Page 128 of Playing By Ear

“Depends on how hard she tries. On whether she’s still alive after trying.” Jamie’s voice trembled. “On whether you’re still with me.”

It felt like the two of them were teetering on a seesaw perched atop a beach ball rolling along a tightrope.

“Go on.” Perry heard the flint in his own voice.

“It’s no excuse, but they’re my family.” Jamie’s breathing audibly quickened. “Family are meant to be everything. Even so, I cut myself off.” He made a gesture Perry couldn’t see clearly. “I built a concrete wall, a wall with one wee door that opened a few times a year and only for my sister. We’d meet in the doorway but never walk through it. We stayed out of each other’s lives.”

“Until now,” Perry said.

“Until now.”

“And what about this cousin, Ritchie? Has he stayed out of your life?”

“Ritchie?” Jamie yanked in a breath. “Ritchie’s dead.” He gulped hard. “I was there.”

Perry stared at him, but even with the sunlight streaming through the front window, he couldn’t make out Jamie’s expression. “What?”

“Och…” Jamie lurched to sit up, the ice packs tumbling off his ankle. “Think I might boak.”

“Wait!” Perry shot to his feet. “Don’t get up. I’ll get you a bin.” He dashed to the bathroom, grabbed the small waste bin, and rushed back to the living room.

Jamie was bent over, head between his knees. Perry gave him the bin, then slid his hand over the floor until he found the softer ice pack. “This’ll help.” He draped it over Jamie’s nape.

Jamie shivered, then huffed out a thank you.

“I’ll fetch you a fizzy water, too.”

As Perry hurried to the kitchen, his mind turned over Jamie’s latest revelation. He’d seen his own cousin die. Had he been a child when it happened? Had they both been children?

Nausea rippled Perry’s gut, swamping his curiosity. He seized an extra San Pellegrino for himself.

On the sofa, Jamie was still bent over but had yet to vomit. Perry sat beside him and offered the water.

“Thanks,” he said as he took the bottle. “The ice helps. Head feels less swimmy.” Jamie sat back, nudging the empty bin away with his foot. He took a tiny sip of water, then another. “I was eleven. It was a Saturday, and I had football training. I was meant to have my tea at a mate’s house after, but his dog had eaten, like, a dozen Aero bars and had to go to the emergency vet, so I went home. The house was empty.” Jamie swept his hair back from his forehead, and Perry caught the scent of sweat. “So I decided to have a wee nosey in my dad’s bedroom while he was away.”

“Brave lad.”

“Stupid lad. I’d been watching Taggart and fancying myself a detective. I’d make up a crime and pretend to look for clues, or I’d find clues and make up a crime. I never did that again after…”

Perry waited while Jamie steadied himself.

“Anyway,” he continued, “that day, it wasn’t about playing detective. I wanted to see my dad’s gun.”

Perry’s stomach dropped. He took another sip of San Pell to settle it.

“I pulled it out of his bedside table drawer. Checked the safety was on, kept my fingers well away from the trigger. All the rules he’d taught me.”

“He taught a child to hold a gun?”

“Dad’s no mug. He knew I knew he had it. Better I should learn how to handle a weapon safely so I’d never accidentally shoot myself or someone else.”

“I suppose.”

“Of course, I wasn’t satisfied just holding it,” Jamie said. “I wanted to see how cool I looked with it.”

Perry couldn’t move, could only sit and dread the direction of this story.

“I opened Dad’s wardrobe. It had a mirror on the back of the left-hand door. I started posing with the gun. Aiming at the mirror, or turning to the side and tilting it up.” He demonstrated. “Like I was Emma Peel in The Avengers—the spy show, not the comics. I even did a few spin-arounds, whipping out the pistol like James Bond. Having a grand old time, so I was. Then I heard the front door open.”