. Paul gees me a quick look, up n doon, tae check wit A’m wearin, in case A embarrass him in front ae his new burd. Guilt by association, warrant oot fae the fuckin fashion polis.