The Young Team: Granta Best of Young British Novelists 2023

PART I

Crucible

Young team: Term originally used by the East End razor gangs of interwar Glasgow. Sectarian and fiercely territorial, groups from different areas would engage in everything from casual one-upmanship to open street warfare.

The latter form – or, more specifically, the three letter acronym arising – is now used by ‘neds’ solely to give group identity to their immediate circle of friends.

The Urban Dictionary

Urban Legends

2004

The rain n wind ir fuckin howlin. We’re aw stood intae a wee corner oot the wet n away fae the eager eyes ae Strathclyde’s finest. At weekends our area is jumpin wae polis, aw lookin tae bust yi. They never wanted tae git their boots muddy walkin doon the Mansion but, so yi wur usually safe in here. There’s two community polis that sometimes ventured doon n busted cunts rollin joints, the fat wan called Muldoon n the skinny wan we aw called the Roadrunner, cos he’s rapid. The elder wans hud told us aboot the polis raidin it once, before we aw knew ae the place’s existence. Swore they came through the doors wae a big snappy German shepherd. The troops wur steamin, launchin themselves oot the broken windaes. A git told wan even salmon-leapt tae escape, but landed in a big fuckin pile ae jaggies. He says a big fat polis looked oot the windae n muttered ‘fuck that’ n left him lyin in the nettles.

The buildin we’re in is a beauty. Elder cunts hud ripped aw the copper n lead oot the place. Easy a few hundred quids’ worth n a big juicy copper boiler. There’s always the sound ae water runnin where they ripped a pressurised mains pipe oot. The constant wee flow, peaceful as it is, is testament tae the fact that no cunt gives a fuck aboot the place. It’s forgotten n left fur the woods tae take back. On the left ae the hoose there’s a big archway. When yi walk underneath it there’s a wee secret door that leads tae another room wae nae windae. We brought a few candles up n sat them aboot tae see in the dark. Should the polis huv appeared they wouldnae know if we wur tokin a half-ounce or conductin a fuckin séance.

The stables stand tae the right wae a big stone courtyard in front. Inside there’s aw the individual booths fur the horses. It’s aw wooden-built inside n there’s steps leadin up tae a wee balcony. The wee windae panes above ir aw dirty n a good few ir panned in. There’s roots n loads ae weeds growin fae the stone floor.

On the left side ae the courtyard there’s a big massive barn. The barn hus been plastered and emulsioned white inside but we spray-painted it aw wae our mentions, the Young Team symbol – a Y wae a T through it. YTP is painted anaw – that stood fur Young Team Posse. Every gang usually hus a second name, fuck knows why. Yi kin say either YT or YTP, it means the same. Elder wans tended tae know it as the YTP but, cos it sounded cooler n that. The Toi wans, our enemies, write Y TOI or TOI BOIZ or YTB fur Young Toi Boiz.

Rainy, pishy days like this, we always sit in the Mansion. Nae other young team aboot here hus a fuckin hideout like ours. It’s creepy-lookin, a mad dark hoose in the woods. Sometimes if yi walked roon yirsel tae meet the troops yi wid feel a bit para n hang aboot ootside smokin a fag before they showed up, then bounce in bold as brass. The light closes in around the broken corridors ae the Mansion at this time n the woods git darker outside. Wee Kenzie starts tellin a story. We’re aw watchin fur him hoggin the joint but he passes it over before startin, takin an extra big draw tae dae him. It makes its way roon the rotation, orange bombers fallin fae the tip. The tune playin oot a tinny bassless phone speaker is DJ Mangoo, ‘Eurodancer’.

‘Boays … the cunt is fuckin mental.’

‘Phhft … thinks he’s fuckin mental,’ Broonie shouts.

‘Naw mate … the cunt is actually aff his nut.’

‘Wit’s the script wae him?’ Finnegan says fae behind a Mayfair.

‘Well put it this way … he’s wan ae the tap men aboot here, ran aboot wae they Toi wans. Aw our elder wans caught him doon the street n he ran right intae them n started swingin cunts aboot. That’s how he became the tap man.’

‘A thought Matty n Div wur the tap kiddies?!’

‘Aye, but they’re only Tam’s age. These ir right elder cunts in their twenties.’

‘Aye, they two ir meant tae be some fighters, but that Jamesy Maynard is a mental cunt, man. A’ve heard ae him. He runs aboot wae heavy gangsters.’

‘Fuckin cardboard gangsters!’

‘Boys, A’m tellin yi, he’s a mental cunt! Tam used tae talk aboot him when he started high school, they wur aw still there. Noo that Jamesy’s a big dealer n sells nine-bars n swedgers.’

‘Aye right, man. Cunt’s no Al Capone, Kenzie! You hink everycunt’s mental!’ Danny says, laughin.

The rain is comin in the smashed windaes wae the howlin wind. It’s Friday 29 October. This week is a fuckin buzz cos yi huv Halloween and Guy Fawkes Night anaw. We wurnae goin oot guisin fur Halloween anymore but it’s a good excuse fur a swally n tae see some elder burds dressed up in wee costumes n heels n stockings. We’re in third year at high school n me n aw ma pals just started swallyin oot on the streets properly. Before that, it wis stolen beers fae yir maws n das, nuhin major. Noo, we’re oot gittin proper cargos wae the troops. Everywan in school wid be oot on-it at the weekend. Monday tae Thursday in school is aw aboot the tellin ae yir tales ae valour fae Friday n Saturday. How much wine yi drank, wit burds yi wur shaggin (or tryin tae shag), who yi wur fightin wae n wit drugs yi took.

Obviously, A’ve hud ma hole. A’ve never lied aboot it. A pulled an elder burd, ma big cousin’s pal. Paula Cook, hur name is. A wis only thirteen n she wis sixteen, wee bit chubby A’m no gonnae lie. Cook by name, cook by nature n aw that. She wis heavy geein me the eye. Ma cousin wis laughin hur heed aff. Yass! The wee man’s gonnae pop his cherry n that wis it. We went a walk back tae hur bit. She hud an empty, hur maw n that wur away on a night oot. Easy does it, man. The younger burds fae our bit ir aw goody-fuckin-two-shoes n don’t really run aboot the streets. The elder chicks ir wit it’s aw aboot. They’re the bad wans who smoke n drink n that. There’s a few absolute tidies that hang aboot wae the YT who ir worth chasin. They’re elder but n yi say awright in passin but we huvnae really spoke tae them yit.

There’s fantastical fuckin tales how cunts got their hole. At the caravans at Craig Tara? At yir grans in Glesga? Nae bor, mate. Next fur the Azzy boy wis Sophie McKay. She’s a couple ae year elder anaw n got ma number fae somebody n asked us tae meet hur. Same sketch again, doon tae hur bit n nae fuckin aboot. The elder burds didnae dae much outside. Right intae a nice warm gaff, Oasis on, dae it properly. Meant every time A heard ‘Champagne Supernova’, fae then on, A got a semi thinkin aboot it. Naw, yi huv tae treat the lassies wae respect n that. Fuckin hope cunts wid dae the same fur ma big cuz, Stacey. A kin obviously take the moral superiority cos A’m no a daft virgin n A dae on regular occasions. No a fuckin bully but – hate they cunts.

There’s six ae us in the stables. We’re the troops our age. Three ae us ir fourteen n the other three ir fifteen awready. There’s ma best mate, Danny Stevenson. We’ve been best muckers fae our maws planked us doon next tae each other on the playgroup mat in the village hall. We’ve grew up the-gither, drunk our first beers the-gither n our first bottle ae wine wis halved between us. He’s a tall thin cunt, always git a Lacoste tracky on n never git Nike Air Max trainers aff his feet. He’s a perfectly healthy cunt but he’s git a thin face n black pockets roon his eyes. It gees yi the impression he’s always growlin at everywan he looks at. The burds must like the scowly look cos he dis nae bad. His maw n da huv git a wee bit ae poppy tucked away, enough tae git a whinin Danny his fuckin Lacoste tracksuits. The spoilt cunt’s moanin fur a Berghaus jakit, a Mera Peak. The weather is pish here, especially the night, but our dossin aboot the streets doesnae qualify fur a high quality mountaineer’s jakit, complete wae storm flaps, a map pocket n Gore-Tex lining … two hundred and fifty bucks. A’ve asked fur wan anaw but it wis just a token request. Ask fur suhin daft n you’ll end up wae few score notes in yir hand. A prefer that anyway. A Berghaus wid be minted but. It’s the quintessential fashion piece ae the Scottish ned, n if yi huv wan, yir a made man.

The other troops ir Shaun Brown n John McKenzie, Broonie n Wee Kenzie, they git called. Broonie is a wee Nazi-lookin cunt. Always hus a skinheed n a wee devious look aboot him. He’s harmless but cos he’s thick as mince. Just a cunt always laughin his wee heed aff at suhin, or playin wae a lighter or matches in the corner. The kinda wee guy yi wouldnae leave yir goldfish wae. The wee cunt wouldnae even huv the initiative tae try n replace it, should it come tae a premature demise. Yi wid come back fae Santa Ponsa n he’d huv stuck a deep-sea diver wae a GONE FISHIN sign, but wid huv furgot the replacement fish. He’s always interested in stuff, pokin aboot n riflin through yir drawers lookin fur suhin or nuhin. Yi hud tae love him.

Wee Kenzie is a different kettle ae fish entirely. He’s a nippy cunt. Hair always gelled perfect n always wae a fitbaw tracky on n a pair ae magic gloves, regardless ae season. He wears a thick silver chain, at least five ounces, over the tap ae the tracky. The reason fur his confidence is hereditary. His da wis a fuckin mad cunt in a scheme years ago n his big brur Tam is the tap man. Obviously, Tam’s brand new wae aw us, cos we’re the younger wans. Always liked me tae, he says, thinks A’m a bold wee cunt. Big Kenzie he gits called, n that’s a name that cunts recognise aboot here.

The last two ir Stephen Finnegan n Paul Addison. Stephen’s both sets ae grandparents ir fae Ireland n he’s never git a Celtic tap aff. He’s wan bitter wee bastert, hell-bent on it. His big cuz taught him up n he kin roll joints n hus mad stories fae other schemes. Finnegan’s da is a butcher n done well so he always hus a fiver in his backburner tae put tae a bottle ir a packet ae fags. If it came tae fitbaw, it wis them n you. Apart fae that, he’s brand new. He’s quite a wee guy, skinny but still wae a wee bit ae veins showin where he’s done the dumbbells. He says he bench-presses ninety wae this big cuz ae his. Cough, fuckin bullshite, cough, cough. Addison is a quieter cunt. He wears the clothes n walks the walk but he keeps it on the doon-low really. His full family is quite middle-class n he stays on wan ae the new Legoland estates. He’s another tall cunt, but hus a skinny build, quite lanky really. He’s the youngest among us anaw, huvin just turned fourteen. Pure perfume boy but a sound cunt nonetheless.

Last but no least, there’s yir main man. Alan Williams. Azzy, A git called. Rangers doft, YT legend in the makin. A’m as tall as Danny, nearly six fit awready. A’ve git dark broon hair, shaved sides n both ears pierced wae gold hoops in. A’d say A’m gittin towards solid. Been dain ma sit-ups n press-ups every mornin n night. A’ve git a Fred Perry tracky on, a black Carbrini parka n Lacoste trainers. Who’s the tap man ae the younger wans? yir probably thinkin. Me n Danny ir the main contenders, but we’d probably never fight wae each other tae find oot. Yir best mate is always a sacred thing, even among the troops.

Everycunt is hunched in noo, listenin in again tae Wee Kenzie’s story. Noo n again the door wull bang in the wind n everycunt wull jump. A wee bit ae paranoia is healthy in here. Yi never know who’s gonnae come through the doors. If they’ve git a radio n a black uniform, A’d be first oot the fuckin windae. Salmon-leap tae freedom fur the Azzy boy.

‘Aye so where wis A? Aye so that Jamesy Maynard’s sellin shit n then the McIntires think he’s tryin tae muscle in n they tan him a beaut. Big dirty wan right doon his cheek, sir.’

‘Phhft! Heard it!’ Danny shouts.

‘Naw honestly. These boys ir the heavies, man. Different level ae crazy … where wis A, man? FUCKIN PASS THAT, YOU!’ The joint gits handed over wae a grumble. It’s a heavy bad twoz.

Danny’s mutterin fuckin calm it, Janet under his breath. Noted hoggin bastard, Danny is. ‘Bring them oan fuck sake and the Toi wans n we’ll smash them aw!’

‘Danny, shut up, mate, honestly. Yi cannae bounce aboot sayin shit like that aboot these cunts. Somecunt in school wull grass yi fur name-drappin. They’ve git cousins galore n cunts that work fur them.’

‘Ooft, man, wouldnae mess wae they cunts.’

‘How the fuck dae yi know aw this, mate?’

‘Cos Tam told us obviously.’

‘Your big brother’s a fuckin busy man. Think he’s been tellin you ghost stories, mate.’

Everycunt laughs n they start settin up another joint in the Highlander packet. The slab ae Tennent’s gits ripped open and we aw take a tin each n pass a bottle ae Tonic aboot that we aw chipped in fur. Yi huv tae take aw these stories wae a pinch ae fuckin salt. Most ae the wans yi hear ir total fuckin cow dung. A few ae them ir true but. Yi huv tae be careful wit stories yi believe and repeat tae cunts. Cos the grapevine is thick n fast aboot here. Wee Kenzie wisnae talkin pish aboot that.

‘Mate, believe wit yees want, but ma big bro’s been roon the block a few times. Tam’s bought bits tae sell aff aw them. The elder wans in his day wur mad cunts. Pure nineties battles where that Toi wan ended up gittin stabbed aff a Young Team wan. Yees musty heard ae that wan? Fuckin famous troops fae the YTP. Yees huvnae even ran aboot wae the team yit n been in a battle.’

‘Who plugged him then … Tam? Sorry, fuckin Bruce Lee, furgot you’d smashed aw the Toi wans yirsel!’ A say, laughin.

‘Kenzie, you talk as if yir the tap man yirsel, cuz!’ Finnegan says.

Everybody knows Big Kenzie is his wee brur’s hero n it’s an easy shot, so yi huv tae take it. He knew more than aw us cos ae his big brur, but he lived aff Tam’s coat tails. There is always the distinct possibility that some ae his stories ir true. There is mad cunts aboot here tae watch fur n by natural selection some ir our enemies, which makes yi para. The stories aboot our elder Young Team wans gee yi confidence n make yi feel brave n part ae suhin. That’s the yin-yang balance.

‘Wee Kenzie is faster than the fuckin Roadrunner when the trouble starts!’

‘Fuck up, Azzy.’

‘Kenzie, yir talkin pish, mate.’

‘Naw, A’ve actually heard ae a cunt called Jamesy that git slashed.’

‘Aye so yi huv, Broonie!’

‘Yir fuckin maw.’

‘Mate A think your big brother’s Pinocchio. That big fuckin beak ae his anaw.’

‘Ma big brur wid smash you if he heard you sayin that.’

‘Phhft mate, yir big brur couldnae beat eggs.’

‘Mate, ma big brur wid batter your cunt in n don’t doubt it.’

‘Yer maw, ya wee dick.’

‘You dae go on aboot yir brur like he’s a hero but.’

‘Yer maw.’

That’s the way yi learned. As a wee guy, yi hear snippets ae information aboot everyhin. They don’t teach yi how tae survive oot oan the streets in school, or how tae shag, or drink or fight – aw the important stuff. Yi learn fae those that ir elder than yi, the elder wans. Furget PSE, social education. Yi learn fae yir pals, n the army ae big cousins, brurs n elder wans who feel it their duty tae lead and mislead yi tae the form ae truth that the streets offer. Even wee practical things aboot takin drugs, or advice aboot pullin lassies, reads like a ghost story or an urban legend. Exaggerated as fuck, and probably no true, n designed tae scare the shite oot wee boys like us.

Billy the Kid and the KO at the Coral

It’s Guy Fawkes Night n on a fuckin Friday anaw, jackpot. There’s fireworks burstin aw over the place. The six ae us ir standin outside the newsagents, waitin on somebody tae jump in fur our drink. We’re aw on a bottle ae Tonic each the night. We see an eld alky stoatin doon the lane in boggin jeans n ripped trainers. A walk across the road n whistle him over tae us. The boys slowly walk over anaw tae join us. These kinda cunts ir mostly harmless, but if they hud been takin ten diazepam as a side order tae their daily cider dosage then they kin be a harmless cunt takin their pet Kitchen Devil a walk. A stoat up tae him but ma swagger makes the eld cunt a wee bitty nervous. A reassure him wae a friendly bit ae chat. ‘Fancy jumpin in the shop fur us, eld son, n we’ll gee yi a pound each fur a few cans, eh?’ A say, actin pure sound wae the eld boy.

He counts the heads, there’s six ae us. Six quid, jackpot. That’s his full weekend sortit. These cunts drank bottles ae pound nasty, pure gut-rot dry cider that cost a quid each. He kin barely hold his excitement back. Our part in the bargain is a quid each. We aw rustle in our pockets. Danny swaggers up n pulls a fiver oot his new red Berghaus jakit. Celtic fans only ever went fur either the red or grey, never blue.

‘Here yi go, ma man, don’t spend it aw in the wan shop!’

A shake ma heed it ma pal. The eld boy’s eyes ir as wide as two-pence pieces n as dark as them anaw. ‘Cheers, wee man,’ he says wae a pure crocodile smile.

‘Right, eld yin, in the shop fur six bottles ae Buckfast.’

‘Six bottles ae Buck. Nae bother boays, nae bother at aw,’ he says as he negotiates the lines on the road.

‘Fuckin auld cunt,’ Broonie says.

‘Fuck it, mate, that’s our drink sortit, ye ha!’

It’s always a nervous wait. Should wan ae yir maws or das come roon n huckle yi up the road, yir bottle is gone. Should two Strathclyde police officers appear, yir fucked. Should the eld alky steal the fiver and the six bottles ae wine, yir double fucked. Tense affair this n A kin see it on ma boys’ faces. This time he comes stoatin back wae the bag after a minute. There’s that wee moment ae euphoria, like yir first bottle again every time. Yir night ae madness wae infinite possibilities ae action n adventure lies within the cheap blue plastic bag, between a dirty hand wae long nails. He walks up n Danny snatches the bag right oot his hand.

‘Haw! There’s only four fuckin bottles in here.’

‘Four bottles wull be plenty fur yooz wee pricks.’

The other two bottles ir stuffed upside doon in his ripped and paint-covered jeans. We aw look at one another fur a wee moment. In the peckin order, yir still only a wee guy. Wan ae us hus tae say suhin but …

‘Listen, eld yin, git the fuckin bottles oot right noo.’

‘OR WIT, YA WEE CUNT?’ he roars in Broonie’s face.

‘Or yir gittin shot wae this fuckin firework, ya eld dick.’

We aw turn roon tae see Finnegan, hoddin a Sonic FX inside a long red chute. They’re single shot fireworks but the screech n the bang aff them is fuckin crazy. We aw stand back tae either side ae the lane. We hud aw seen them in action being fired at unsuspectin cunts n polis n fire brigade tryin tae put oot bonfires ae eld, built by our fair hands n defended bravely by the vanguard ae elder troops. Furget the fourth of July – Bonfire Night up here is fuckin Vietnam. The eld alky doesnae know wit tae say.

‘You try it, ya wee cunt … n A’ll … rip yi fae ear tae arse.’

‘Mate, you couldnae catch us in they eld chunky gutties! Ten-stripe turbos they ir oot Brantanamo warehoose!’ Danny shouts.

We aw burst oot laughin.

‘WIT? Yi think yir mad coz yir tall, wee man?’ the eld alky mutters n staggers away.

‘Fuck it, man, we’ve got a good swally here,’ Addison says.

‘Fuck that,’ Wee Kenzie hits back.

‘You’re right, mate,’ Finnegan says wae a nod.

‘HAW YOU, YA ELD ALKY BASTERT! LOOK AT YI WALKIN UP THERE WAE OUR BOTTLES LIKE BILLY THE FUCKIN KID,’ A shout. He stops n straightens up n sits his own bag doon. He spins roon wae his hands hoverin over the bottles.

‘A’M BILLY THE KID!’ he says in a drunken slur.

‘Aye, well guess wit, Billy Boy …’ Finnegan says as he pulls his lighter oot.

‘Gawn grab they bottles fuck sake, that cunt couldnae beat sleep,’ Danny says.

A crouch doon wae them aw laughin at ma back n run up silently n grab the fat end oot wan ae his pockets. The cunt is concentratin on every step he makes, avoidin broken glass n dug shite. ‘YA WEE PRICK,’ he shouts as he spins roon tae stop me n faws on his arse. There’s a bellow ae laugher n abuse fae ma pals up a bit. The other bottle rolls oot his pocket and by some miracle, doesnae smash. It bounces, slow motion, on the rim ontae a big fuckin juicy weed that cushions its arse n breaks its faw. A see ma opportunity. A dash like Indiana Jones fur his hat. A reach the big weed n dandelion heed. Billy the Kid tries tae grab ma leg but A snatch the bottle fae his talons n turn tae walk back. His white bag is lyin spilt aw over. Six plastic bottles ae pound nasty rollin oot. Next tae the lane is a big substation, the wans wae the transformer n the DANGER OF DEATH signs aw over it. A pick up his bag n fuck it right over the spikey fence. Ma pals ir aw gawn wild. Laughin like fuck. The eld boy looks through the fence n we see his heed lookin at the spikes. He’s thinkin aboot it. The warnin signs mean nuhin tae him, compared tae the six bottles ae happy on the other side. Everycunt goes quiet n A wait tae see wit he dis.

He goes fur it. A chunky trainer tries tae find purchase on the brick wall, behind the spikey fence. A know, fur a fact, that the gate doesnae lock. The big padlock is just decorative n wis fucked years ago. We used tae bounce in tae git baws that hud been skied. Keeps weans oot, but cravin alkies ir a different matter. They’re aw pishin theirsels at the eld cunt. A walk up by him. He’s on the deck noo wae his foot caught in the fence, troosers half fawin doon his fuckin arse. A put a hand through n open the gate. A step through n grab the bag. A put ma hand oot fur him tae grab. His eld paw comes up wae trepidation. He takes hold ae it n pulls himself up. His hand slowly goes tae the bag n picks it up. He fishes in his jakit pocket producin ten Club n hands them tae me wae his heed doon.

‘Fur yir troubles.’

A walk back up wae a wee bit extra swagger. Everycunt’s lookin at us.

‘Fuckin furget that eld cunt, it’s a sin fur him.’

The group ir momentarily enlightened n nod in agreement.

‘Aye, man, true.’

‘Fuckin pish fur cunts like that int it.’

‘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.

‘Mon, boys,’ A say, walkin doon towards the noise.

‘Fuckin intae them, bhoys! Time fur a skirmish!’ Danny shouts louder.

Broonie n that ir aw gem fur it. Wan ae our elder wans n a squad ae theirs. Taz’s almost at us noo, pantin like an eld dug fae runnin. A kin feel Addison shitin himself fae behind me. A kin see him in ma peripheral vision, still on the phone, but quickly sayin his goodbyes. Kenzie’s shoutin fur Addison tae git on the phone tae Big Kenzie n the troops n call in reinforcements. Big Danny is makin sure his trainers ir tied n A follow suit. Losin a trainer kin be deadly. Taz reaches us n the crowd behind him slows seein us. ‘Fuckin hell, boays … cunts jumped us … walkin up that backroad there. Backin’ us up, boays?’

Wee Kenzie struts in like the delegate in charge. ‘Aye, ma boys wull back yi up, mate! Nae sweat,’ he says lookin gem, but wae a wee nervous glance towards the cunts walkin up the hill.

Danny’s fuckin buzzin. A kin see him crackin his knuckles n rollin his shoulders. Broonie’s mad-wae-it dancin aboot on his tiptoes, swingin his arms in the air. Finnegan’s standin smilin like fuck wae his hand in his pocket. Addison’s fuckin shitin himself. They’re only a hundred feet away noo.

Taz’s caught his breath again. ‘Ah must be gittin eld, man. A dunno any yooz wee guys.’

Calm doon, Taz, mate, yir only seventeen, ya cunt, A think n don’t say. A’m fuckin buzzin anaw noo. The wine ae earlier is the drivin force. We’ve been buzzin aw night, cos ae the fireworks, the swally n the Friday Feelin. We kin see the cunts noo. There’s five ae them. A recognise a few fae school n A know two ae them. JP, Jamie Peters, who’s a year elder than us n a mad cunt, n Si O’Connor, wan ae their best fighters n a year elder anaw. His big brur, Matty, is the tap man doon there. Yi kin tell the two ae them ir the maddest. They’re powerin ahead, awready wae their arms in the air, shoutin the fuckin odds. The three others ir walkin slightly behind. A dunno them, but at least wan ae them looks aboot eighteen or suhin, a right elder wan. Taz’s confidence hus grown. He’s seen Wee Kenzie, n heard Addison phonin Big Kenzie. The rest ae the Young Team wid hear through MSN n an army ae wee thumbs tappin madly at mobile phone buttons.

‘Fuckin mone then, ya dafties, YOUNG TEAM!’ Taz shouts, walkin back doon. We aw share a wee smile n probably look chuffed as fuck. That second we aw go fuckin mental. The adrenaline gees yi that sick-making, dancin feelin in yir stomach that yi come tae love n dread simultaneously.

The five ae them ir walkin up the middle ae the road. A wine bottle comes flyin up the street n bursts in front ae us, leavin its green fangs lyin aw over the road. We’re aw walkin doon noo adjacent tae the bookies. A hear a fuckin hissin in ma ear. Finnegan sends the Sonic FX twistin n screamin doon the street at them. Taz looks like he’s gonnae lay a fuckin egg, the cunt. Finnegan’s laughin his heed aff, dancin aboot on the pavement. The rocket whines up the street towards them, hits a car windscreen and explodes mid-air, wae