Page 93 of Playing By Ear

“It’s probably on YouTube,” Perry said. “Or maybe you had one of these?” He held out the toy.

“Maybe. My sister might remember. I’ll ask her.” Jamie took it from him and examined it. Why did this harmless wee bird fill him with foreboding? Probably just leftover worry from his encounter with Coyle’s messenger.

“Add Davey to my bill,” Perry said to the shopkeeper, then told Jamie, “I’ll keep him if you don’t.”

“No, I’ll keep it. I could do with a busking mascot.” Jamie dropped the bird into his record bag so he could stop touching it. “Thanks.”

“Did you buy the Mogwai?”

Technically he hadn’t bought it, and he couldn’t lie to Perry. “Got it right here.” He scanned the music stall and the market walkway. Ferret Face was either in stealth mode or gone entirely.

Maybe the Coyles’ offer was the best way forward. Selling the business would help wash the stink of dirty money off the MacKray name, just like Belinda wanted. It would end the rot and corruption before it was passed down to Lucy and her unborn cousin.

Best of all, no blood would be shed. Everyone, including Perry, would be safe.

So why did this idea feel like surrender? Was Jamie still so loyal to his family that such a sacrifice for peace would taste like defeat?

Whose side was he really on?

Chapter 18

It was good his books were gone, Perry told the ache in his heart as he placed the falcon statue atop the empty shelf. Soon they’d find happy homes with people who could still bring their pages to life.

He ran his hand over the ridges of one wing’s primary feathers, then placed the copy of J.A. Baker’s The Peregrine beside the statute. Yes, they were a suitable replacement. They had to be.

“Record’s all clean now,” Jamie said, standing at the turntable.

“Tea’s ready too.” Perry returned to the sofa—cautiously, as Jamie wasn’t perfect about keeping the floor clear—where he’d set the pot and mugs atop a wooden tray table. He poured the tea, then cradled his cup with a happy shiver. The rain still felt part of Perry’s bones, like it had set up camp in the gaps between marrow cells. The heat from the hissing gas fireplace completed the cozy feeling.

“Here we go.” Jamie turned on the record player with a barely audible pip. Then came the thup of the needle settling into the record’s groove, one of Perry’s favorite noises in the world. Jamie came and sat close beside him.

The first song started soft and sweet, like the sun at dawn, a simple piano melody loosely wrapped with a subtle synth background. An electric guitar began to wind around the edges, asking to join the party. At last a steady drum beat grew and grew, until the song finished as loud as it had begun soft, the dynamic shift so gradual one almost didn’t notice.

Perry poured more tea as the second song announced itself with a whine of guitar. Jamie’s foot tapped the floor, making a soft thump that Perry could feel but not hear over the instruments.

How long had it been since Perry had simply sat with another person, sharing the rapture of notes and chords? Thanks to streaming and earphones, listening to music had become an individual, even isolating act. Vinyl was bringing back that simple communion.

“Did I ever tell you how my mum died?”

Perry gaped at him. Jamie’s expression was impassive as he held his cup in one hand and the Davey Doo soft toy in the other.

“Only that you were a baby.” He pressed his shoulder against Jamie’s. “Do you want to tell me now?”

“I think so. Maybe it was hobbling off the bus today that got me thinking.” He went still. “I was with her when it happened.”

Perry covered his mouth to stifle a gasp. “What…”

“We were apparently out, the two of us. Me in my pram—or pushchair, I suppose, by that point.” He paused for a long moment. “She had post-natal depression.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Dad said she had it after my big sister was born too, but not as bad.” He set his tea and toy on the tray, then rubbed his face with both hands.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I want to. I need to.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, chin resting on his wrists. “She was in a fog half the time, and it must have been bad that day, because she—we were on the pavement right next to the road. She dropped something—maybe a bottle or a dummy, dunno what—and it bounced into the bus lane. And I guess she wasn’t thinking, wasn’t watching.”

Perry’s stomach twisted. “Oh, Jamie.”