Page 56 of Tribute Act

I laughed. “It’s an acquired taste.”

We stood companionably, side by side, as Jago pulled out our pints, our arms brushing. It was pretty low-key as PDAs went, but it felt good, being able to casually, innocently touch him. I’d grown used to his impenetrable walls and finally, tonight, they were crumbling, just a little.

Jago set my reddish-brown pint down in front of me with a grunt before turning away to pour the generic lager Mack had selected.

“I can’t believe you drink that,” Mack said, eyeing my pint.

“At least my beer doesn’t taste like watered-down piss.”

He laughed, easy, dark eyes sparkling with humour and affection, and my heart clenched.

Christ, I was a goner.

Once we had our drinks, Mack took me back to the table. We sat down, and he introduced me to the others: Don, Andy, Tash, and Amy.

“Is this your other ’alf, then?” Tash asked Mack as I shook her heavily ringed hand.

Before either of us could speak, Andy laughed. “Christ, no, Tash, they’re brothers!”

Horrified, I said, “No—no, we’re not.”

Andy frowned in puzzlement. To Mack he said, “I thought you were both Dex’s lads?”

“I am.” Mack jerked his thumb at me. “But he’s not. His mum married my dad.”

“Oh right. You’re stepbrothers,” Don said, looking way too pleased.

I opened my mouth to explain just how recently we’d met, but Mack got in first, saying mildly, “Yeah, but we’re also fucking each other’s brains out.”

It was such an uncharacteristically brash thing for him to say, I couldn’t stop the burst of laughter that exploded out of me. And then everyone else laughed too. I wasn’t sure whether they believed him, but there were no more questions because right then Jago arrived at the table.

“Are none of you lazy bastards goin’ to play tonight? It’s bleddy eight o’clock!”

“Keep your ’air on,” Tash said, rolling her eyes. But even as she said it, she was getting to her feet, as were Don and Amy. It turned out the three of them played together as the Shanteurs, and they were up before Mack. They decamped to the tiny stage area that had been cordoned off by the windows, prompting a few whoops at this sign that folk music night was about to get going. The crowd began to shift so that most everyone was facing the stage.

The reason for the group’s name was obvious once they started playing—they had a sort of sea shanty vibe going on—and Mack watched them play with rapt attention, glancing at me occasionally to smile, sharing his pleasure in the music. They were accomplished musicians, and Amy had a sweet, pure voice that the crowd loved. I wondered if it made Mack more nervous about his own set, seeing them get such a good reception, but if it did, he didn’t show it.

When it was his turn, he strolled up to the tiny stage area, sharing a few laughs with the others as they packed up their instruments and removed the extra stools. Then he settled his guitar strap over his neck, perched himself on the single high stool they’d left for him, and without a word, began to play.

He started with my favourite, “Carrickfergus,” not so much launching as sliding into it, with a long instrumental opening that slowly quieted the chattering crowd till they were entirely silent. Till he held them in the palm of his hand.

When he eventually began to sing, it seemed to me that he sounded different than all the other times I’d heard him. His voice was as deep and rich as ever, but tonight there was a regretful, melancholy note in it that brought a salty lump to my throat. Or maybe it was the words of the song, because—God, how had I never heard it before?—this song was about Mack. The song of a man who insisted he was happy with his life roving from town to town, but who longed for some vision of home he could never quite find.

And all I could think was, I want to be his home.

“Mack, wait!”

We were on our way out the pub when Don called to Mack from the bar and started squirming his way through the close-packed bodies towards us.

“We were just heading off,” Mack told him when he finally reached us.

Don grinned. “I wanted to catch you before you went. Listen, do you want to play again next Saturday? You could have the same slot if you like.”

I felt Mack’s discomfort at the question and knew why he hesitated. His three-month scan was on Thursday—by next Saturday he might be on his way back to Manchester, or Scotland . . . or somewhere else entirely. I tried to look like I wasn’t really listening, but in truth, I was as interested in the answer to Don’s question as Don himself.

Mack frowned. “Um . . . can I get back to you?”

My heart sank and Don’s grin faded a bit too. “Okay, sure. But can you let me know in the next couple of days? It’s the first weekend in December next week, so nights out are starting to happen and it gets more difficult to book people.”