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that, hen,’ Lee said, snatching it from Amazon. His children were all named after rivers. Lisa’s idea. Delta, their eldest boy, and Amazon were named after rivers Lee had heard of. (The Delta: in America. Something tae dae wi Mississippi and aw that. The Amazon: wi aw they mad darkies that nae cunt hud ever seen.) He’d never heard of the Styx but Lisa had assured him that she’d read somewhere that there was definitely a river called that. Maybe in Australia or somewhere.
    Amazon burst into tears.
    ‘Ah fucking told ye!’ Lisa said.
    ‘Well, fucking wash it then!’ Lee said, tossing her the doll and moving around them to open the front door.
    ‘Where are you going?’ Lisa asked.
    ‘Ah telt ye. Ah’ve goat a meeting.’
    ‘Meeting?’ Lisa said witheringly. ‘Meeting ma fucking erse.’
    ‘Fur fuck sake, Lisa, gie’s peace. Ah’m late.’
    ‘Who’re ye meeting?’
    ‘Nane o’ your fucking business, right?’
    ‘Aw, fuck off then.’
    ‘You fuck off!’
    Lee slammed the door and hurried down the path. Fucking Lisa–whit happened tae that lassie? Non-stop moaning. She’s a short memory too, Lee thought, fishing in his pockets for cigarettes. Wisnae that long ago–just before Christmas, when ah did that wee job over in Ardrossan–ah was walking in the door wi a couple o’ grand oan ma hip. Hang on though.That was the Christmas before last. Truth be told things had been tight for a while. Lisa kept asking him when he was going to get a job. Shite like that. Turning into his fucking mother so she was.
    Realising he had no cigarettes he checked the comedy Tag–1.15. Wouldn’t be that late to meet Sammy if he hurried. He could buy one round, Sammy the other, and then Lee would make his excuses. (Or maybe better to try and get Sammy to buy the first round, then he could buy the second and he might get a third pint out of Sammy.) Part of Lee resented going along to spend the last four pounds he (or rather, his son) had in the world until the broo cheque arrived next week, just to listen to someone moan, but he needed to reassure Sammy that–despite his frustrating morning in the woods–everything would be OK.
    Anyway, Lee reasoned, you had to speculate to accumulate.

6
    D RIVING RANGES; FLOODLIT CITADELS OF CONCENTRATED torment where the damned gather to toil in collective silence, the only sounds the swish and clang of metal drivers meeting chunks of balata, the swish and crump of irons chunking into AstroTurf mats, the occasional agonised moan or growled curse, the even rarer whistle of appreciation as the Golf Gods throw the suckers a sweet connection, just enough hope to keep them coming back.
    The range Gary used was up at Stone Cairn, just off the bypass, and had been built four years ago to cater to the unstoppable flood of amateur golfers desperate for new means to inflict pain upon themselves. Eighteen floodlit bays looked out onto a green strip of land 150 yards wide and just under 300 yards long, the far end marked by a metal sign, red paint on white saying ‘250 YARDS’. There were more distance signs at 200, 150 and 100 yards, then, about fifty yards out, the little nets, about the size of a car bonnet, for hitting practice chips into. The rusting hulk of an old Land Rover sat smack in themiddle of the field: a comedy target that would occasionally reverberate as a ball clattered off its roof or doors. Thousands of golf balls lay dotted all across the range, almost every one representing the fallen hopes of a madman.
    Gary wanted to work on his long irons, the three and four, for most amateur players the hardest clubs in the bag to hit well. He fed five pound coins into the squat metal monster that sprayed out the balls. There was an ominous rumbling from the depths of its steel guts and then thunder as it unleashed a torrent of balls into Gary’s green plastic bucket. He walked to the far end of the near-empty range, choosing the very last bay, the one furthest away from his fellow