Just before A disappear beneath that black sea ae fear, the garden comes back tae ma mind. Every wee detail ae this space soothes me n A return there. The eld smells keep me from goin intae full-blown panic mode n losin it. A think aboot the menacin mint, the bitter n recognisable scent ae those sharp, dark green leaves n the sweet onion ae the chives. Their fat purple heads, like golf baws. The smells ae flowers A never learned the names ae. There’s a distant sniff ae creosote fae the shed, the eld wood n dust inside. A wander doon the back tae the forgotten greenhoose n smell the paraffin lamp, rich soil bags, tomatoes. There’s garden magazines scattered on an eld wooden workbench, seed packets, bamboo shoots, green twine n rusty black scissors tae cut it. A breathe deep through ma diaphragm n try tae relax n hang on. It passes, but only after A wrestle wae it. We remain n survive another death n breathe. In fur five, hold fur five, oot fur five, stand by, stand by.

‘Wit’s wrang, mate? Yir awfy quiet!’

‘Ignore us, man. Just thinkin aboot shit.’

‘Don’t think too hard, el son.’

‘Aye yir maybe right, kid.’

‘Anycunt wid think you’re gawn saft, Azzy!’ Wee Gunny says behind a joint.

‘Fuckin rap it, Gunny. Drap me aff, Paul.’

‘At your bit?’

‘Naw, doon the scheme.’

‘Where yi gawn like?’

‘Never you fuckin mind. Just drap me aff.’

Toffey gees me a funny look when A’m gittin oot n shakes ma paw. He’s a decent wee cunt, a different character fae the rest. A feel like shite, panicky n depressed cos ae the bad news. Maria’s phone call is on ma mind. A know where he’ll be.

The eld hoose is in darkness, wae the venetian blinds n curtains drawn. A doubt they’d be opened again while the hoose is still Agnes’s. Ma mind holds such a vision ae the place. Aw the varnished shelves wae whimsies on, no as polished as they hud once been. The layer ae dust a whisper ae things tae come, ashes tae ashes. The eld patterned carpets, a relic which assured tradition n promised warmth. There wis a new gas fire underneath an eld mantelpiece, wae a gold carriage clock which hud stopped ticking. Family pictures formed the border roon the edges ae the room. There’s eld faded navy leather couches. Strangely, it’s the images ae Agnes Stevenson’s livin room, scullery, landin n garden which stick wae us, an undiminished space ae childhood. A kin remember us aff fur the Easter holidays sittin watchin Ben Hur fur aboot three hour wae Agnes. She wid always huv a wee Creme Egg fur us both or a couple ae pound fur the van. Ma hand goes tae the latch in the thick darkness.

A hear a gentle sobbin as A reach over the gate n slide the lock’s bolt oot ae place. Danny is sittin in a heap at the back door, flakin red. A kin see a bottle ae Tonic at his side n him fumblin wae a packet ae skins in the cold. He looks up tae see me n tries tae dry his tears. A don’t say nuhin, but go n sit on the raised landin next tae him where we used tae fit our legs through the metal bars ae the railing. He passes us the Buckfast, silent apart fae sobs. The thick essence ae the brown wine seems tae soothe yir very soul, the warmth rushin intae ma cheeks. We pass it back n forth n A light two fags at the same time n gee him wan. The two ae us, grown noo, sit lookin at the far streetlights. Those infinite rows ae orange lamps flicker like they always huv. The wine keeps us warm as we sit broodin, a last time, on forgotten n lost youth.