Page 162 of Playing By Ear

“Cos I’m a pre-corpse, or cos of all the stories you’ve heard telt about me?”

“Technically we’re all pre-corpses, and as for the stories, I prefer to size up a person face to face.”

Martin grunted. “It’s like I tell the young folk working for me. You build relationships in the flesh. There’s nae substitute.”

Perry steered his mind away from what gangsters did to a person’s flesh. “I suppose to the extent I fear you, it’s because you’re Jamie’s father. He’d never admit it, but he cares what you think of him, so he’d absolutely care what you think of me.”

“Well.” Martin gave a light cough. “You make a good living with your writing?”

“I do all right.”

“This country needs more people like us, people who work for themselves instead of slaving away to make some other wanker rich.”

Perry was disturbed to be placed in the same entrepreneurial bucket as an organized-crime boss, but he rolled with it. “I agree. My mum runs her own counseling center. She’s blind too.” He risked a joke. “It’s something of a family tradition.”

It was Martin’s turn to be dumbstruck. Then he laughed. “Nice one. A family tradition.” Another chuckle. “Like how Jimmy has my eyes.”

“Why do you still call him Jimmy?”

“Cos that’s who he is.”

“Not anymore.”

“Eh,” Martin said, as though it was up to him. “Sometimes I call him James.”

Perry was pretty sure this was a lie. “He’s not a James either.”

“And you know him better than I do?”

“Yes,” Perry said, with no shred of uncertainty. He had come here ready to show deference to a dying man, but he couldn’t forget the suffering this dying man had foisted upon Jamie. Was it too much to ask that he call his son by his preferred name?

Besides, Perry could only be deferential for so long before his inner referee rebelled.

“Hm.” Martin’s answer was hard to interpret without seeing his expression. “Maybe I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” Perry wanted to bring up Stuart, but he had to plan his approach carefully, work out exactly what information he needed and how best to obtain it.

“There’s something else.” Martin shifted in the bed, emitting a tiny gasp of what sounded like pain. “Jimmy…Jamie…he’s a good man. See to it he stays good.”

“He’ll always be a good man no matter what.”

“Anyone can be good or bad any time. It’s not in us one way or the other. So promise me.” Martin patted his mattress. “Call it a deathbed wish.”

“You’re not—” Alarm rose in him. “Do you feel like you’re about to⁠—”

“Nah, not yet. Gotta stick around till the twenty-second so I can watch the Cup final on YouTube.”

“The Warriors first need to win Saturday’s semifinal.” Perry wasn’t superstitious, except maybe a little when it came to football.

Martin hesitated. “Oh, aye. Getting ahead of myself. What day is it, Perry?” His tone was urgent, as though his life depended on the answer.

“Today’s the fourth of May.”

“Ah. So eighteen days.” He was silent for the span of a breath, then said softly, “I can do that.”

“It’s madness,” Jamie said as he and Perry folded the washing in the kitchen, “how many tasks are involved in being a carer. Think of all you do for yourself, multiply it by two, then add meds and a dozen unmentionable tasks.”

Perry’s admiration for his boyfriend had doubled today. “Aren’t there care assistants who could ease some of the burden?”