Page 192 of Playing By Ear

They finished their lunch in haste, then went upstairs and joined what had already become a raucous party, with all the uncles, cousins, and aunties present. The whisky was flowing, including into Martin’s glass, which Aunt Rosie was lifting to his lips.

“Jimmy!” his dad shouted as Jamie walked in. “Play us a tune.”

Jamie stared at him. His father looked like himself again. His cheeks were full and ruddy, and his eyes were sharp blue instead of glassy. It was clear why some families might mistake a rally for a miracle remission.

He took Wendy from her case, and for the next two hours he played while they all sang, everything from the Celtic FC anthem “You’ll Never Walk Alone” to a string of Scottish and Irish drinking and wake songs. They finished with “The Parting Glass,” which turned their laughter to tears more tender than Jamie would have thought possible for one such as Martin MacKray.

By midnight, everyone had departed but Jamie, Perry, Belinda, and Aunt Norma. The two women were fast asleep in the third bedroom, but Martin was still alert.

“Lemme have some of that Irn Bru,” he told Jamie, “and whatever Rita brought.”

So Jamie fetched the drink and the box of assorted biscuits from Rita’s Sweeties. He broke the chocolate ones into tiny pieces and inserted them between his father’s lips.

“It’s like how the peregrine mum and dad feed their eyasses,” Jamie said, strangely glad to have Martin to himself again.

“So I’m a baby bird now, aye?” Martin harrumphed, his tongue taking on the fizzy drink’s orange hue.

“Life is a circle. If we’re lucky.” Jamie’s phone beeped a reminder tone. “Morphine time.” He went to the mini-fridge beside the wardrobe and grabbed one of the syringes he’d pre-measured. “Open wide.”

Martin shook his head. “Listen, son. Gie’s whatever’s left in that bottle.”

“But that’s, like, ten doses.”

“That should do the job.”

He couldn’t mean…

“Quicker that way,” Martin added.

With trembling knees, Jamie sank onto the chair beside the bed. “Dad, you know I cannae do that. It’d be murder.”

“Pah. Not all killing is murder. You think the polis would arrest you for doing what they’ve been wanting to do for forty years?”

Jamie looked at the door, wishing someone would interrupt them.

“Send Belinda in,” Martin said. “She’ll do it for me.”

“No.” Jamie fought back tears. “She won’t do it, and I won’t fetch her so you can torture her, too.”

“C’mon, lad, it’s been a good day. Let me go out on a high note.” His voice stooped to a whisper. “Naebody needs to know.”

“I would know.” Jamie pressed a fist against his own chest, willing his hammering heart to stay whole.

“This is the chance you always wanted, aye?” Martin’s eyes stayed wide and pleading. “Vengeance for Ritchie.”

“That’s not how it works, not for—not for regular people.” Jamie’s hands shook, and he set the syringe on the bedside table so he wouldn’t spray morphine everywhere. “I’m not like you and Ritchie. I don’t do revenge.”

“Then call it justice.” Martin’s mouth worked, as though each sentence was a mountain to climb. “Please, Jamie.”

Jamie sucked in a breath. Now? Now his father finally used his chosen name?

“I won’t do it,” he choked out between gritted teeth. “I won’t kill you.”

“Eh.” Martin turned his face away, the only movement left to him. “Seems I can order a hit on anyone in this city but myself.”

Jamie let that declaration settle into the air around them, then picked up the syringe. “Here.”

Martin opened his mouth, but he didn’t look at Jamie, and he refused any more biscuit morsels and fizzy drink. Jamie retreated from the room, and when he looked back, Layla was the only one watching him go.