Our Streets [on hold]

Part One: Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

These are our streets.

We live ‘em. We breathe ‘em. We know everything that there is to know about ‘em. We can walk them like the back of our hands; know all the shortcuts without being caught.

These are our streets.

We own ‘em.

Murphy and I walked down the bleak, dark cobbles, the bottle of cider we had split between us steadily losing volume with each swig we took. The dwindling light from the faulty street lights cast us into shadow, making us invisible to anyone who couldn’t already hear us.

We turned up the alley, steady drips from a broken gutter echoing around us as they fell into puddles.

“I’m gonnae bang that MacTavish bird, Lochie,” Murphy shouted to the skies, “just you pissin’ watch.” I laughed loudly, shaking my head at him.

“She’s no’ gonnae shag you, Murph,” I told him, swiping the bottle from his hand. “Y’know why? Because you’re street scum; just like me.”

Murphy faltered in his movements, swaying slightly as he processed it. I sniggered, leaning up against the damp wall as I watched him. His bright red hair stuck up in clumps from running his grimy fingers through it, his freckles looking dark in the limited supply of light.

“Am no’ street scum,” he mumbled quietly, glancing around. Rolling my eyes, I slapped him on the back.

“There’s nothin’ tae be ashamed of, Murph; it’s no’ like it’s a bad thing!”

He stared at me, his light eyes wide.

Who was I kidding?

I was proud as fuck being from the streets; this was my home. The houses on the estate over the hill were where I was born and raised. There was nothing more satisfying than telling people where I came from, and taking delight in their expressions of disgust.

But there was no denying that that was me marked for life.

The pair of us were always going to be estate kids, street scum, and whatever the hell else people could come up with. It was never going to change. Now, either we could try and fight it, or just accept that it was always going to be this way.

I had taken to the title a bit better than Murphy had.

“Look,” I sighed, passing him back the bottle of cheap cider, “it’s just the way it is; nowt’ll change it.” Murphy pressed the cider to his lips, taking a long drink of it before throwing the empty plastic container to the side, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

I grinned; Murphy Callahan was back in business!

“S’ppose you’re right,” he muttered, starting up the alley. I went after him, shoving my hands back in my pockets.

“Course I’m right!” I exclaimed gleefully. “Lochie Briggs is never wrong.”

Apart from in exams, tests and other things that mattered.

Murphy snorted with laughter, glancing up and down the road we had come out onto. It was busier; late night buses and drink drivers zooming up and down the sodden concrete. Already, I could hear the jeers coming from the people sitting at the bus shelter, a steady stream of profanities pouring from their mouth every time they objected to something.

See, they weren’t real estate fodder. They were the ones who acted a certain way and made themselves a bad reputation. They didn’t do anything worth the title. They just sat and pissed away their lives.