‘Finnegan?’

‘Yes, Alan.’

‘How?’

‘Because Toni-Marie has killed herself and Stephen is missing. They’re asking to see you right now. Get up n put some clothes on.’

Ma heed’s fuckin racin n A think fur a minute this is just wan ae the periodic nightmares creepin intae a lucid dream. It isnae tae be, no this time. A drag extra hard on the smoke. This is not a drill, the stress hormones in ma mind scream as A feel panicky n regret lightin the second fag. A try tae keep focused on suhin, so A don’t lose it but A git that overwhelmin feelin when yi hear bad news. Pure evil washin over yi n makin yi feel nuhin but dread. A’ve felt that feelin before. It’s shock hittin the emotional seawall deep within us. These knocks desensitise yi tae misery, each wan makin yi stronger n more resilient n acceptin ae the next, but robbin yi each time ae a precious piece ae yir humanity and future happiness.

‘Overdose?’

‘She’s hung herself. Now get up n talk to Connor and Joanne.’

‘Fuck me, two minutes.’

‘UP!’

A stand up wae the fag between ma lips n hunt fur a pair ae trackies n a tap tae pull on. There’s a bottle ae water lyin by ma bed n A tan it, tryin tae separate ma lips fae each other before A go doon n face these cunts. A’m takin a last couple ae draws oot the fag n stubbin it. A bounce doon the stairs tryin tae sort ma fuckin bed heed oot n rubbin the sleep fae ma eyes. A’ve git a wee panicky feelin in ma chest but A’m tryin tae keep it doon below. Times like these yi huv tae be strong n A say a wee silent prayer tae God tae gee me the strength fur this shite. Ma faith is buried deep within us but A only flirt wae the notion ae a divine power at Christmas n maybe at Easter anaw. A think in passin A dae believe, cos this evil isnae random. It’s concentrated among cunts fae bad areas in their daily struggle n additional sufferings. Days like this, faith is aw yi huv tae cling tae, wae fingernails if necessary. Yi couldnae dae this alone.

There’s a mad atmosphere when visitors ir in yir hoose. Ma maw’s runnin aboot makin tea n bringin plates ae biscuits n shite – hostess wae the mostest. There’s nae script ae how tae deal wae this shite, fur any us. ‘How yi doin, Alan son,’ Connor Finnegan says fae the couch. Joanne is wrapped around him. She looks white as a sheet, pure para in case suhin’s happened tae hur boy as well as his burd. A bad omen ae things tae come. It feels that way.

‘No bad. Sorry tae hear aboot Wee Toni. Cannae believe that.’

Joanne doesn’t even look at me. She’s just starin intae a corner, knowin hur life will never be the same in some way. Maybe she’s startin tae regret chuckin Finnegan oot cos he wis usin, instead ae rallyin roon him n supportin him. Their high morals maybe less important noo their boy is missin n his girlfriend is dead.