Page 148 of Playing By Ear

Since the instrument was already tuned to G, he chose a simple, four-chord version of ‘My Hometown,’ which he busked once in a wee while for the older crowd. To ensure he didn’t screw up the words, he opened a new browser tab on his phone and pulled up a page with links to every Springsteen song.

Then he began, playing with a rolling strum that sounded pretty and gave the words a road to ride upon.

Why, he wondered, out of all the album’s tracks, had he selected the one featuring a father and son? Maybe it was to avoid the awkwardness of singing a romantic song about his parents, especially a sexy one like “I’m On Fire.” Or maybe Jamie was wrestling with demons in the safest way he knew how.

As the final chord faded, Martin nodded and said, “Nice one. Good message, too.”

“My theory? I think the wee lad from the first verse grew up and moved away, gave his own son a new hometown in the last verse.”

“Nah, the family doesnae move,” Martin said. “That’s the whole point of the song. You stay where your roots are, even when things go bad.”

“Can’t a hometown just be a town that feels like home?”

Martin chuckled. “You can take the prince out of Provanpark, but you cannae take Provanpark out of the prince.”

“What if the prince takes Provanpark out of himself? Or what if he’s no prince at all? What if that’s all rubbish?”

His father stared straight ahead at the TV, looking like he’d suddenly checked out of the conversation.

Jamie fought the urge to apologize. “What’s wrong?”

Martin shook his head slowly. “I was just thinking about Mickey. I still ask his advice now and again.”

“For real?”

“I’m not daft, I don’t actually believe he hears me. I’m just asking myself what he would do.” Martin frowned. “He wouldn’t have let you go, if you was his son.”

“If I was Ritchie, you mean.”

Martin visibly flinched at the name. “If you was still you, but you was Mick’s son. See, he was a real hard man, much harder than me. He was the Ronnie to my Reggie.”

Jamie glanced at the TV, where the legendary twins, played by the brothers from Spandau Ballet, dominated the screen the way they’d dominated the London streets. Both had been monsters, but Ron the scarier of the two, his mental illness making him an erratic wild card that even his brother couldn’t control.

“Brittle, though, Mickey was,” Martin said. “Your Aunt Frances’s death broke him.”

“But Mum’s death didn’t break you.”

“How could it? I’d you kids to look after. Two of my own and one of Mick’s.”

This time, Jamie didn’t say Ritchie’s name. He waited to see if Martin would tell more lies or finally confess.

“Maybe it was best you turned out soft,” his father said, the word sounding less of an insult than usual. “Otherwise you’d never have come back to me.”

“Maybe,” Jamie whispered, though there was no doubt.

“I never went back for my da.”

“By the sound of it, he didn’t deserve any grace.”

Martin raised his eyebrows at Jamie as if to ask, And I do? But instead of speaking, he leaned forward and poured another pair of drams, spilling not a drop.

Jamie got up and fetched his glass. This time they didn’t toast.

Maybe Jamie’s return was the only good thing Martin MacKray deserved, because although he was a bad person, he’d been a decent dad. Apart from killing Ritchie and lying about it, of course.

It was hard to square that monster with this diminished man on the couch. Maybe…Jamie didn’t dare believe it, but…maybe Ritchie really had been banished to the Caribbean?

“Mm.” Martin drew a hand through his auburn hair, thinning from the cancer but still fuller than that of most men his age. “It’s easier to talk about Mick now. Maybe cos I’ll be seeing him soon.” He dropped his hand. “Probably in hell, if I’m honest.”