Page 185 of Playing By Ear

Jamie woke his dad that afternoon in time to watch Celtic play Aberdeen. A victory would secure Celtic’s fifth consecutive league title, an event Martin was determined to stay awake for.

Funny how the sight of Jamie’s childhood team’s shamrock logo stirred feelings deep within him, feelings never provoked by his adopted team, Partick Thistle. He felt the same tugging at tear ducts when he heard “Flower of Scotland,” though he was far from patriotic, or “Holy, Holy, Holy,” though he was far from devout. A primal sentimentality he’d probably never shake.

Celtic went up 2-0 within twenty minutes, thanks to two Patrick Roberts thunderbolts, and Martin drifted off to sleep, serene in the knowledge the title was in hand.

Jamie tuned out the halftime commentary and focused on his newest song. It was the only one where lyrics had come first, which was just as well, as he didn’t want to wake Martin with his guitar.

At the start of the match’s second half, Jamie’s secure family phone buzzed with a text message.

Aunt Norma

Your da asked me to stop by to discuss business after the match today. Any idea what he’s on about?

Jamie

Not a Scooby

Was it something to do with the escape of Perry’s secret? How would that affect the firm? Jamie doubted they’d lose customers. People looking for drugs or guns were generally more pragmatic than puritanical.

Jamie was so buried in his song, debating whether to turn part of the chorus into a pre-chorus, he barely noticed when Celtic scored again. He would wait to wake Martin near the end of the match so he could watch the celebrations.

But the next time he looked up, Aberdeen had scored two quick goals. “Shit. Dad, wake up.”

Martin gave a soft grunt, then a hard one when he saw the 3-2 scoreline. “What happened?”

“Dunno. By the way, Auntie Norma says she’s coming to discuss business matters. What’s that about?” He didn’t expect Martin to answer truthfully, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“Updating my will.”

His will? Now? “Cutting me out for making you drink water instead of all Irn Bru, all the time?”

“Thought about it, but nah.” Martin raised his right hand, sweeping his fingers at the ceiling. “This house’ll be yours.”

Jamie stared at him. “Sorry?”

“So you never have to live in one of them shite wee flats again.”

“My current flat’s not shite.” It was wee, though. “Dad, I cannae live here while your business operates next door. It’ll make me complicit with what goes on there. The police might see it that way too, and so would your rivals.” The thought of being targeted by either made his palms sweat. “I could try to sell it, but who’d want to live next door to a crime-ring headquarters?”

Martin gazed at his tablet screen, where the referee had just granted Aberdeen a dubious free kick. “It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”

Jamie sensed there was something else going on he wasn’t privy to. “Belinda should have this place. Or one of your sisters.”

“None of ’em need it. They all got bigger houses.”

Jamie sat back in his chair. Could he live in this mirror image of his childhood home?

Would Perry want to live here? He’d have more space—separate rooms for an office and a gym—but Provanpark wasn’t a blind-friendly area, and its handful of pubs and cafés weren’t the trendy sort Perry loved. Rita’s Sweeties didn’t even serve flat whites.

Still, Jamie was twenty-six, with a small stash of cash his only asset. Reality was reality.

“I’ll take the house if it comes with your car.”

His father’s eyebrows popped up, and he gave a slight smirk. “Deal.”

Martin had agreed so readily, Jamie wondered what else might be on offer. He’d think it over before Norma arrived.

Celtic’s defense held out for the rest of the match, though only just. Jamie poured himself and his dad each a dram of the finest whisky in the house to celebrate with the fans in Paradise, the apt nickname for Celtic Park.