‘Long as yi know, we’re here fur witever, son,’ Big Kenzie says quietly.

‘Know wit yees kin dae?’

‘Anyhin, fuck sake, mate,’ Danny says fae the back.

‘Go n git a big dirty Chinese munchy box bought, a bottle ae fuckin wine each n a box ae cans.’

Big Kenzie laughs n shakes his heed. ‘Aye fuck, A think we kin manage that, son.’

‘Long as yees come back tae ma bit n get on-it wae us. That hoose is too fuckin quiet without ma da bouncin aff every wall fuckin mad-wae-it.’

We aw laugh this time. Our laugh is an obligatory wan oot ae sympathy. Broonie’s is that laugh that is fundamental tae survival. A think he’ll be awright. It isnae a certainty, just a feelin. If anycunt is conditioned tae deal wae this madness, it’s Broonie. None ae us wid make it without our homes n the safety net ae our maws tae fall back on. Broonie’s skin is armour-plated thick, tough-made n borne oot ae struggle. Survival expert since the age ae five. Bear Grylls doesnae huv a fuckin look in.

An Ancient Ritual

We’re drunk but fuelled by some unseen force, misery n release once again. Me n Danny walked doon the woods wae a bottle ae wine each. The trees ir still full n green n the fields ir dry but the eld log we used tae sit on is rotted away tae nuhin. Yi kin see the remnants ae a hundred fires that hud burnt around it. There’s still eld melted wheelie bins lyin in solid pools, but the soil hus claimed them n started tae form a layer over the top. There’s broken green glass n the strewn yellow labels ae Buckfast bottles fae recent young teams. These woods ir full ae memories ae the madness. Suhin aboot this wee space makes us choke somewhere deep doon inside fur a joint ae solid n a few Reef or Sidekicks or Red Square tae go wae a bottle ae Tonic – tae go back n dae it aw again, but yi cannae go back, kin yi? There’s nae mad plans n adventures like years ago, nae troops n nae bottles doon the field or the bridge. Nae fires n glowin embers beatin the last light n us aw sittin smokin joints roon it in our ancient ritual. The end ae summer always hus a poignant feelin tae it.

‘Everyhin’s fucked up,’ A say hopelessly.

‘A know it is.’

‘Everycunt’s away noo, Danny. Dain their own things. Forgettin aboot each other.’

‘Mate, that’s wit happens, fuck sake. Yi think we kin aw just jump aboot the-gither shoutin fuckin Young Team our full lives? Obviously no, fuck sake.’

The two ae us take a drink ae our wine.

‘Everycunt hus literally fucked right aff! Addison’s guyed it! Wee Broonie is keepin his heed doon, Toni’s deid, fuckin Finnegan is fuck knows where n then there’s us two fannies,’ A say.

‘Wit aboot us two?’

‘Well, we’re fuckin twenty-wan, sittin drinkin wine doon the woods like a couple ae fuckin teenagers.’