‘Wit wis he dain wae that fuckin prick?’

‘He’s sharin a run wae him – fur Maynard.’

‘So fuck, obviously he’s a wee fuckin snake. That doesn’t mean he set Broonie up. Business, int it? Cunts ir apolitical when it comes tae drugs n makin money.’

‘A asked him, Tam.’

‘N wit did he say?’

‘He fuckin as good as admitted it. The cunt laughed n telt me it wis Broonie’s fault anyway n that he tanned ma fuckin maw’s windae. A punched fuck oot him and that Wee Gunny. Then Matty whipped a blade on us n chased us. They wur fuckin backin him up n stood n done nuhin.’ Big Kenzie’s growlin the heed aff me. He’s git the fuckin dragon nostrils n his anger is cravin oxygen. Danny hus been subtly edgin back in his seat in case the big man started swingin fur me.

‘Huv yi told Broonie?’ Danny asks.

‘Naw.’

‘How no?’ Big Kenzie asks.

‘Cos A wanted tae tell yooz first. Broonie’s heed is fucked – he’ll want tae murder your fuckin brother so A thought it wis better yi heard it fae me first. Obviously Broonie brought aw these troubles tae his own door, but your brur completely fucked him n aw tae share a stinkin run wae fuckin Matty O’Connor!’

‘Azzy, you don’t need tae tell me, son.’

‘Should we even tell Broonie?’ Danny asks.

‘Mate, it’s no fur any us tae decide wit Broonie can n cannae hear. A’ll go n tell him that John’s no gonnae git let away wae it. He’s no gonnae do ma fuckin brother in either, but A’ll let him dance aw over the wee cunt’s fuckin heed cos that’s wit he deserves!’

‘Fair doos.’

‘A knew John wis a wee serpent but A never thought he wid dae this. He didnae know eld Stevie wis gonnae git hurt but he should ae fuckin realised that they wid go lookin fur Broonie n somebody wis gonnae get it.’

The three ae us drive tae Broonie’s bit. We stop fur fags n beer on the way n none ae us ir lookin forward tae wit’s comin. Mare flowers n cards huv appeared n ir tied tae the fence wae string. Nuhin’s changed aboot the hoose. The curtains ir still drawn n there’s that mandatory darkness aboot it. The other windaes on the street ir flung open in the late summer warmth. Broonie’s hoose itself is in mournin. A head in the gate first n the troops follow me in. The front door is open n A walk in shoutin tae Broonie that it’s us. The telly is still on, mutterin a lament in the corner. Broonie is sittin on the armchair wae a cover fucked roon him like a monk’s cowel. There’s an empty bottle ae wine lyin n a half-ate Chinese – Broonie’s usual chicken baws, curry sauce n chips. He’s picked at it n fucked it doon, leavin a tidal wave ae the thick yellow shite spilled on the eld carpet.