‘Aw A know, Tam. A’m done noo mate. No runnin aboot anymare.’

‘It’ll blow over eventually, kid. Git that brief away n pay yir debt. It’s yir only chance at no gettin a dooin.’

The three ae us share a deflated look. There isnae much left tae say the night. A hud wan more thing tae say, but A’m hoddin aff. A huvnae furgot aboot Wee Kenzie’s meetin wae Jamesy Maynard. John wis always a parasite, hangin on tae other people fur protection n fame. First, it wis Big Tam, then Danny when they wur runnin aboot n finally it wis Broonie. That’s the way he survives aboot here. When things go wrong he’s always stood scratchin his heed n the other cunt is left tae take the derry. The older we got the less A liked him. A think we’re well up on our opinions ae each other. A cannae take the cunt seriously. He’s a fuckin cardboard cut-oot bad guy. Kenzie acts mental in front ae aw the wee guys, who take it on a spoon. He wis probably beggin fur a run, desperate fur a spot at the bottom ae Jamesy Maynard’s empire. It aw stacked up but there wis nae hard proof, other than me seein them the-gither – that wis proof enough fur me.

It’s dark before ten noo – the summer seems tae be slippin away fae us awready. A’m drivin Broonie back doon tae his bit. He took the Audi aff the road n hid it up at Tam’s hoose up the tap end. It wid be the first thing somecunt wid look fur tae smash up if they couldnae git him. He isnae dain his usual runnin aboot so he’s completely skint. If somebody took the liberty ae bouncin aw over the roof or takin a sledgehammer tae the back panels, the motor wid be a write-aff n he wid lose his final bargainin chip. We pull intae Broonie’s street. There’s blue lights comin fae the far end. A pull the motor in behind a parked car. There’s a polis motor parked n an ambulance in front ae it. ‘Wit yi think they’re dain here?’

‘Fuck knows, mate.’

‘Wull A pull doon a bit?’

‘Aye.’

A edge oot, past a row ae parked cars, n roll the motor forwards. There’s a polisman oot wavin me intae the side. ‘We’re pult, Broonie! You git anyhin on yi?’

‘Naw, mate.’

A pull over tae the pavement n slide the windae doon. The polis walks up n looks in the windae wae a torch. ‘Where you been tonight, boys?’

‘Sittin in ma bit. That’s ma mate’s hoose.’

‘Yi better come with me, son.’

Broonie’s rippin aff the seatbelt n bouncin oot the door. A’m dain the same n runnin after him. ‘WIT’S HAPPENED?’ he’s shoutin noo. He’s runnin up n pushin by the polis. Two ae them ir tryin tae grab him n A’m tryin tae pull him back before he whacks wan ae them. Broonie is a big cunt noo n no easy tae hold back.