"Don't be running around the streets, Ross Cameron."

If I had a pound for every time my mum said those words to me, I'd be able to afford a top-class quad bike. Sure, it's probably good advice, but not good enough to make me listen. What teenager wants an adult running their life? Certainly not me. When you're thirteen-years-old and living in Ayrshire, Scotland, there's nothing else to do but run the streets.

There are three regulars in our group; Todd Macdonald, who we call Mac for obvious reasons, Stewart Black, a boy who makes rocks look intelligent, and finally me. I'm the most sensible of the trio but it's not exactly a badge of honour, particularly when one of your friend's is a big risk-taker like Mac.

His inventiveness means we always manage to find new and ingenious ways to pass the time. Chap-door-run away is an old favourite, as is playing Kerby if we can find a road without traffic. Now and again, we shoot pool down the amusements or play five-a-side football in the indoor complex, but those hobbies cost money, and money is a luxury none of us can afford.

Perhaps, it was our lack of combined funds that led us to our usual haunt, shivering outside the off-licence at the top of Benjamin Drive, hoping the overweight shopkeeper would do what he always did - chase us away with his big red brush. Not the most exciting way to pass the time but "the chase," as we called it had become something of a Friday night ritual.

"What's taking him so long?" mumbled Mac, his mouth barely emerging from the high collar of his white jacket.

"Maybe, he's not coming." I replied.

Mac was my oldest friend. He was built like a tank and much taller than his age suggested. An imposing figure without a doubt, he also had the balls to put something behind his size other than a smart mouth. One joker at school found out the hard way when he tried to get everyone calling him Big Mac. Not one to take attempts at bullying lightly, especially when it's himself who's the target, Mac beat the joker up in the maths corridor in full view of the headmaster who was doing his tour of duty at the time. He got a three-day suspension for that act of violence. A bit harsh if you ask me. Not that Mac cared one way or the other.

As he said at the time - "There will be no burger-inspired nicknames on my watch."

I chuckled over that comment while we waited in the cold, but another twenty minutes passed with no sign of the shopkeeper coming out, so Stewart made a point of running in and out of the shop to constantly set off the beeper. The usually agitated shopkeeper merely glanced in our direction but made no attempt to chase us.

"He's not biting, is he?" I said, shaking my head.

Mac did not react, but Stewart nodded in agreement, adjusted his white and blue baseball cap, and then reached into the pocket of his blue jacket to produce a ten deck of cigarettes.

"You're not lighting up again, are you?" I asked.

"Nothing else to do mate."

"But you've only just put one out."

"Don't worry," He popped the cigarette into his mouth and then lit the end with a red throwaway lighter. "I've got plenty more in the house."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"Well, glad to hear it."

Now, anyone who's ever been in Stewart's company knows he's a serial tapper. A notorious scadge who won't think twice about taking anything he's given, even if the person offering can't afford to give it away. He's the sort of boy who turns up at a birthday party without a present but still manages to get the biggest slice of cake.

"How come you've always got a smoke?" I asked him.

"Not always."

"Literally always."

He chuckled softly, narrowed his eyes, and then took a draw of the cigarette. I watched him hold his breath for a moment and then blow the stinking smoke in Mac's direction.

"Leave me twos on that." he ordered.

"You don't even smoke."

"I don't want to smoke it; I want to chuck the lit end at you."

"What's your problem?"

"I'll tell you, my problem," Mac replied, as he leaned against the roughcast wall to put some distance between himself and Stewart's second-hand smoke. "It's not that you're putting that muck in your lungs. You can smoke yourself stupid for all I care. It's not even the fact you probably stole them from your gran. No, my problem is that you insist on blowing the smoke in my direction."

"Och, give me a break man."

"Don't tempt me, Stewart." Mac replied, obviously talking about the kind of break that required hospital treatment.

Although I usually stayed neutral when my two best friends clashed, there were times when I had to intervene before things got ugly. Stewart was the type who would never back down, even if he didn't stand a chance against the aggressor. With Mac getting heated, I decided to nip this one in the bud before the situation got out of hand.

"That's enough," I calmly stepped between the pair of them. "It's time we went somewhere else anyway."

Mac nodded. "Yup, the fat shopkeeper isn't for budging."

"I canny be bothered running anyway." Stewart replied.

"A few more years of smoking and you won't be able to."

Thankfully, Stewart did not react to the dig. We stood in silence until I suggested we pop down and see if our other friend Alan Reid wanted to come for a walk about the streets. Alan is our third wheel. Well, he would be a third wheel if there was only two of us. I suppose Alan's our fourth wheel, if there is such a thing. He's not quite a best friend, but not quite a stranger either. He's just...... Alan.

"But he never comes oot this late." said Mac.

"I say we try anyway." Stewart replied.

Mac rolled his eyes and said, "Every time we go to his door, we end up freezing to death on his doorstep while he stands in his nice warm porch, talking absolute garbage."

"What else is there to do?" Stewart asked.

"Let's go for a walk. At least we'll be warmer if we keep moving."

I had to agree with Mac's plan. The night was bitterly cold, and even though I'd come prepared with a winter jacket, I'd left my thermal gloves on the phone table back at the house. My hands were beginning to turn blue.

"I'm up for a walk."

"Good man, Ross," said Mac, gently patting me on the back. "What aboot you Stewart?"

"Depends on the time?"

I pulled my sleeve back to reveal the watch my papa had bought me for my twelfth birthday last month.

"It's seven o'clock."

Stewart gave me the thumbs up. "Aye, plenty of time for a walk before nine."

"You got a curfew tonight?" Mac asked.

"Nope, but I'm starving."

"What's that got to do with being back for nine o'clock?" I asked.

"My stepdad always makes toast and cheese about nine. I want to be back for a munch."

I nodded. "Where will we walk to?"

"Doon the beach?" Mac suggested.

"Great idea."