Page 194 of Playing By Ear

As he stepped onto the lowest stair, a long, low howl emanated from his father’s room.

Jamie ran, taking the stairs two at a time.

In his bed, Martin looked the same as before: curled up on his left side, his right hand touching the space where Layla liked to lie. But the dog was now sitting up. She lifted her chin and let out another howl that shook Jamie’s bones.

Belinda pushed past him and grasped their father’s wrist. “I can’t tell,” she said. “My pulse is in my fingertips. It could be him or me, I can’t tell. Jamie, I can’t tell!”

“I’ll phone hospice,” Stuart said from the doorway.

“Thank you,” Jamie croaked out, then took his sister into his arms. “The nurse will have a stethoscope. She’ll know. She can tell us for sure.”

Layla howled a third time, and her anguish told them all they needed to know.

Martin MacKray, the King of Provanpark, was gone.

Chapter 37

The next three days were a fog. Jamie’s family, along with Perry, insisted he catch up on sleep and attend Tuesday’s football training session. He’d earned the break, they all said.

Relief suffused him. Every step felt lighter, every breath fuller and longer. He tried not to feel guilty about it, failed miserably, and carried on nonetheless. Full-on grief, he knew, would slam him at a time of its choosing, assuming he’d not already exhausted it before Martin’s death.

Glasgow as a whole celebrated—some quietly, others gleefully—the demise of one of its main scourges. After reading the comments on one retrospective article, Jamie swore off news sites altogether.

When he arrived at training session, every Warrior hugged him close, some twice. The revelation of his father’s identity had struck fear and disgust in absolutely none of them. All that mattered was that Jamie had lost a loved one.

“You’re not him,” Liam said in a small defenders’ huddle in the corner of the practice pitch. “You’re not your father.”

“How do you know?” Jamie sincerely sought an answer. “I’ve kept this secret forever. How do you know I’m the person you think I am?”

Robert scoffed. “Are you a gangster? No. That’s all that matters.” He jerked his chin toward Evan, who was warming up with the other midfielders. “When we found out he was MI5, it mattered, because it was something he’d done.”

“Still freaks me out,” Liam said with an exaggerated shudder. “Rab’s right. You’re no more a crime boss than I’m a waster who abandoned a wife and two weans. We’re better than the men who made us.”

“Take it from me,” Heather said, tugging on her goalkeeper’s gloves. “The person you were born doesn’t have to be the person you build. You’ve built yourself into a good man.”

“She’s right.” Katie hugged Jamie a third time. “We know you through and through, dude. We know you and we fucking love you.”

Jamie swiped at his eyes, unable to respond. What had he done to deserve friends like these?

His ankle held steady during training, with no pain and barely any stiffness. When Charlotte announced the preliminary lineup for Sunday’s Cup final, he was listed as one of the eight substitutes.

Colin gave Jamie a high five. “We can warm the bench together.” For the past week the striker had been nursing a groin injury—which he’d sworn, to widespread skepticism, was not a result of sexual gymnastics with Andrew.

Wednesday morning, the MacKrays and Martin’s closest associates met in the cathedral to rehearse the funeral. It would be a full Mass with many moving parts, so a walk-through was needed to avoid embarrassing mishaps. The six pallbearers—Uncle Pete, Martin’s two nephews, and the heads of the three underfamilies—were instructed where and when to move the casket, while Miranda and Valerie practiced their readings. Jamie met with the church’s musical director to map out the hymns and songs Martin had requested—or rather, demanded.

Though technically, eulogies and non-liturgical music were forbidden at a Catholic funeral Mass, Martin had cleared everything with Father Borelli, who was willing to overlook these breaches of protocol. After all, no one in the community donated more to Saint Cecilia’s than the MacKray family.

After the walk-through, Aunt Norma brought everyone into the small side chapel for a meeting.

“What’s this about?” Jamie asked his sister as they all shuffled into the plain wooden pews.

Belinda shook her head. “Not a Scooby. Something to do with the will? Seems a bit soon for that.”

“You sure you’re all right with me taking the house?”

“I don’t want it.” She tilted her head. “I’m a bit jealous about the car, if I’m honest, but you need one more than I do.”

Aunt Norma went to the lectern carrying an accordion-style file folder. She cleared her throat, silencing all chatter. The room held an air of curiosity and trepidation.