‘Danny, it’s aw good, bro. A’ve been there.’

‘It just crept up on us, cuz, n before A fuckin knew it A couldnae git oot ma bed or git washed or nuhin.’

‘It’s they fuckin blues, mate. Just cos they’re prescription doesn’t mean they’re no dangerous. They fuck yir barnet right up!’

‘Aw tell me aboot it, man. It’s the fuckin dope anaw. You know how bad it is wae aw they panic attacks n aw that.’

‘A know, mate. A’ve no took anyhin fur years.’

A tell Danny aboot Stevie Broon n aboot somecunt smashin ma maw’s windae. We both look momentarily depressed. ‘Fuck me, man. Poor Broonie. He’s gonnae want tae kill cunts. Any fuckin good news fur me?’

‘A know, mate. Good news is hard tae find aboot here. A’ve been back seein Monica. Dis that count?’

‘You love hur, mate. Don’t even try tae deny it!’

‘A heavy like hur—’

‘Phfftt! Yi love hur, Casanova. Love, no fuckin like.’

‘Aye, calm it!’

‘Sure your mad love life wull sort itself oot as always. A just cannae believe aboot Broonie, man, honestly. A wid be wantin tae kill cunts anaw. A don’t think A could dae nuhin.’

‘Wit’s that gonnae achieve, mate? Broonie wull end up deid anaw. Don’t encourage him.’ That bull needed nae red rag.

‘True.’

A say ma cheerios n Brian n Maria wave tae me fae the livin room. They look instantly younger n more alive themselves as they wave n shout ‘Cheerio, Alan son!’ His maw mouths a thank you! Yi didnae suffer alone. Yi dragged yir eld folks right through the mud wae yi.

A hear somecunt whistlin up the street when A’m walkin back tae the motor. Two cunts swagger over the road wae their hoods up. ‘Happnin!’ A shout n try tae see who it is. A git that wee wave ae paranoia n A grab ma Clipper in ma fist. A relax when A see it’s Gunny n Wee Briggy. A huvnae seen Briggy since A came back up the road. ‘Happnin, lads.’

‘Awright, Azzy,’ Gunny says.

‘Wit’s fuckin happnin, Big Azzy? Long time no see!’

‘A know, kid. Fuckin years int it! Wit’s been happnin?’

‘Awk no much, big man. A’m no workin or that yit. Couldnae git an apprenticeship.’

Briggy wis only a wee guy at sixteen when A left. He must be nineteen noo. He isnae a wee boy anymore either, like the rest ae them. He’s filled oot n his voice hus changed. He’s lookin a wee bit rough roon the edges but, kicked-in trainers n still wae a tracky on. Gunny’s git a pair ae jeans n a Henri Lloyd jumper on. Far as A know, he’s been runnin aboot wae Kenzie sellin shit, a wee enforcer fur that pussy bastard. Briggy’s probably the one buyin it n runnin aboot skint. ‘Fuck sake. Where yees aff tae anyway?’

‘Headin doon the street if yir no dain nuhin?’ Gunny says.

‘Aye, A’ll gee yees a run.’