‘Awright. Shit, A’m sorry. Danny awright?’ This is a daft question. A know he’ll be in fuckin pieces. Agnes hud looked after him constantly when he wis a wean n his maw n da wur workin. She’s been a gran tae us both. Suhin deep doon inside ae me anaw is broken hearin they words. Agnes is the last ae that generation. Ma gran hud died years ago n it hud cut me deep then.

‘He ran oot the door soon as we heard. Not seen or heard from him since, Alan. Will you phone me right away if you see him, son. Big Brian is in bits.’

‘Aye, A’ll go n look fur him, Maria.’

The tunes ir still bangin but A’m a wee boy again, lost in a garden, messy n full but alive. Dark green mint hus become a renegade n hus started tae pillage n spread oot ae its boundaries ae passin fancy n rare usefulness. Purple-headed chives grow between cracked slabs, their own unofficial plots. There’s a wee boundary fence hidden by wide green rhubarb leaves, which slugs huv eaten holes in. They used tae git caught in wee yoghurt pots filled wae beer, but they hudnae been lain fur years noo. The garden seemed tae grow without remorse. Its carers huv fallen away intae indifference n decay, but it lives on. Its green hands weave in the night. The neatly kept edgings, pruned bushes and turned flowerbeds ir replaced wae a temperate jungle. A imagine it wild n untamed but still wae aw the intended plants rather than the weeds which huv most likely begun their coup d’etat, insurrection n revolution. The eld shed fashions a coat ae fresh brown creosote in ma mind. The broken slabs huv aw mended themselves n the eld flakin bench is made ae smooth planed timber again, its varnish shining in that never-endin sunlight. Aw the rot n decomposition is replaced wae a perfected vision. Things which never started like that ir cleaned n fixed up. The eld shed is filled wae aw the correct tools, in the right places, n the rubbish n damp which accumulated is undone. It is the garden ae our childhood, a final n untainted place buried away deep inside us.

In a sentence, it retreats tae reality. It becomes filled wae jaggies. Aw the wood is rotten n broken away wae years ae corrosive time n damp seepin intae the delicate grains. Aw that’s left is an unholy alliance between the weeds n the fuckin mint.

A’m dragged away fae those summers in Agnes’s garden, back tae the cold winter’s night. Orange sodium n purple haze flood intae the turquoise canvas ae ma dream. The tunes n the patter ir incessant n don’t mix wae ma mood. They’re aw laughin away n chattin shite. Ma chest goes that fluttery way n A feel a panic attack creepin up n punchin me in the gut. A’m spinnin, but this time A’m aff everyhin n A fight it wae steely resolve n those fuckin breathin exercises. Deep diaphragm breaths in through the nose fur five, hold fur five, n back oot the mooth fur five, repeat and stand by, stand by. Combat breathin, they call it. That is ma fragile peace. Every time it’s a fuckin battle within me, ma camouflage ae normality, a hard shell under which tae suffer. A’m alone n even though A’m aff it aw, A’m no fully rid ae the fear ae fear. It’s a curse that finds new ways tae git at yi. Everythin’s on tap ae me. The weight ae the world, sittin on the middle section ae ma chest makin us breathe shallow n feel like A’m sinkin. Gas imbalance. Ma heart starts racin, A’m sweatin n A feel like grippin on tae the door handles, adrenal response n sympathetic nervous system. A huvnae smoked dope fur a month but that doesnae matter noo because it hus a grip ae ma larynx n lungs. No wavin but drownin again, suffocatin.