‘Happnin … mate.’

‘Fuck aw, son. Big Kenzie n Danny ir here tae see yi.’

‘Aw, cheers, lads.’

Tam struts in n sits doon on the couch opposite Broonie. Danny is hoverin aboot somewhere behind him. ‘Sit doon Danny, fuck sake!’ Tam says, shakin his heed. A start pickin shit up aff the floor, scoopin up the remnants ae the takeaway intae the bag n Broonie’s fag dout mountain aff the black carpet, ma mother’s son. A take the bag intae the kitchen n fuck it in the bin n grab an eld cloth tae wipe the carpet. Broonie looks fuckin dazed. ‘Crack they fuckin beer oot, Azzy.’ Big Kenzie shouts through tae the kitchen.

A rip the slab open n start handin cans ae Tennent’s oot. They’re warm but they wid dae under the circumstances. We aw light a fag n n crack cans wae the usual fizz n spit, then wait n listen. ‘How yi hoddin up, son?’ Big Kenzie asks. Broonie doesnae answer. Big Kenzie crumples his smoke in two draws. The cunt always smoked hard. He skuds his beer n sits right in front ae Broonie n puts his arm roon him. He lights a couple ae fags in his mooth n gees Broonie wan. ‘Dae yi know who set yi up, son?’ he asks through the smoke.

Broonie barely even looks at Tam, no breakin his somber meditation. ‘Naw.’

‘It wis ma wee brother.’

In fur a fuckin penny.

‘How dae yi know that?’

‘Cos Azzy wis fightin wae him yesterday n he’s runnin aboot wae that fuckin Matty O’Connor.’

‘Why wid he set me up but?’

‘Cos he’s a greedy little prick, mate. They’re workin fur Jamesy Maynard noo.’

‘Cannae believe that. Azzy … ma main man. This cunt’s always in aboot it fur the troops, fur Wee Toffey. Yi awright?’

A smile over at Broonie n wink. ‘Dae A look awright?’

He gees us a half-smile back. ‘No a fuckin mark on yi.’

Big Kenzie nods n hugs the cunt. ‘Exactly, son. That’s who the fuck we ir – we’re the fuckin YTP. So, here’s wit’s gonnae happen—’

‘A cannae let this lie, mate.’

‘Don’t worry aboot ma wee brother – you leave him tae me. There’s bigger fish tae fry in aw this. He didnae hurt yir da.’

‘A hurt ma da, Tam. It wis me, ma fault. Nae cunt else.’

Danny gees Big Kenzie another beer n it goes doon in two drinks again, he stubs his fag oot n puts the dout in the can. ‘So fuck. You didnae kill him. That wis them. It wisnae you n it wisnae John. The two ae yees ir daft wee fuckin boys. It wis them who done it. They’re gangsters, Broonie, hardened fuckin criminals wae nae souls. Murderous fuckin bastards.’

‘A know that.’

‘Well then. If yi want tae git any cunt back then git them fuckin back.’

‘Wit we meanty dae against them, Tam?’ Danny says.

Big Kenzie’s git that eld look ae fuckin madness aboot him. Nae hesitation, pure loyalty tae yir pals n those boys who used tae call themselves the Young Team, but A cannae help think aboot a pregnant Michelle, waitin at home fur him. Or Broonie, beareaved n on the cusp ae violence. A believed in the troops n the code but A also believed in self-preservation, fur us aw, and the possibility of peace.