Page 106 of Playing By Ear

He left his regular phone behind and pocketed only the secure one Belinda had given him. Then he shuffled outside in a semi-zombie state, wondering how much money he’d lose by not busking on this fine spring day.

Two years ago, when Jamie had moved in, this Mercedes would’ve looked out of place in his street, like a diamond in a pile of dog shite. But gentrification was spreading out from Glasgow University, offering tapas cafés and vegan bakeries while yanking away affordable housing. Soon he’d be priced out of this flat, just like all the others he’d lived in.

He opened the passenger door and was greeted by a greasy-breakfast smell that made his stomach growl.

Martin patted a paper bag in the console between the front seats. “Got a wee Maccy D’s for you. This coffee’s yours.” He tapped the bigger cup in the holders.

Jamie tucked into the breakfast roll with brown sauce, hiding his alarm as his dad did a U-turn in the middle of the (thankfully empty) street. “Where are we going?”

“Day trip. Trossachs.”

Jamie scanned the dashboard. “Hold on. I thought you had a BMW.”

“I do. I nicked this one.”

Jamie stared at him, fully awake in an instant. “You stole a car? Dad, you cannae get away with that these days. They’ve got technology to track⁠—”

“I’m kidding on. It’s your Auntie Rosemary’s car. Better stereo than mine.”

“She let you borrow it?”

His father tilted his head back and forth. “Told her I was taking it for its MOT inspection. Cannae believe she thought I’d do her a wee favor like that. She knows all my favors are massive.” Martin reached for the radio, missing on his first attempt, then smacking his hand against the button to switch it on. “Find us something good. None of that modern rubbish.”

Sipping his coffee, Jamie checked Aunt Rosie’s presets, all of which were either news or “modern rubbish.” He turned the dial until he found a 50s station. “There we are, your era.”

“I’m not that old, ya clown. Try again.”

Jamie found a boomer-music station transitioning from Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town” to Sex Pistols’ “Pretty Vacant.”

“Aww,” Martin said. “I love that Thin Lizzy song.”

Jamie kept his cringe on the inside. “Mm.”

“It’s about the Quality Street Gang.”

“The Celtic reserve team from the late sixties?”

“Naw, a firm in Manchester. Allegedly, those lads scared the Kray twins back to London when they tried to expand their territory.” He turned up the volume on the Sex Pistols and started singing along. “’Mon, you know the words.”

“I’m eating,” Jamie said through a mouthful of breakfast roll.

“Eat during the next song. Here comes the chorus!”

Jamie muttered the lyrics, resisting the urge to nod along with the beat. By the end of the song, he was singing backup, repeating the title in a low drone while Martin belted out Johnny Rotten’s lead part.

“See?” His dad lowered the volume on a Yes tune. “It’s okay to have a laugh with me.”

Jamie frowned.

Martin heaved a great sigh. “If I wanted to spend the day with a big lump of nothing, I’d have brought Gerry.”

“Nice way to talk about the guy who would literally take a bullet for you.”

“I pay him enough to not need compliments.” Martin grinned at him.

“I heard brain tumors change your personality. When does that process start?”

“Hah! There’s my Jimmy.” Martin reached over to pat his shoulder, but his hand landed awkwardly, his gold signet ring batting Jamie’s collarbone.