A’m thinkin aboot aw this shite walkin in the cold. The troops ir doon the street somewhere tryin tae git a cargo sorted after their day ae doggin it. A’m in, changed n trackied up n ready tae join the perty. Due tae a lack ae disposable funds, it’s either taxis both ways or a bottle n a taxi back up. Easy choice fur the Azzy boy. Sah, it’s shanks’ fuckin pony. A’m trekkin doon tae find them in the cold.

There’s sleet fawin fae a dark sky. The fat chunks ae snow ir sporadic n wet but that cold it feels like they burn ma skin before meltin n runnin away. A’m walkin by an eld boozer wae ma hood up. It’s yir typical Scottish pub, toilet stinkin ae pish, faded tartan carpets, dark wooden furnishings n coloured glass surrounds. The tough-lookin bastards n eld pishy drunks alike standin outside smokin look resigned tae their fate. They shuttle between here n the Wullie Hill bookies a few doors up. A pass wae ma heed doon, still chewin over family business. A wee voice among the heavy rasps makes me look up. Under a flashin, flickerin light, among a gaggle ae these eld bastards, the voice ae an angel floats by n around them. A follow the light doonwards. The pile ae dead flies in the casing makes it look momentarily like a halo. ‘Hi, son, how’s you?’ the angelic voice asks. A’m lost, still takin in the swirlin details ae hur face among the metallic snowflakes.

‘A’m good tah, n wit aboot you, Monica?’

‘A’m no bad, mister.’

An elder boy comes oot the pub fuckin steamin. He’s breathin doon hur neck n A git the impression he’s been chattin hur up. A raise ma eyebrows n turn tae leave. Ma eyes ir drawn tae the faces ae these cunts ootside, aw stinkin ae drink n laughin. A try tae push by them but A’m stuck in the middle ae them noo. Oot the corner ae ma eye A kin see that cunt tryin tae kiss Monica, n hur pullin away. He’s laughin, puttin his filthy paws aw over hur. She’s pushin him back. The eld boys ir aw cheerin the young guy on, n he’s aboot thirty. A bounce up tae them. ‘Haw you, fuckin leave hur alane! She’s only sixteen, ya dirty bastard.’ The prick just sees me as a wee guy, a familiar look.

‘Shut it, wee man, n piss aff.’

A kin feel it buildin inside. That feelin that starts in yir chest n goes tae yir heed n brings the red mist doon. Monica jumps past them aw n we walk away the-gither. A flag a passin black taxi n it pulls over tae let us in.

‘Uh, thanks fur that. That guy wis fuckin creepin me oot, son.’

‘Wit wur yi dain in there wae that cunt anyways?’

‘It’s Emma’s big cousin from our bit. He text me askin if A wanted to go for a few drinks – so A said aye … but he wis gettin weird.’