Page 117 of Playing By Ear

“It was largely my own fault for not telling him sooner. I could pretend I put it off because I didn’t want to stress him out in his condition.” She took a long drag. “But the fact is, I got stuck mulling over what you said, how the Coyles’ idea could be the perfect off-ramp. A pile of cash to launch Operation Respectability, start from scratch with a legitimate business.”

“Wait, you were considering it? And I fucked it all up?” Jamie could kick himself.

“Your heart was in the right place, as ever. Besides, I’d never have the courage to argue with Dad about it.”

“It’s not too late. We could go inside right now and convince him together. We could tell him everything.”

“No. No way.”

“Look,” he said, “one thing I’ve learnt since coming back is that Dad’ll respect you more if you’re real with him. Now is the perfect time to come clean, when he’s up to high doh about you keeping secrets. Tell him you want total honesty.”

She gave a grim laugh. “Now that would be the biggest lie of all.”

“So what does this mean for the Coyles’ proposition?”

“We’re not selling the business,” she said.

“You’re okay with a war between the families after Dad’s gone?”

“Just because Middle Tony says a thing doesn’t make it true. You assume these guys are clever and logical, but you don’t know them. Some people are born stirrers.” Her eyes narrowed. “They’d happily toss a crate of fireworks onto a bonfire just to see all the pretty colors.”

Tired of holding the soggy wad of kitchen roll, Jamie tucked it into his jacket pocket, where he felt a soft bulge against his ribs. He pulled the Davey Doo toy from his inside pocket, hoping to cheer his sister up. “Remember this wee guy?”

He’d always thought color draining from someone’s face was just a turn of phrase, but it was happening in front of him. Belinda’s fair skin turned a translucent white. A vein appeared beneath her temple where her blond hair was swept back.

Her voice trembled staccato. “Wh-where-where did you get that?”

“Some antique seller. The shopkeeper said the show ran in the early nineties, but I don’t remember it.”

Belinda jerked her gaze from the pigeon to Jamie’s face. “You don’t remember? You loved that show. You loved—” She choked off her own words, then snatched the toy and shook it under his nose. “You really don’t remember?”

“No! When I saw it, I almost felt like boaking. Why would it do that to me?”

Belinda stared at the toy in her lap, her lips a thin, hard line. Then she stubbed out her cigarette and turned to him, the corners of her eyes melting into tenderness. “You had a Davey Doo with you when Mum died.”

He sucked in breath so hard it hurt his throat. “With me, as in, with me?”

She nodded. “In the pram that day.”

The day he was too young to remember. But some bit of him had remembered.

“I didn’t have that toy later,” he said. “What happened to it after the accident?”

Belinda looked away, pressing the dove to her chest with both hands. “Dad binned it. It made us sad, and you had so many soft toys, we didn’t think you’d miss it. Then I shoplifted Honey Bum for you.”

“Honey Bum. Christ. That wee teddy with the⁠—”

“With the red bow tie and inexplicably yellow arse.”

“I never knew you stole him. That’s…weirdly sweet.”

“I was only seven, but I felt like you needed a mum. And Dad was…”

Jamie had heard a million times how their father was rocked, demolished, annihilated by his wife’s sudden death. How his sisters had feared he would follow her into the dark the way Mickey had done after his own wife’s death. How the thirteen-year-old Ritchie had stepped up in so many ways, earning Martin’s gratitude and loyalty. For a while, at least.

Belinda held Davey by the wings and flapped them up and down. “He didn’t go out much. He let Uncle Ray and Uncle Pete handle most of the firm business.” Her lip curled. “Back then, his enemies respected him enough to leave him alone. It was part of the code: You don’t move on a man in mourning.”

Jamie held pure still, afraid to break her reverie.