Page 12 of Playing By Ear

“Phenomenal, mate. Why did you—oh.” Jamie smacked his forehead. “I was gonnae ask why you stopped.”

“It wasn’t my vision. When I quit officiating, the only symptom I had was night blindness. My vision was still perfect during the day, and my doctor said it might stay that way for years, maybe forever.”

“Why’d you stop being a ref, then? Fed up of abuse from players and fans?”

Perry snorted. “Frankly, the more people yelled at me, the more I knew I was doing my job.”

“Ooh, hard man,” Jamie teased. “Then…why’d you quit?”

So this was what it was like, being on the receiving end of relentless questioning. “Have you ever considered a career in journalism?”

Jamie raised his hands in a surrender posture. “I’m so sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”

“I’ve only ever told one person.” Perry took a sip of wine. “It’s probably safe to talk about now.”

“Safe?”

Brilliant, now he sounded paranoid. “Legally, I mean. Nine years was a long time ago.” Perry rubbed his neck, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder for bad guys lurking in the shadows—not that he could identify any if they were there. “You remember that massive match-fixing scandal, where one of the local crime families was working with a big Eastern European betting firm? It was never proved in court, but there were rumors in the press…” He leaned forward so he could lower his voice. “The rumors were true. I was approached by some thug working for the MacKrays—that gangster family from North East Glasgow? He offered me three hundred pounds to help fix a match and said the amount would increase in subsequent matches if I, quote, ‘did my job.’ I refused, but I was so rattled, I quit and used my vision as an excuse.”

Jamie had fallen silent, which flustered Perry. He preferred when people gave him verbal cues to show they were listening.

“You okay?” Perry asked.

“Oh aye!” Jamie cleared his throat. “That’s, erm, that’s awful. The M-MacKray gang’s notorious.”

“Fun fact? Their name was originally ‘MacRae’”—he spelt out the last three letters—“but Martin and Michael MacKray changed the spelling as an homage to the Krays.”

Jamie’s “Oh” sounded uncertain.

“The famous London gangster twins?” Perry prompted. “There’s loads of films and books about them. Remember Legend last year with Tom Hardy, where he played both brothers?”

“Right. Of course.”

“Anyway,” Perry said, “after I quit officiating, I got angry—not just at the people who’d done this to me, but at myself for running away.” Even now his blood heated with indignation. “I went to my editor asking to do a story on it, but she said it was too dangerous.”

“She’s right,” Jamie blurted, then cleared his throat again. “I mean, probably. Those people don’t mess about. Best to forget it.”

“I know,” Perry said with a sigh. “This isn’t a Hollywood film where one crusading do-gooder defeats the villains. Organized crime is as much a part of this city as the People’s Palace or the Duke of Wellington’s traffic-cone hat. My parents moved out of the East End during the Ice Cream Wars because they didn’t want to raise a child amidst all that violence.”

Perry was blethering again. He needed to socialize more often, so his mouth wouldn’t spew endless words the moment he had an audience.

“I remember the Ice Cream Wars,” Jamie said slowly. “I mean, I wasn’t born yet either, but my uncle telt me how one time he was queueing for ice cream when the van got smashed up by a bunch of gangsters. They did it right in front of all the kids. He said the driver was selling drugs in the wrong family’s territory.”

“Madness.” Perry lifted his wine tumbler. “To our fair city’s peaceful future.”

“Aye.” Jamie tapped his glass against Perry’s. “To the future.”

Once their meals arrived, Jamie steered the conversation from Glasgow’s crime scene onto more typical first-date topics. He and Perry liked a lot of the same important things, such as late nineties trip-hop and the sweet-and-sour pain of supporting Partick Thistle FC.

A conversation with Perry felt more intimate than with most people. His focus never faltered, his gaze passing only between his own food and Jamie’s face, never breaking off to wander round the romantically lit dining room, much less glance at his phone. Between Perry’s unwavering attention, his animated voice, and his tendency to reach across the tiny table to touch his arm, Jamie felt like the most fascinating man alive.

When talk turned to family, Jamie trotted out his standard efficient lie: that his father had chucked him out of the house for being gay. It was a familiar tale, and the truth was so much weirder.

“How long were you and your boyfriend together?” he asked Perry. “The one you brought to this restaurant.”

“Nearly three years.” Perry stabbed a few orecchiette onto his fork tines. “He was with me during the most precipitous decline in my vision, when I had to stop driving and I started having social difficulties.”

“What sort of social difficulties?” Jamie asked.