The tower block shows on the GPS as a multi-winged building, imposing enough in its virtual form, but more impressive as we approach. A vast monolith against the dusk blue sky, lit by vandal-proofed halogens, their steel cages diffusing the light through the rain and mist.

The lobby of the block is brightly lit, a golden cut-away of a black, blank belly.

A half dozen teenagers are sheltering under an awning - one of them is sat on the steps of building, eyes closed, vomit on her trainers.

“She’s unconscious.” screams one of her friends.

Grissom and I cast eyes over the self-supporting, pink, comfortable looking lassie, her eyes screwed tightly shut, steadfastly refusing to wake up.

“No she isn’t.”

I give her a shake, smelling vodka, cider and vomit on her clothes.

“C’mon pal, wakey wakey.”

She screws her eyes a little tighter.

My fingers slide from her shoulder and under her clavicle.

“C’mon, pal.”

A sharp breath in and she opens her eyes.

“Ay! You fucker!”

Glory hallelujah, a murkle.

Grissom takes one arm and I the other and together we huckle the kid into the back of the vehicle. A set of obs and a chat later and we conclude that she is merely drunk.

Her mates bang on the back door and as I open it they don’t ask “Is she ok?” or “Which hospital are you going to?” but “Are you taking her home? Can we come?”

Oh-ho.

I’ve been wasted, as a teenager I once consumed sufficient chemicals to lie on the pavement announcing to my friends that they should leave me be and come back for me in the morning, though I did add the caveat that I may be dead on their arrival.

They dragged me home and alerted my parents to the fact that I was guttered - they did not call an ambulance.

I inform the friends that no, we won’t be giving anyone any lifts, but if they’d like to stick around and explain to the police how they managed to get hold of the drink, they’re more than welcome.

They make “Pwang” noises and leave three little dust clouds in their wake.

Back in the vehicle Grissom has the kid’s mobile against her lug, assorted diamanté baubles hanging from the pink handset.

“Uh-huh….no, no, she’s just drunk…yes, by the high flats…ok…we’ll see you soon.”

She snaps the phone shut and hands it to the patient.

“Your Mum will be here shortly.”

“Bitch isn’t my Mum.”

“Step-Mum?”

“I hate her.”

She snorts, coughs and hawks a gob of pukey snot, or snotty puke into her mouth.

I pass her a cardboard basin.

“In the bowl.”

She shrugs.

“Whatever.”

I take a deep breath.

“Ok, ‘whatever’. But if you deliberately spit on the floor of my vehicle? I’ll wipe it up with your jacket.”

“I feel sick.”

“Yeah, vodka’ll do that to you.”

“Don’t lecture me…I can handle my drink.”

Grissom and I both laugh out loud.

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“And you can ‘handle your drink’, can you?”

“Aye.”

“So how come we’re sitting here with you and not helping someone with a heart attack? Or a car crash? Or a sick baby?”

She sees a way out.

“You can go; you don’t have to wait.”

My frustration comes to the fore.

“No, we can’t. Do you know why? Because you’re a kid, a wee lassie who’s got herself pissed and in trouble. We can’t leave you alone because you’re a child.”

She mutters something inaudible, I only catch the word “cunt”.

A taxi’s diesel engine outside, slamming car doors and a polite knock at the window. Step-Mum stands outside, glaring at the kid.

“In the cab.”

“I just…”

“Now.”

The lassie stomps into the rain, the older woman turns to us.

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

Grissom shakes her head.

“You haven’t wasted our time.”

We all climb into our respective vehicles and make off into the night.

TBC