‘A dunno who fuckin done it.’

‘Aye, but you know who’s after you, n that’s a start.’

‘A’ve nobody after me.’

‘Well, that’s a debate between you n your conscience, isn’t it?’

‘We’ll drop you at the hospital and you can think aboot it.’

They drop us at the front door n drive away without another word. A kin see the pain on Broonie’s face. The polis’ words cut him tae the fuckin bone. There’s nae such thing as justice, no really. Only polis n courts n jails n workin class cunts who git caught. They’re just tae keep the place lookin tidy, so the real criminals that wear suits n run the country kin keep their second homes in London, go a few holidays a year n make sure their kids kin ski n that. Families would be at court, smokin nervously outside, n there’s always a usual-suspects line-up ae dodgy cunts who knew each other n bams yi know fae school, mullin aboot. They wait n wait, while well-paid law graduates, who kin ski fairly well, float aboot supercilious as fuck in their long black robes. The polis, the agents ae the law, ir there tae protect the lawmakers n tell other cunts tae keep the fuckin noise doon. The rich n successful n the brightest exam-passers judge the poor n the wretched n the furgotten who seem boorish n uncivilised, fit only tae be sent fur social reports n fined n sentenced n remanded in custody. Courts ir ritualistic as churches, arcane n ceremonial.

‘A cannae say nuhin tae them, Azzy. They just want the tally on their figures. A’m gonnae go in n find him, mate. Yi gonnae sit?’

‘Course, son.’

‘Cheers, mate. You’ve stuck by us through aw this fuckin shite.’

‘Broonie, YT boys fur life, cuz. Big Tam’s got yir back anaw.’

Broonie grabs me n hugs us before marchin away under the industrial halogen lightin ae the hospital. It’s always the same in the Monklands, aw fuckin pastel colours n cunts sittin burst open at the front seats ae A n E before yi git intae triage. A’m tired noo, fishin in ma jeans fur a couple ae quid tae stick in the vendin machine. The coffee wan is oot ae order, so A grab a couple ae bottles ae ginger fur us. Broonie’s through the other side but there’s a security door n yi need tae buzz tae enter. A’m sittin between a junky wae a broken arm in a sling n a boy wae a burst face. There’s a wee lassie across fae us in a gymnastics uniform wae an injury tae hur leg. She’s roarin greetin n hur maw is sittin strokin hur hair. Yi kin wait fur hours sittin here. There’s a wee red rotatin sign tellin yi that the average waitin time is two hours. Broonie comes walkin back oot. A kin see he’s holdin back tears. He holds the door fur me n A bounce up n head through tae the desk wae him. ‘How is he?’