Glasgow, July 1993

The noise hadn't sounded alarming at first. Just the common or garden sounds you heard when your mind stirred to consciousness the morning after the night before. Cars in the street, the odd bark or miaow, feet thundering up and down stairs in a close and the awareness of life going about its daily business around you.

But suddenly, the footsteps sounded very close by. Almost as if they were in the–

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty—oh, ah might have known. He's a fuckin' wee poofter."

There were three of them, and all of them similar looking which contrarily made them more and not less scary looking. The rise and shine man was the shortest, a buzz-cut, heavy-framed bloke with a prominent nose and carrying a baseball bat. Numbers two and three sported the same buzz cut, one with greying temples, the other a red-head, and they all wore bomber jackets and dark jeans. They made the perfect unholy triptych.

When they'd come into the room, Kippy had sat up immediately. Jordan's flat was one of the new builds in the East End, an attempt by house-builders and the council to persuade the young and beautiful that they really did want to live in a place that had long held a reputation for poverty and crime. It was modern, properly insulated, its corners fitted so beautifully there were no gaps for the dust to gather, and at the same time, tiny.

The three men at the bottom of the bed filled the room to capacity. Kippy, struggling with the last vestiges of too much vodka and beer, had clasped the duvet to him—a gesture he doubted would endear him to his new companions. Jordan had stumbled into consciousness a minute or so after Kippy. He sat up in the same way, duvet clasped to the chest and wearing the same look of pure terror.

Short man slapped the baseball bat in his hands, whacking it off his palms in a gesture that held no ambiguity.

"Ah'm Jerry Gibson. Nice tae meet you, ladies. My friends," he turned his head to the right and left, "Jimmy and Ronan are goin' tae explore your flat while you and me have a wee chat."

Jimmy whipped the duvet off the bed as he left the room, dumping it just outside the door. They could hear the sounds of two men taking a flat apart and not bothering to be delicate about it. Kippy thanked the stars he'd pulled on his boxers before going to sleep last night. It had been an instinctive thing, that not wanting to sleep naked. Jordan hadn't done the same. Jerry Gibson looked at his crotch pointedly and thumped the baseball bat once more. He sat down at the end of the bed and smiled at them both.

"Son, you obviously dinnae know how Glasgow works," he grinned at Jordan. Kippy felt a momentary surge of relief that Jerry had managed to identify Jordan, and then loathed himself for it. The relief and the loathing then seemed to battle themselves out.

"We dinnae like strangers who come in and think they can take over, like?"

"Look what ah've got, guv!" Ronan, a malicious grin plastered to his face, returned to the room. He held out plastic bags of white powder in both hands. Kippy felt his insides turn themselves over. If only he hadn't–

Jerry leant forward, exaggeratedly. He plucked the bags up, opened them, licked a finger and inserted it delicately into the first bag, held it to his nose and snorted it.

"Och! Ronan, that's good shit."

Jimmy had returned, also bearing gifts. More plastic bags. The three had reassembled themselves, the unholy triptych, at the bottom of the bed. Jerry gestured behind him, and Ronan lifted a rucksack and put the plastic bags in it.

"We'll consider this compensation for loss of earnings, aye?" Jerry said. "Ah mean, feel free to report it as theft to the polis, but you're no' gonnae get very far."

Kippy felt his heart rate—currently beating as so fast a rate it threatened to explode the organ out of his chest—slow slightly. Okay, it looked as if Jordan was going to get away with this. And jeez, yes this was a lesson in being choosier about who you spent your time with, pretty or not.

Jordan, though, had other ideas.

"You know who I work for, right?"

Christ al-bleedin'-mighty.

Jerry smirked. "The Nevilles?"

Kippy felt Jordan stiffen beside him. Maybe the Neville name was meant to inspire more fear. He felt his heart rate increase once more.

"Son, they've been tryin' to muscle in on the Glasgow scene for years." Next to Jerry, Jimmy and Ronan nodded earnestly. "And we like tae tell them, or we like tae send a message regularly that..."

As soon as he said the words, 'we like tae tell him', Kippy felt his body go into survival mode. Fear flooded his veins. Jerry's words seemed to come from a million miles away. Dod's face swam before him. Some years ago, they'd both got into a fight one evening at the local disco when one of their party had taken a grievance against a guy he thought was after the same girl whose pants he was trying to get into. He remembered the rush of adrenaline, the whirl of punches and kicks as they took on the guy and his mates. Laughter afterwards, too, as they ran from the police.

"Keep the heid, aye?"

Advice from a dead man. Always sound, that. The fear threatened to engulf him, but the biggest worry of all was not that he was about to face a beating on an epic scale, but that he might not survive it with any dignity intact. You didn't get to grow up in a small town without learning the value of dignity.

Jordan had started pleading. He hadn't moved from the bed, perhaps worried that it would take him closer to three men who'd lash out instinctively.

"Look, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I promise. I'll tell the Nevilles that Glasgow is your town, that's it's nothing to do with them. They'll listen to me, they'll do what I say..."

Jerry struck the baseball bat hard on the end of the bed. Jordan only just managed to whip away his foot in time.

"Shut up, you little shite. Has your boyfriend here been helping you?" He nodded at Kippy, keeping his eyes on Jordan's face.

"No, just me."

Kippy let out a tightly held-breath as quietly as he could. Jordan had surprised him there.

The red-headed goon had moved to Kippy's side of the bed. He grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet, fingers pinching tightly into biceps.

There was the sound of footsteps moving on the stairwell outside. All of them turned instinctively to the door. Jordan reacted—yelling out that whoever should call the police, there were men in here trying to assault them and...

Without letting go of Kippy, the red-head clamped a hand over Jordan's mouth, forcing him down onto the bed. Jerry nodded at Ronan, and they heard him let himself out of the flat and return minutes later, exchanging a small nod with his boss.

Rescue from the neighbour looked unlikely.

He retrieved a roll of packing tape from his jacket. Kippy felt his insides turn to liquid. Jordan's stupid screaming had probably made everything much worse. He began to wonder if his life was about to flash in front of him, the way books and films always claimed to happen to people who were about to die. He didn't know if he'd be able to stop the tears and any pathetic pleas, and the dignity, dignity, dignity chant inside his head shrieked louder than ever.

"Ladies, we don't let this kind of behaviour go unchallenged. Now, I think you've learned your lesson, pretty boy, and you'll no' be selling drugs again in a hurry," Jerry pointed the bat at Jordan, "but I also think we'll just reinforce it to be sure."

Jimmy and Ronan had taken hold of them, one each. Jimmy, the red-head, began wrapping tape around Kippy's mouth. He tried struggling at first, but the man was immensely strong, and each struggle was met with a strike, punches to his ribs.

Physical pain wasn't something he had a lot of experience of. Those fights he and Dod had got into as teenagers involved the odd punch and kick, sore knuckles and ribs, black eyes, bruises and split lips. Nothing had ever been slashed or broken.

They two of them were dragged out of the bedroom and into the living room. Jordan was forced onto the small sofa, Jimmy holding him down, an arm around his neck as he stood behind him.

Ronan held onto Kippy, who wished he was wearing more. A pair of jeans or a tee shirt wouldn't offer much protection, but it would be something. He didn't want to see the damage the baseball bat did to his skin, and his almost-nakedness made it very clear that he was shit-scared. He had goose bumps, and he shook, his legs trembling and struggling to keep him upright.

They were stood in the middle of the room. Jerry strolled in, still whacking the baton on and off a palm, letting the sound resonate.

"I hate poofs. Fuckin' abomination—like Mr McAllister says. He telt us all about you two, by the way."

Jordan's eyes wrinkled in puzzlement above the tape, but Kippy knew who Mr McAllister was. The word 'abomination' provided the best clue, after all. The man stood outside Delominca's on a Friday and Saturday night and tried to persuade people not to go in. When they ignored him and his bigotry, he shouted at them homosexuality was a sin, and those who indulged were going straight to hell.

Well, if he'd passed on his knowledge to Jerry Gibson and his mates, it looked as if that prediction might well come true. Hell was this room and what was about to happen.

Interesting too, that those who worried excessively about sex had no qualms when it came to the evils of violence.

"We'll start with your wee boyfriend," Jerry said, addressing Jordan. "You can watch and then we'll do you. Don't make too much noise, or we'll just keep goin'."

He slapped the baseball bat a few times more and moved in on Kippy.

"Doesnae matter if you scream anyway. Ronan here checked. All your neighbours are good, honest folks and they're at work. Every single one o' them."