Everywan is on MSN braggin aboot wit injuries they huv n didnae huv, who they hud battered n who’s gonnae get it as a result ae last night. It hud been a full-blown gang fight, but despite everycunt’s tales ae battles, they ir actually quite rare. Yi wur much more likely tae git caught or sneakied n done in aff a few cunts when yir on yir own. Waves ae paranoia aboot revenge n gittin done in or slashed keep whippin me. A’m sittin tryin tae ignore it n summon the boldness inside. A didnae really feel that bold the day.

‘Told yi, ya fucking idiot, told yi they wurnae to be messed wae!’ Stacey says.

‘A know yi did. Big Eck’s gonnae be awright.’

‘Aye, well, he very nearly wisnae. Murdered on Christmas Eve … do yees ever think ae yir poor maws? Angela wid never ae hud a good Christmas again if anyhin hud ae happened tae you. Twenty odd stitches, yir lucky yi didnae lose that arm. Think yir gonnae get a burd wae wan arm, ya daft bastard? Yir wee pal’s lost his maw n yooz ir oot causin it …’

A tut n shake ma heed n she lifts a hand tae slap us. ‘Naw don’t. A’m sorry, cuz, ma face is fucked … don’t!’

‘Well, don’t be fucking cheeky then! Yir a daft wee laddie, Alan.’

A roll ma eyes. She thinks she’s ma fuckin maw.

‘N don’t you worry, Rab’s had his arse kicked the day anaw.’ Could ae predicted that. Stacey wore the fuckin trousers in that wan.

‘Aye, did yi skelp his wee bum fur him?’ A say in an eld wuman’s voice.

‘Naw, A hut him a skud n you’ll get wan anaw, ya wee dick!’

‘Steady on, Stacey. A’m walkin wounded.’

‘Yi will be!’ she says n winks.

Ma Aunty Abigail shouts fae doon the stairs n Stacey pulls me aff the bed. We both walk doon tae see ma aunt n uncle n ma maw huvin a wee drink. They aw look at Stacey n comment on hur dress. ‘You’re lookin lovely, hen,’ ma maw says smilin.

‘Cheers, Aunty Angela. You too.’

‘N here’s Rocky Balboa!’ Bill blares across the room.

‘Awright, Uncle Bill,’ A say, no amused at his wee joke.

The prick is dancin aboot, kiddin on he’s boxin. ‘Don’t hit me, big man!’

‘Sit down, Bill, you big galoot!’ Aunty Abi says.

‘Merry Christmas tae yees,’ A say wae a painful smile, n sit doon.

‘Same to you, Alan.’

‘Aye, son, of course. Merry Christmas,’ he says, extendin a furry ham hock tae shake. ‘Yi want a wee beer?’ he asks, lookin at ma maw, who’s awready shakin hur heed. ‘Awright, awright. A can ae Bru then?’

‘Aye, that’ll be fine Uncle Bill, tah.’

‘Champagne for you, Stacey and Angela?’ Aunty Abi asks, pourin a bottle ae prosecco.

Blue Crowns and Jackie the Bird

It’s Hogmanay n we’re in Rab Ryans’ council flat. It’s a wee wan-bedroom n he’s git a big sound system n a widescreen tele fae crisis-loan candy. There’s two three-seaters facin each other wae the silver tele in the corner. The place is quite clean considerin but Stacey’s been stayin here anaw so that’s probably how. Hur n Rab ir in the kitchen sniffin lines. Yi always see the elder wans disappearin intae kitchens n bathrooms when there’s gear aboot. The stuff is forty quid a gram or three fur a hundred, so they couldnae be bangin lines oot fur aw the young troops. A git a wee cheeky Patsy but, cos A’m hur cuz. Rab went n got aw our drink oot the shop n took us a run fur swedgers anaw, so yi cannae grumble. There’s twenty-five blue crowns – thick, perfectly set ecstasy tablets – lyin on his coffee table. The tunes ir bangin n it’s half ten. Only an Excuse is on soon then Chewin the Fat, n the Hogmanay show on BBC One. Everybody watches them, but nae cunt remembers them cos we’re aw fuckin mad-wae-it by then.