Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘You don’t think the Dumfries side will progress past this game into the next round of the cup, then?’

‘Well, Jim, I would say that Kelvin’s reputation makes the home fans pretty confident of victory. Just listen to them!’

‘Ah, but football’s a strange game,’ Jim Nicholson, the host of Radio Scotland’s Sport Saturday , replied. ‘Look at all the surprises from last season. And with Nicko Faulkner’s death and Jason White not in the line-up, who knows what might happen?’

‘Any idea why White’s not playing today?’ his co-presenter asked.

‘No. A bit odd that he’s not even on the bench, don’t you think?’

Then the commentators broke off as a minute’s silence began.

The ripple of talk died away leaving only the crackling static from the tannoy system and a whine like an air-raid siren as a motorbike started up. Its engine roared into life, then the noise faded into the distance until all that could be heard was a plaintive seagull crying above the stadium.

A minute is a long time to be silent, reflecting on one man’s death. The mass of people stood, some with bowed heads, others staring at the two teams lined up on the pitch. In the quiet seconds ticking their way towards the start of the game, there was a sense of unease mingled with a desire to forget the recent tragedy and continue with the more important business of football. One man watched the clock, counting off the seconds. Then he put a whistle to his mouth and raised one arm skywards. Once again the noise erupted from the terracing, some handclapping endorsing the football club’s respectful action.

From his vantage point in the directors’ box, Patrick Kennedy watched his team with something amounting to pride. They had all stood for the minute’s silence, but now, like schoolboys released at the sound of a bell, his players were suddenly running into their positions, eager to begin this game. The pitch was in perfect condition. Wee Bert had spent days with the sprinkler, coaxing some energy back into the dried turf. The freshly painted goals gleamed white in the sunshine, no hint of a breeze disturbing the brand-new nets. Gordon Carmichael, their regular first-team goalkeeper, stood between the posts, eyes scanning the ball, but it was well up the park, no threat to Kelvin’s six-foot-six goalie. He was a big, douce lad, was Gudgie Carmichael, thought Kennedy. Nobody meeting him off the park would dream that he was totally fearless when coming out to challenge an opponent.

Glancing around him, Kennedy could see the expressions on the punters’ faces. Many of the men around him were recipients of the corporate hospitality that Kelvin offered at home games, and after a good lunch and a few drinks, they were happy to be Kelvin fans, if only for that afternoon. Last season’s relegation was behind them now and all the talk was on getting back into the Scottish Premier League. Further along from the directors’ box, people were getting down to the serious business of the new season, all eyes on the ball as it was booted across the park into the path of the oncoming Kelvin players.

A howl went up as Leo Giannitrapani missed an attempt at goal. Kennedy shook his head. Their Sicilian striker had disappointed them the previous season and if he didn’t begin to fill the score sheet, the fans would expect him to be out this time next year. Still, it had been a chance for Kelvin to draw first blood and the crowd were applauding Giannitrapani’s effort.

Kennedy’s eyes followed the ball up and down the park, his teeth clenching in irritation as chance after chance went awry, Queen of the South’s defenders nipping at his strikers’ heels. Now if Jason White had actually been here … He sighed. All that money spent and what had the team to show for it? The new mid-fielder had been one of their great hopes. The player was still in custody after a night of riotous behaviour, despite all of Ron Clark’s pleading. Relations between the local police headquarters and the football club were generally good but asking for favours like releasing the player for today’s game had been a non-starter. White would suffer for this.

‘Ohhhh!’ The shout followed yet another missed shot on goal, this one from young John McKinnery. Kennedy joined in the hand-clapping. McKinnery’s face expressed annoyance with himself. But his chairman nodded in approval. The lad was working his socks off today and deserved to score. Maybe the absence of Faulkner and White was giving him the chance to shine that he craved?

By half-time the score sheet was still blank and Kennedy trooped downstairs with the rest of the club officials and today’s corporate guests.

‘Well, Jim, still think Kelvin can win today? Queen of the South are giving them a run for their money, don’t you think?’

Lorimer switched off the radio. Half-time commentaries annoyed him. He’d tune into the second half and then to Super Scoreboard to see what the rest of the day’s results had brought to the opening day of the season. He’d had half a mind to go to Kelvin Park to see the game himself, but after the events of this week a quiet day with Maggie was infinitely preferable. Their holiday in Mull had brought them closer together again and he was loath to relinquish that feeling of deepening trust and affection. Still, he was curious to know how the staff at Kelvin FC were taking the sudden demise of one of their new strikers. Had Faulkner been playing today, he doubted that the score would be nil-nil right now. Monday would bring more reports on to his desk about Janis Faulkner. Then what? She’d been charged. The burden of responsibility was off them all for the time being. But there was something about this case that worried him.

What had happened that day? Had she really slammed a kitchen knife into her husband’s chest? The forensic reports showed a missing blood spatter. Someone, somewhere must have been sprayed with arterial blood, spots so numerous and so minute that they might even have covered the assailant’s hands and face. Had Janis washed off all that blood? And had she destroyed whatever clothing she had been wearing? There was absolutely no trace of her husband’s blood on her person, no fingerprints nor any significant DNA to show that she had perpetrated that fatal act. But the woman’s gym bag was missing. He imagined it stuffed with blood-stained clothing. Had she burned it somewhere? Or shoved it into a skip? Lorimer sighed. It was all far too speculative and he didn’t like that at all. And another thing: why wasn’t she protesting her innocence more vociferously? Why this dreadful clamming up that only seemed to confirm her as guilty?

‘Now the teams are back out on the pitch and there are no changes to either side. And there goes Sweeney, passing the ball to McGrory who heads it across to McKinnery, and — oh, nicely intercepted by Logan. And Logan is running with the ball, passes — Rientjes, going fast down the line and, oh, gets himself into trouble there with the Dutch player who comes in again hard. Referee says play on and Rientjes hoofs it back up the park only to meet the head of O’Riley…’

Kennedy sat staring at the ground, his mind wandering. The industrial site at Maryhill was perfect. It would require a lot of upgrading but once the old football club was sold to the supermarket chain there would be enough money to give them a stadium they’d be proud of, and a decent backhander for himself. The only downside was the pitch itself. He’d had three separate surveys done and they’d all told him the same thing: AstroTurf was by far the cheapest option. UEFA had deemed it a safe playing surface and the Scottish Football League had long ago endorsed it as an alternative to natural turf. Yet there were other voices that still rose in dissent. The chairman’s gaze drifted over the terracing towards the high-rise flats that dominated the skyline. He could just make out faces at the windows, watching the game for free. His face creased into a smile of grim satisfaction. They’d have to pay up like the rest of the punters if all his plans came to fruition. There would be changes, lots of changes, but that was inevitable. Nothing stayed the same for ever, he told himself, his eyes flicking over the black armband of his captain, Andy Sweeney.