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Ah sat up n kissed her face, which wis like a swollen, overipe piece of fruit. Ah didnae want tae git heavy here. The truth wis, Sharon repulsed me now. This radge thinks that wi one fuck she can substitute one brar fir the other. Thing is, she’s probably no far wrong.

— We huv tae git up Sharon, git cleaned likes, ken. They widnae understand if they caught us. They don’t know anything. Ah know that yir a good lassie, Sharon, but they dinnae understand fuck all.

— Ah ken you’re a nice laddie, she said supportively, but without a great deal of conviction. She was certainly far too good for Billy, then again Myra Hindley or Margaret Thatcher were far too good for Billy. She was caught in this git-a-man, git-a-bairn, git-a-hoose shite that lassies git drummed intae them, and hud nae real chance ay defining hersel ootside ay they mashed-tattie-fir-brains terms ay reference.

Thir wis another knock at the door.

— If yis dinnae open that door, ah’m gaunny knock it doon. It wis Charlie’s son, Cammy. A fucking young polisman who looked like the Scottish Cup; big jug ears, nae chin, slender neck. The cunt obviously thought thit ah wis shootin up. Well, ah wis, but no in the sense he imagined.

— Ah’m awright . . . we’ll be oot in a minute. Sharon wipes herself n tugs up her pants and re-arranges things. Ah’m fascinated at the speed wi which she moves for a heavily pregnant lassie. Ah couldnae believe ah’d jist shagged her. Ah’d feel bad aboot it the morn, but, as Sick Boy’s prone tae sayin, the morn takes care ay itsel. Thir isnae an embarrassment in the world that cannae be erased by a bit ay blether and a few bevvies.

Ah open the door.

— Take it easy, Dixon ay Dock Green. No seen a lady up the kite before? His glaikit, open-moothed expression inspired ma instant contempt.

Ah didnae like the vibes, so ah took Sharon back tae ma flat. We jist talked. She telt us a loat ay things thit ah wanted tae hear, things ma Ma n faither never knew, and would hate tae ken. How Billy wis a cunt tae her. How he battered her oan occasions, humiliated her, n generally treated her like an exceptionally foul piece ay shite.

— Whit did ye stey wi um fir?

— He wis ma felly. Ye eywis think it’ll be different, thit ye kin change thum, thit ye kin make a difference.

Ah understood that. But it’s wrong. The only fuckers thit ever made a difference tae Billy wir the Provos, and they were cunts as well. Ah’ve no illusions about them as freedom fighters. The bastards made ma brother intae a pile ay catfood. But they only pulled the switch. His death wis conceived by these orange cunts, comin through every July wi thir sashes and flutes, fillin Billy’s stupid heid wi nonsense about crown and country n aw that shite. They’ll go hame chuffed fae the day. They can tell aw thir mates aboot how one ay the family died, murdered by the IRA, while defending Ulster. It’ll fuel thir pointless anger, git thum bought drinks in pubs, and establish thir doss-bastard credibility wi other sectarian arseholes.

Ah dinnae want any cunt fuckin aboot wi ma brar. Those were the words Billy Boy spoke to Pops Graham and Dougie Hood as they came into the pub hassling me, determined that ah had tae pey for ma drugs. Billy’s statement. Oh yes. Delivered wi such clarity and assurance, that it went beyond a threat. Ma irritants just looked at each other and skulked off oot ay the pub. Ah sniggered. So did Spud. We were high, and cared aboot fuck all. Billy Boy sneered at us, something like: You’re a fuckin erse, and joined a couple ay his mates, whae looked disappointed that Pops and Dougie had fucked off, depriving them of an excuse fir a swedge. Ah still giggled. Thanks guys, it’s been

Billy Boy told me that ah wis ruining ma life wi that shite. He told me this on numerous occasions. It’s been real

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What’s it aw aboot. Aw Billy. Aw fuck sakes. Ah didnae

Sharon was right. It’s hard tae change people.

Every cause needs its martyrs though.