Page 47 of Playing By Ear

Besides, he didn’t need a gang to survive. Jimmy MacKray was born untouchable.

Belinda snickered. “Do you remember the time I had you ask Rita to unslice a loaf of bread with her un-slicer?”

“I was only, what, five? Young enough to believe in un-slicers.” And older sisters.

A motion through the window caught his eye. Gordon was shuffling backward down the pavement, practically bowing to Martin. “Gotta go,” he told Belinda.

Outside, the wind had shifted, carrying a vaguely rank odor from the loch. Jamie sat at the table and reached for his biscuits. “Is this where you hold court?”

“I’m more approachable here.” Martin spread his hands. “I like to make myself available to help people.”

Jamie snorted. “Help them for a price.”

“Everything’s got a price, Jimmy. It’s basic physics. Newton’s First Law and all.” He reached over and pushed Jamie’s espresso cup and saucer to the edge of the table. “That there cup’s not gonnae fall on its own. Somebody’s gotta exert force on it.”

Jamie ate another biscuit without reacting. He was here to look after his dying father, but nowhere in the carer handbook did it say he had to play along with mind games.

He held the other half of the biscuit under the table, hoping to win Layla over with a treat. Her warm breath and sharp whiskers brushed his hand, but she didn’t accept his gift. He let the morsel drop on the ground near her feet. She looked at it, then at him, with undisguised disdain.

That odd smell wasn’t coming from the loch. He leaned over to peer into the flat brown-paper package. “Did that man give you an entire fish?”

“Two. Fresh-caught trout. Not everyone can pay their debts in cash.” Martin patted the top of the package. “Want one?”

“No.” Jamie pictured his empty cupboards. “I mean, no. No.” If he wouldn’t take money from his father, he shouldn’t take fish either.

“Consider it my peace offering.” At Jamie’s side-eye, Martin said, “I’m not saying one dead trout makes up for the way I treated you.” He tapped his thumb on the handle of his coffee cup. “For that I’d need six or seven trout.”

An unbidden laugh burbled up. Jamie tried to cover it with a cough, but it was too late.

“I mean it, James. I want us to make peace, and I want it to be real, not just a shedload of words we say to make ourselves feel better.”

“You first.”

Martin sighed. “Back then, I said a few things that in these times might be considered homophobic.”

Jamie looked around. “We’re alone, Dad. You don’t have to pretend that’s why I left.”

“Anyway, it was just patter—and aye, I know that’s no excuse. It was wrong.”

Jamie stared at him. Had the brain tumor scrambled his memory? Or had he convinced himself that they’d fallen out over Jamie’s sexuality rather than Martin’s entire existence?

“I’ve always supported you being yourself,” his dad said, “no matter how different to me. I’m not one of those das who want a fucking clone. One of me is enough for this world, aye?”

Jamie made a noncommittal noise around his mouthful of biscuit.

“You know Ronnie Kray was bisexual?” Martin asked.

“Aye, you made me read his memoir when I was twelve, then quizzed me on it.” The self-exonerating account of the legendary London gangster had turned Jamie’s stomach. “He was a psychopath, so I doubt he’s a posthumous candidate for the Queer Hall of Fame.”

“Hall of Fame? Where’s that?” his father deadpanned. “San Francisco?”

Another rebellious laugh escaped Jamie. Rather than softening him toward his dad, his own amusement made him angrier. The two of them could’ve had a real relationship, could’ve bantered round a café table, could’ve bonded over the ups and downs of Celtic FC, if only⁠—

If only his dad was a different person.

“So if you’ve got someone you…” Martin twirled his hand.

Jamie had lost track of the conversation. “Someone I what?”