She strutted through the flat like it was a catwalk in hell — just a pink thong wedged up her arse and that ridiculous jewel thing glintin out between her cheeks like a Christmas bauble for degenerates. Davie choked on his lager, coughin up foam as she turned round and gave him that look — half challenge, half ‘what are you gonnae dae aboot it?’ It wisnae sexy, not really. It was confrontational. Like she was wearin her own madness on display, some kind ae war medal for filthy minds. The plug sparkled under the kitchen lights — Tesco halogen, dead romantic. He looked at her and thought, this is either the best or worst idea I’ve had in months, and either way, it was too late now.