We cross the dark golf course in near silence. There’s nae bravado noo, nae brothers-in-arms chat shite. Aw A kin feel is ma burnin war wounds n ma frost-nipped fingers n toes. We cross the seventeenth green and the burn, slowly n painfully, helpin each other n the cunts that ir limpin. We walk intae our woods n trudge on through the snow towards home. A light a fag n smoke it painfully wae ma throbbin cheek. A kin awready feel a healthy egg n bad swellin. It’s gonnae be worse in the mornin.

We finally reach Big Kenzie’s hoose. Tam’s face looks fucked. The slash on his cheek is deep n hus been gushin aw the way home. Wee Kenzie’s frettin aboot chappin the door n won’t go in his gate. ‘Fuck sake, sir!’ A shout, pushin by and rattle the thing like fuck. The lights come on n his da appears at the door in his boxers. Big Harold’s git bleary eyes n starts shoutin. ‘Wit the fuck’s gawn on, John? Thomas?’

‘Eh … eh …’

‘Look, Harold, Tam’s been slashed, git him doon casualty pronto.’

‘Right, Alan, son. John n Thomas in here NOW! WILMAAA!’

Big Kenzie walks past our guard of honour at the gates. ‘Cheers, Azzy wee man. A’ll be sound, kid. Git yir arses up the road before the polis appear. Young Team, ya fuckin bams! Fuck yir fuckin YTB!’

‘Take care ae yirsel, big man,’ A say n head back oot the garden. Wae that the McKenzie brothers wur gone. Every light in the hoose goes on n we kin hear his maw screamin the place doon. Time tae boost. The rest ae us walk away up the street a bit. Me, Danny, Broonie, Finnegan, Whytey n Ryans.

Big Rab turns tae us. ‘You better git up that road anaw, Azzy. Stacey’s gonnae kill me cos that arm ae yours. It needs cleant wae fuckin TCP or suhin.’

‘A’ll be sound fuck. It’s only a scratch.’

‘Make sure yi clean that shit oot, boss. Git up the road.’

A look around at the six ae us. We’re aw broken men. Danny’s git a black eye n his face is scratched tae fuck. Wee Broonie hus a deep cut above his eyebrow. Whytey’s both eyes ir almost swollen shut. Finnegan’s git scratches across his face. A turn tae Rab. ‘Git Whytey up the road, mate.’

‘Birdseye peas fur you, eld son!’ Danny says.

Ryans looks sympathetically at Whytey. He puts n arm roon his shoulder. ‘Mon, mate, A’ll git yi up the road. Catch yees, lads.’ The two boys hobble away in the opposite direction n ma lot ir left alone.

Broonie’s gigglin away. ‘Whytey looks fuckin Chinese wae they eyes, the cunt!’ We aw turn tae him n laugh n finally breathe oot, shell-shocked n shattered noo the adrenaline is gone. Aw yir injuries start tae throb after the chemicals n drink leaves yi.

‘Aye right enough, Broonie, Jet Li fuckin Whytey fae the YTP!’