‘Just this week, cuz.’

‘Walkin doon n bang intae our Azzy Williams n aw that … ma eld mucka fae the Young Team. Magin that, eh Toni?’

‘Aye, son, magin that,’ Toni says, emotionless n starin somewhere in the distance.

‘Anyways … wit you two been uptay?’

It feels like a daft question. A kin see just by lookin at the state ae them wit they hud been uptay. They’re in an industrial decline. A couldnae imagine wit Connor n Joanne Finnegan must be feelin. His da is a master butcher n hud always worked n brought in the bacon, literally. His maw worked in a shoe shop down the street – steady folk, workers. It wis nae real reflection on the parents, the lives we chose fur ourselves.

‘Nuhin … much … man …’

‘Yees workin?’

They both just look blankly at one another n turn tae me n shrug, like work is already a foreign concept.

‘Cool … yees headin up the road?’

‘Aye, man … The real reason A came over was just tae ask yi … wee len ae a couple ae quid fur the bus … n fur a packet ae fag papers n Bluebells.’

‘Skins, matches n yir bus fare?’

‘Aye.’

‘A pouch ae Amber Leaf anaw, if yir flush, Azzy big pal,’ Toni says.

A cannae help shakin ma heed a wee bit.

‘Fuck sake, man … we wur doon fur a crisis loan on Friday … n we git refused …’

‘Fuckin refused,’ Toni echoes.

‘Aye … man … we’ve nae money,’ Finnegan says.

‘Huv yees no?’

‘Naw … man … well … kin yi sort us oot?’

‘A’ll gee yees a run up the road if yi want?’

‘Aww … fuck sake … man … wit a gentleman … eh, Toni?’

She’s starin at the side of the building, ponderin the infinite mysteries ae rough casting noo, n doesnae answer. ‘Mon then,’ A say, almost regrettin ma offer.

The three ae us walk over tae the motor. Me n Finnegan jump in the front. Toni slides intae the back. A’m aff n rollin within two seconds. These two cunts ir depressin the life oot ae me. A don’t even feel like A kin indulge in the same brutal honesty like wae Danny. His ailment is more along the lines ae an extended downer, tryin tae dig himself oot a downturn wae drink n drugs. Wae these two, it’s almost cruel tae point out their condition. ‘How’s yir maw n that, Finnegan?’

‘Dunno.’

‘How dae yi no know?’

‘Cos … we don’t talk tae … them.’

‘That’s a shame, man. Yir maw’s always yir maw n that, mate.’

‘Fuck them.’

Both ae them ir starin oot the windae. A reach the shop n stop.

‘Sure yees ir awright?’

‘Aye … man … we’ll be fine.’

‘Here’s twenty quid, mate. It’s aw A’ve got. Git yirsels sorted oot, fuck sake. Stop takin blues n runnin aboot wae fuckin junky undesirables.’

‘Aye, nae bother … mate.’