‘Try n diss me – A’m fuckin Bruce Lee!’ Danny says, laughin.

‘Joint?’ A ask wae a sigh. Everycunt nods.

We head fur the graveyard tae sit n git a quiet joint before boostin. Ma ain face is fuckin killin me noo. A know the cut on ma arm is bad, the machete hus took a chunk oot. It’s a sore wan n possibly a wee trip tae casualty fur me in the mornin. Don’t think ma maw’s Elastoplast ir gonnae cut it this time. Twice A hud been lucky no tae be scarred fur life wae a wine bottle smashed across ma face. If the lid is aff when yi git bottled, they smash n leave yi like a jigsaw. Lid on, they don’t usually burst. A barely landed a punch n git chopped n fuckin laid oot. A’d huv been as well stayin in wae Monica n huvin the night ae ma life.

Danny sums up aw our fears. ‘Wonder wit happened tae Eck n that. Any yooz see?’

‘A seen Bailey gittin liftit, a screw swept him n they both fell,’ Finnegan says.

‘They’re fuckin carted, mate! Weekender fur Crimbo material.’

‘A defo seen Eck wae blood on his neck. Dunno who it wis but,’ Danny confirms.

‘Fuckin hell, man, did it look bad?’ A say.

‘He wis hoddin his neck.’

‘Fuck me, that cannae be good.’

‘Let us see yir face.’ A turn tae look at Danny. His isnae lookin great either.

‘Bit ae an egg, but yir still gorjis, son.’

As we walk through the cemetery a polis motor screeches up n we go tae run. It’s Muldoon n Blakley, the community polis. We stop in our tracks n by this point we’re aw too tired n sore tae run anyway. ‘Don’t bother runnin … where’s Shaun Brown?’ Broonie ducks doon behind us aw.

‘Shaun, yir no in any trouble, son. Yi needty come wae us,’ the Roadrunner says.

‘It’s aboot yir maw, son,’ Muldoon says, n opens the back door fur him.

Broonie falls tae the ground, wailin like a banshee. Everywan is taken aback. Finnegan n Danny shite themselves. A try tae pull him up, but ma arm is too sore. He’s lyin shakin n screamin like a lunatic. The two boys pull him tae his feet. Muldoon jumps oot the motor n helps them lift him tae the motor. None ae us know wit tae say. He’s greetin wae tears streamin doon his cheeks n he’s just repeatin, Naw, naw, naw, naw, naw … ‘Cummon, son, there now, yir awrite, mind yir step.’ It takes the three ae them, Sergeant Muldoon, Finnegan n Danny, tae pull him tae the motor n stick him in the back. Big Muldoon nods lookin aw serious n gets back in the motor. ‘You lot are a fuckin state,’ he says oot the windae.

The Roadrunner leans across fae the driver’s side anaw. ‘Oh n by the way, there’s more cars on their way up here. Might be a good time to make yourselves scarce.’ The windae slides up n they disappear.