‘It’s nae life, man.’

‘He’s lucky he didnae git this Sonic FX right up the arse,’ Finnegan says wae a toothy grin.

‘Mon, fuck it, let’s go n git these fuckin hings drank,’ A say wae a wee laugh, still thinkin aboot that eld boy’s empty two-penny eyes.

We go doon the woods and tan our drink. It’s aboot two hours later n we’re walkin up fuckin steamin, singin, shoutin n smokin snout, nae doubt, cos the fuckin Young Team’s about! IN YER AREA! OH OH, IN YER AREA! Y T FUCKIN P. Just lettin loose n gawn crazy. It’s dark n baltic, a right dry night wae a crispy scent, but fuckin frozen. The hot wine in our bellies is keepin us warm. The cold nips at our fingers n toes through black magic gloves n trainers. We’ve aw git the hoods up noo, n jakits zipped right up. The trick is tae tuck yir taps inside yir joggie bottoms. Means aw the layers heat up. A’ve seen maself oot in winter tuckin ma trackies intae ma fitbaw socks. No cause A liked that mad Nineties look either, just cos it’s fuckin roasty toasty.

We’re listenin tae tunes comin fae the tinny speaker in Danny’s Sony Ericsson Walkman phone, DJ Rankin, ‘D.E.V.I.L’. It’s keepin us gawn as we trek through the frozen field, aw crunchin underfoot as we walk. Every wan ae us is hyper. The caffeine in the wine has done its job. We’re aw natterin away like fuck, talkin shite aboot this n that. Wit burds we fancy n who we’ve awready went wae. There’s two solid joints gittin passed aboot between us. The dope is takin the edge aff the bottles, chillin everycunt oot a bit afore we go fur a few more pint-cans ae Miller n a bottle ae the orange or red MD 20/20 tae keep us mad-wae-it until we huv tae head in.

The bookies is on the corner. Runnin doon by it is the main road in our town centre. The Toi’s scheme lay between here n the high school. They’ve git aboot thirty cunts oot on a Friday, so we’re told, so there’s nae chance yi wid walk doon the street past there anymore. Yi cannae just stoat aboot ootside yir ain area aboot here. Yir both the lords n prisoners ae yir ain scheme. Doon the street is no man’s land, yi kin bang intae anycunt doon there – so yi huv tae watch.

‘Look! Who the fuck’s that?’ Finnegan shouts.

Me, Danny n Kenzie start tae walk doon. Next is Broonie n Finnegan n last Addison, on the phone tae some lassie. It’s Kenzie who speaks up.

‘Here boys, that’s fuckin Taz, ma brur’s mate.’

Taz is alone n runnin up the hill, gittin chased by aboot five cunts in trackies. We aw look roon at wan another. He’s wan ae Big Kenzie’s mates, wan ae the elder wans in the Young Team. Danny’s still takin a last swig oot his bottle but after he drinks it he stuffs it back inside the map pocket empty. Broonie’s still git his anaw. Taz looks as if he’s awready hud a bit ae a dooin. His jakit is ripped n he’s git blood on his face.