Page 63 of Playing By Ear

“I agree. Couldn’t live here year-round, though. Glasgow’s miles more blind-friendly.”

“You’ve done all right in Oban, using your cane in a less familiar place.”

“Better than I expected.” It had been draining, though, the constant stress of stepping into the unknown, even with his sighted dad to warn of dangers.

A crow cawed behind them, from atop the ruinous tower.

Perry lowered his voice. “The first time we came here after I started losing my vision, I thought I’d hate it. This place is so gorgeous, I thought it would hurt not to see it clearly.”

“But now you just see it in a different way.”

“Yes. And it’s as beautiful as ever.”

“Mm.” She rested her hand on his arm and kept it there. “Do you remember that day the two of us sat on the dock in Oban? You might have been eight or nine. Our whale-watching boat was late arriving, and your dad had gone to find out how long the delay would be.”

“I remember. You told me to close my eyes and feel the shape of Oban Harbour.” He’d sat there absorbing the way the sounds echoed, the way the tiny waves struck the shore, the way the salty wind curled against the buildings and hills. The sum of it all had sculpted a perfect horseshoe that didn’t need to be seen to be known.

Perry closed his eyes now, and little by little he sensed the shape of the hills, the bay, and the ocean beyond. A CalMac ferry chugged down below, heading west to the Isle of Mull and maybe beyond, to Iona and the Outer Hebrides. The noise of its distant engine carved the picture into greater relief.

To outside observers, he mused, he and his mother would look like two normal people sitting on a bench, gazing out at a breathtaking view.

Which is exactly what they were.

Chapter 12

“Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty…”

Some folk had yoga, some had transcendental meditation, and some had ketamine. Jamie had the Keepy-Uppy Zone, and when he was in it, nothing could touch him. The simple, steady bounce of the football—up-down, up-down, up-up-up-down, and so on—was better than booze.

And right now, in his dad’s double-size rear garden, it was keeping him sane and calm amid this gang of criminals. As a bonus, it was earning him and his backers a wee fortune.

“Christ,” muttered Miranda’s husband, Dean, somewhere around the hundred and tenth Up. “I didnae think he could do it wearing dress shoes.”

Uncle Raymond laughed. “Lad’s a legend. Even better than I remembered. That’s you owing me fifty quid so far, by the way.”

“One twenty-four, one twenty-five,” Valerie called out, the only one still doing it out loud.

How easy it had been these last two hours, Jamie thought with the clarity that accompanied the Zone. How easy to slip back into this family’s embrace, to once again crave and receive their love and approval. Did his blood not care the men were killers—or at least accessories—and the women enablers? What if Miranda’s unborn son, whom Jamie already loved with an instinctive ferocity, one day became a killer too?

Someone’s mobile rang, and Dean let out a soft curse before answering. “What is it?…Fucking hell. You telt me that location was secure.”

To shut out the illicit conversation, Jamie started sending the ball higher, doing a one-eighty between each bounce, roughly in time to the “Jimmy Mack” song stuck in his head. Valerie started counting out loud again.

“Oi, Eddie!” Dean called, and Valerie’s husband joined him for a conference in the far corner of the garden. Whispers of “You need to sort this yourself” and “If Martin finds out you interrupted Easter” reached Jamie’s ears, despite his attempts to block it out.

It was all too familiar. Growing up, he’d heard hundreds of half-conversations full of bluster and paranoia. His family were nothing like the classic Hollywood depictions of glamorous, jetsetting gangsters or even the satirical quarreling, avaricious punks. Their operations were, well, normal. They spoke of sales quotas and delivery schedules, sprinkling corporate buzzwords like scalable, optimization, and R.O.I. Until something went wrong, of course, and then the ever-present threat of violence became more than a background hum.

On one of his turns, Jamie spotted Lucy through the terrace door. Her palms were plastered against the glass, and her mouth hung open. He kicked his performance into a higher gear, juggling the ball with alternating heels up to his head.

Eddie came back to the group, and Stuart asked him, “Do I need to get involved, or is it more of a Norma thing?”

“Neither, it’s sorted,” Eddie said. “One of the shipments…” Their voices faded as they moved away.

A knock came on the glass terrace door of Martin’s home. Still juggling, Jamie glanced over to see if dinner was ready.

Martin was standing behind Lucy. The ball hit Jamie’s nose and bounced toward the fence.

“Yaaaasssss!” Dean crowed, apparently finished threatening his subordinate. “That’s my debt cleared, Dad.” He gave the last word an ironic emphasis.