Page 161 of Playing By Ear

The speaker lingered in the living room. “The hard sell willnae work with this one. Flies with honey, know what I mean? Show him the upside figures, and he’ll see it’s an A-1 opportunity.”

Fucking hell. It was him.

“And if he still hesitates,” the man said, moving toward the kitchen, “then point out if he refuses he’ll be wearing his guts as a neckl—oh, what’s this?”

“Daddy!”

“Eddie, I’ll phone you back. Hiya, doll!” The man bent over and kissed Lucy’s head. “And you must be Percy.”

“Almost. Perry.” Composing himself enough to hide his revulsion, Perry held out a hand to shake. “Perry Hull.”

“Stuart Wilkie.” A rough hand gripped Perry’s with ostentatious strength. Perry matched it.

“Daddy, I’m making bumpy stickers.”

Stuart let go. “Well, look at that. Nicely done.”

Perry’s left hand suddenly ached, his fingers clamped on the handle of a large saucepan. Did Stuart recognize him? If he did, would he admit it? Perry had no doubt been one in a long line of targeted referees.

The distinctive thump of Jamie’s walking boot sounded on the stairs. Perry set the saucepan on the worktop.

“Stuart, Dad wants to see you,” Jamie said. “But first, Perry, you want to meet him while he’s in a not-shit mood?”

“Yes.” He’d prepared for that. Not this opening of an old wound.

Perry grasped Jamie’s elbow so he could guide him through the living room and up the thickly carpeted stairs.

The bedroom was full of soft, filtered sunshine, so once Perry neared the bed he could make out the figure of Martin sitting up—or perhaps the head of the bed itself was raised.

“Perry,” came a deep, dazed voice. “Welcome.”

“How do you do.” Perry winced at his own overly formal greeting. Taken literally, it was an absurd question. “I mean, thanks for having me.” Equally ridiculous. This wasn’t a garden party. “I mean⁠—”

“Nae bother,” Martin said with what sounded like an effort. “I don’t bite anymore. Come through and sit.” As Perry took the bedside chair Jamie offered, Martin added, “This room must be reeking to a sensitive nose like yours.”

“Dad—”

“My nose is no more sensitive than the average person’s,” Perry said, “and the smell here is…fine.” Was his lie obvious?

“Hm,” Martin said. “Jimmy, gonnae fetch me some of that fizzy water. Stomach’s pure sour.”

“Sure.” Jamie touched Perry’s shoulder. “Back in a mo’.”

His father called after him. “Layla needs out too. Go with her, see she doesnae dig up the pansies.”

“Erm…”

“We’ll be fine,” Perry told Jamie.

“You sure?”

“Go,” Perry and Martin said in unison.

With Layla on his heels, Jamie went out the door and down the stairs.

“You feart of me, Perry?” Martin asked.

He couldn’t lie to a dying man. “Of course I am.”