Wolfie was zipped neck-deep into a velveteen puffa, and all to be seen was the vicious little head, with his eyes swivelling left and right to check out the sideways for lurking aggravators. Fucker was in a stripey dress shirt made out of a fine yellow cheesecloth – he was the sort of young fella who didn’t feel the cold when a ruck was brewing; a strange fire burned inside. They clipped through the Trace and aimed for the 98 Steps. Eerie was the call of the hardwind in winter and the wynds of the Trace were deadhouse sombre.Feel the chill moistness of the air – Bohane would be a hoor of a town for a lung infection now.And of course feeling settles into the bones of a place – we know this – and the Trace had an odd, nervous shimmer to it this evening. It’ll get this nauseous air when a Feud is on the short fuse.Fucker and Wolfie made it to the 98 Steps. Ol’ Boy Mannion had brokered an unmolested passage to the Rises for the pair but it was for this one evening only, and for this lone purpose.The 98 is a steep, high-walled climb, and as they ascended, the Back Trace gave way by degrees to the Northside Rises.From the broad and derelict avenues above the Norrie voices scraped at the dank sky and the chanters droned an age-old warsong and the flames of the bonnas licked and spat.Fucker and Wolfie neared the crest of the 98 and the voices faded a note and gave away now to a sequence of long, tuneful whistles.Clear enough that the Watches of the Rises were marking the ascent.Fucker Burke said a silent prayer to the Sweet Baba Jay that Mannion’s word was good and that the passage was secure, and if it was not, and if he never saw or held his sweet Angelina again – never drowned again in the pools of her eyes – that she would find a happy berth, somewhere, and maybe after a time forget him.Wolfie Stanners had recourse to no gods but to the even beating of his own fierce Back Trace heart and he stared hard and fearlessly about the Rises avenues as they cleared now the last of the 98.The avenues of the Rises were broad, treeless, broken, and laid out to a vaguely Soviet pattern.
