‘A say we just go right noo. Fuck the tools. Waltz straight up, bang in the door. Carry oot wit we kin load intae the motor n that’s it, finito, easy money,’ Danny says.

A roll the motor up tae the front ae the flat. There’s a big hedge in front. Wee Kenzie n Danny bounce oot first. We’re aw stoatin up, three dodgy bastards tryin tae look casual. We walk roon n reach the back door. The wee curtains ir drawn n yi cannae see anyhin inside the hoose. The rain is pishin doon n we’re gittin soakin. ‘Who’s dain it then?’ Wee Kenzie asks.

A take a step back and boot the thing aff its hinges. The door flies open n they two stand n look at us. A bounce in n hunt fur a light switch in the dark. It’s a bare bulb hangin fae the ceiling, a dim sixty-watt. The kitchen is aw black mould. There’s two-litre bottles lyin aboot, nutrient mix n a thermometer. We walk intae the livin room n A see Danny’s eyes light up. Jackpot. There’s four two by two metre tents, big black towers up tae the ceiling. Two deck chairs n soil n leaves everywhere. They zip the first tent doon. ‘Fuckin yass!’ Danny whispers n looks at us. We aw peer in usin a phone-light. There’s four pots, four plants in full bud n lookin ready tae chop. ‘Git scissors!’ Danny spits, excited as fuck n laughin noo. Kenzie goes huntin aboot the dark gaff. ‘Azzy, check they other tents! N keep the light aff!’

They’re big cuboid shapes, nae place in somebody’s livin room. It looks like some alien experiment. There’s massive silver tubes shinin n protrudin fae the black towers. These tubes ir attached tae hummin Mitsubishi can-fans, aboot a foot long. The carbon filter in them is usually fur takin kitchen smells oot ae restaurant ventilation systems, but here it sooks in the healthy pong aff the green, a dead giveaway otherwise. A zip the tent door doon n look inside. They’re aw foil backed n there’s an 180-watt sodium bulb beatin doon like an artificial sun. The other three ir in darkness – the change in temperature, in four-week cycles, enough tae simulate the seasons n wait fur their flowerin heads tae appear, those wee dusty crystals on top. They’re sharp-lookin and jagged, telltale female signs. Christmas tree shaped, headin tae a point wae the master bud. There’s a good few ounce on each plant. Four plants in each tent. The way we’re rippin it tae shreds in the dark, we wouldnae make half the potential profit. After dryin it, arrangin it and smokin it, the realistic return drops dramatically. It always seems more on paper.

‘Leave that first wan. It’s no ready. Empty the other three tents!’

‘Aye, let’s git this done n git tae fuck. Just strip them quick-style.’

We take a tent each. The buds grow n protrude fae the fat stems. Usually yi wid carefully trim back the leaf, chop the stem n remove the bud. The night we’re just hackin wae scissors n pullin the branches straight aff. Fuck it, it kin be sorted oot later in safety away fae this dodgy gaff. A’m choppin the master bud, the heed ae the plant. Decapitation. It’s aw interwoven wae the supportin stems n branch network, pure chunky, healthy n green n orange. Hopefully they’re flushed, fed just clean Scottish water after a nutrient chemical diet fur weeks, n ready fur the owners tae chop n sell. After a couple ae minutes A’ve git at least four or five ounce in the bag.