A cut through a bush n up ontae the eld stone path. It hits us as A’m walkin in the same woods n A shudder thinkin aboot it aw. Every generation hus a story where a young wan’s wandered doon here n ended up hangin themselves. A cannae picture that state, the fuckin clinical plannin n the mentality required. Goin n actually gittin a rope n thinkin, A’m gonnae put this roon ma neck n jump. It makes us sick tae think aboot it n just the practicalities ae actually dain it, the horror ae it. Every other week yi heard ae young folk killin themsels aboot here. The big flats doon Coatbridge hud seen aboot five cunts jump oot the high-rise windaes, just next tae McDonald’s. That wis their last sight. The eld red brick job centre n McDonald’s roof, the Jackson Barrier then oblivion. A feel empty as A walk on, pickin up pace towards the Mansion.

A walk through the eld courtyard towards the buildings. The hoose is half knocked doon noo, the start ae a long-rumoured demolition fur flats tae supposedly replace it. The barn n the stables n the arch wae the room wae nae window ir aw still standin. The rain is pishin doon the eld slate tiles on the stable’s roof. A head towards the door. It’s still got the eld trampled filing cabinet lyin blockin the corridor. A step over it wae a crunch underfoot ae broken glass n litter. A kin hear a gentle sobbin. There’s a bottle ae vodka sittin half-full on the floor in the middle ae the room. The floor is aw black wae ash n there’s rubble lyin that’s fallen fae the roof. A’m lookin aboot tryin tae see where it’s comin fae, a barely audible whimper, like a wounded animal. A step intae the stable block n look up the aisle. Nuhin. Just ma name, painted in red n flakin aff the white-emulsioned wall wae damp n time.

A look intae the first pen. Finnegan’s lyin in a heap wae a rope around his neck. A rush over tae see if he’s awright. He’s wailin, blind drunk n soakin fae lyin in a puddle beneath him. A swallow hard as A see the poorly tied noose roon his neck. A follow it up. He hud tied the rope tae the eld wooden banister ae the balcony above n jumped. The rotted banister hud snapped in two by fate, woodworm or the grace ae God. Instead ae oblivion, Finnegan’s dropped n sprained both his ankles. Who knows how long he’s been lyin here. A don’t think he even knows it’s me when A’m liftin him up. He’s just greetin n wailin senseless rubbish. There there, mate, yir gonnae be awright, A’m sayin tae him without conviction. He’s tryin tae sit doon, still steamin, n wid rather be left tae lie on the soakin ground. We’re oot the front noo, headin fur the main road. A polis wuman runs doon the path wae another guy polis. Finnegan falls n A’m shoutin fur help. Both ae them come runnin n she’s on the deck talkin tae him in his ear.