‘He’s no dain so well.’

‘Naw?’ A swallow hard.

‘Unresponsive. They needty dae tests. He’s in the fuckin intensive care.’

We sit back in the waitin area. Broonie breaks doon. There’s nae front left, nae hard shell tae penetrate. He’s wailin unreservedly, lettin oot aw the pain. There’s wee nurses givin us sympathetic nods as they pass. ‘This isnae your fault, Shaun. You didnae make they fuckin animals come n dae this n if yi hud been there yi wid ae died defendin yir da.’ He’s sniffin n splutterin. There’s nuhin worse than a guy greetin. It’s fuckin true pain n cunts make an unholy wail fae deep inside them. A see everybody tryin no tae stare but it’s horrifyin n they cannae help look tae see where the awful noise is comin fae. Even the wee lassie in the leotard stops fur a minute tae look n hugs hur maw tighter.

‘What’s wrong with that man?’ she says, tryin tae whisper. Hur mum puts hur finger tae hur lips n tells the wean tae shhh n she goes quiet.

‘Just take it easy. He might pull through, son. He’s no away yit. He’s a tough eld cunt.’

‘A know, man.’ Broonie’s gone aw grey wae the shock ae it.

‘A’m sorry, mate. Here, there’s yir ginger.’

He sips at it like a wee laddie, reverted tae an infant sittin on the seats, swingin his legs n starin at the floor. The wilted frame ae Stevie Brown doesnae reassure. ‘Think he’s gonnae die, Azzy?’

‘A don’t know, son. A don’t think so.’

‘It’s been a bad wan but, int it?’

‘Aye, mate.’

Broonie’s shakin his heed. He’s preparin fur the worst. A know it anaw. As the shock subsides A start tae put the pieces the-gither. A couldnae share these thoughts wae Broonie but he knows it’s serious. Times like these, hope is just a defence mechanism against despair. We both know sittin here that it’s bad n as the hours drift by n intae nothingness it becomes more clear. A dunno wit time it is. Aw time drifts away fae me. Broonie crashes oot, system shut doon before reboot. His subconscious desperately tryin tae wake up fae this livin nightmare, tryin tae escape fae this reality. They say a guilty man sleeps easy. A don’t think Shaun Brown is guilty ae this. He is, again n as always, just another victim.

Ma pal looks peaceful but A cannae sleep. A feel older by the second sittin in these seats. Older n more weary, tae the extent that A feel like A might live oot the rest ae ma life here n die before A stand. Ma eyes ir poppin oot ma heed n ma skin becomes like the walls n floors in here, just dull pastels. Disinfectant n ammonia floatin up ma nose tae meet ma empty churnin stomach wae the gnawin pain again. A cannae transcend this reality wae dreams. There is nae future sittin in here, only the present that yir forced tae suffer. This is where it always ends, sittin in a fuckin magnolia room, waitin. The night, more inspiration fur bad dreams. It must be three or four in the mornin noo. There’s nae clock n ma phone’s died. A don’t want tae watch the clock anyway. Yi just huv tae sit these things oot, like a bad flight. Yi sit in yir fuckin seat n control yirsel, yir sore back, dry mouth n bangin heed, n be strong.