Gutted

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On the hills at night, you hear screams, you start running. I don’t care what your name is — you do it. Instinct, adrenaline, whatever, it kicks in and you tank it. Sensible people run the opposite way. Mentallers like me chase the screams.

My heart was pounding as my legs stretched out beneath me through the gorse, it was Corstorphine Hill, for Chrissake… not exactly fairway territory. In my current condition, wedded to a bottle of scoosh and smoking forty, scrub that, sixty a day, I had five more minutes of this before a massive coronary kicked in.

I slipped, landed on my arse. Was wet below, was Scotland, c’mon.. it’s in the contract. ‘Fuck me!’ I yelled, my palms scratching on the hard, gnarled roots of a tree. Stung like a bastard. As I tried to get up I took another flyer, cracking my head soundly on the tree’s bole.

‘Oh, Jesus hellfire…’ I touched my temple. Found blood on my fingers, couldn’t figure if it came from my head or my scratched hands. Both formed their own pain brigade, marching through me in time to my fit-to-burst heart.

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