Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Pat Kennedy strode into the gym, followed by the manager and a uniformed police officer.

Kennedy introduced the stranger. ‘This is Sergeant Cornwell. He’s from Strathclyde Police and will be helping you to …’ He broke off, turning to the policeman who had moved into the centre of the room to give a full explanation.

‘Good morning.’ The officer turned slowly, making eye contact with each and every one of them. ‘There are various matters that I want to discuss with you, but mostly to let you all know that there has been a special police protection unit set up, should you wish to avail yourselves of that.’ Seeing a few blank looks, the policeman stifled a sigh and added, ‘We can arrange for CCTV cameras to be set up in your own homes if you so wish. Not that we think any of you are in any immediate danger.’ He finished off with a tentative smile.

‘What’re you gonnae do?’ Baz Thomson demanded of the man sitting next to him in the club coach.

Andy Sweeney, the Kelvin captain, gave a shrug. ‘Do what they’ve suggested. Make sure I’m travelling with someone else to and from the club,’ he said. ‘Mandy’ll kill me if I don’t,’ he added, referring to the dark-haired beauty to whom he was engaged.

‘Is it yer bird ye’re scared of or some nutter?’ Baz jeered.

Sweeney gave a sheepish laugh then asked, ‘What about you?’

‘Och, I don’t know. Kind of ruins your street cred tae have a mate follow ye around, know whit ah mean?’

‘That’s daft,’ Gudgie piped up from across the aisle. ‘They said it would only be till they caught the guy. Why take a chance?’

‘And what if they don’t catch him, eh?’ Leo Giannitrapani, the Sicilian striker, cut in. ‘What if this is some sort of vendetta?’

‘Ach, away ye go, Leo. Glasgow’s no like Sicily. We’ve nane o’ yer Mafioso gangsters here,’ Baz protested.

‘Want to bet?’ came a soft voice from behind them. The other players turned to look at John McKinnery. No one spoke. McKinnery’s family were all drug dealers and it had been his passion for the sport that had hauled the young footballer away from that ghetto.

There was a silence after that while the coach sped down the strip of motorway that led to their training ground. But John McKinnery’s gaze travelled from one player to another as though he were sizing them all up. He’d come from a world where life was cheap and sometimes short, but murder seemed to be no respecter of persons or places. Being on the right side of the tracks no longer seemed the safe option and McKinnery was experiencing the first bitter taste of life’s ironies.

Willie shoved the last pair of boots into the dookit and sat back on to the floor with a groan. It wasn’t so bad polishing them all after every training session and the boy really didn’t mind doing them post-match either, but the heat down in the boot room was oppressive. The smell of polish mingled with an older, mustier odour: decades of sweat and toil overlaid by the dust that gathered in each dark corner of the room. There was no window in this place and the only light came from the partially opened door that led to the stone-flagged corridor.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, then rolled it from side to side, just like the physio had shown them. The dizziness was probably just from bending forward for so long, that and this stuffy atmosphere. If only the place had decent air conditioning, he thought, but Kelvin FC still lacked some of these useful devices. Those other more modern clubs had it all. His mate Derek had told him about the new stadium at Falkirk with all its mod cons. The boy sighed. He was happy enough where he was for now and if he stuck at it maybe he could have a real chance of making it into Kelvin’s first team in years to come.

His body slumped against the wooden bench that ran around the tiny room and for a moment he let his mind slip into a fantasy where he was running out on to that green pitch wearing Kelvin’s black and white strip. He saw a ball cross over his way and suddenly it was at his feet and he was running, running down the park, his marker trying to keep up with him. But his feet were speeding over the turf and the goal was in sight. With one eye on the goal mouth he aimed, kicked and shot. The roar of the crowd sang in his ears and he was being raised up high on several pairs of shoulders.

A cold current of air woke the boy from his reverie and he opened his eyes. From the corner furthest from the door he sensed a movement that made him turn and stare.

‘No!’ he cried, backing away from the figure that loomed towards him, shielding his face with both arms. With a whimper he scrambled for the half-open door and staggered into the corridor.

Just once he risked looking behind him. And what he saw made him run headlong towards the back stairs, and safety.

‘It was real. I tell you I saw it!’

‘Okay, calm down, Willie. Hey, you’re shaking, son.’ Jim Christie, the kitman, put a hand on the boy’s shoulders, feeling the tremble through his thin T-shirt. ‘Tell me again, what happened?’

Willie closed his eyes as he began to speak. ‘I wis jist sitting there, right? I’d just finished polishin a’ the boots and I wis jist havin a wee rest. Then it all got cold and …’ The boy opened his eyes wide and Jim saw him try to blink back tears.

‘I saw it.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I saw the ghost of Ronnie Rankin!’ he said, one hand clutching the kitman’s sleeve, as if he needed the reassurance of holding on to something safe and solid.

Ron Clark groaned. Three murders and now another sighting of the legendary Kelvin ghost: it was simply too much to bear. The manager bit his lip. It wouldn’t be so bad if they could keep it to themselves, but he doubted that would be possible. The evening papers would be full of it. He could just imagine the headlines suggesting that Ronnie Rankin’s shade had been disturbed by what was going on at Kelvin Park. It was a load of bollocks. All of it. There was no ghost down in the boot room, just a wee daft laddy with an overactive imagination.

He knocked on the chairman’s door and pushed it open.

‘Well? What are we to do about all this nonsense?’ Big Pat began, leaning back in his captain’s chair and glowering at his manager.

‘Nothing.’

‘Eh? I’m not standing for this sort of tosh, Ron! Sack the wee blighter.’

Ron Clark sat down in the chair opposite and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Pat. Jim Christie said the boy was genuinely terrified. The press would make a meal of it if we kicked him out. Why not just ignore it? Treat it as another nine-day wonder.’

Pat Kennedy pursed his lips and for a moment he seemed ready to argue. The manager kept his gaze steady, waiting for the chairman’s response.

‘Ach, I suppose you’re right, Ron. It’ll all blow over eventually. But tell the boy he’s relieved from boot duties, meantime. And find a lad who’ll do the work and not end up having bad dreams down there!’

‘Fine.’ Ron attempted a smile. ‘What about Saturday’s fixture?’

Kennedy returned the smile with a nod. ‘Aye. A league match against Dundee will suit us fine. And they’ve promised us maximum security.’

‘Who’s the ref?’

Kennedy managed a smile this time. ‘Graham Dodgson.’

Clark breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s one problem solved. Dodgson’s never been known for a truly controversial decision.’

‘No, but he doesn’t suffer fools gladly either,’ the chairman growled. ‘It’ll be fine, Ron. Just stop worrying. Okay?’

‘A ghost, eh?’ Jimmy Greer grinned at the man sitting opposite him in the Wee Barrel. He slurped his pint, letting the foamy head settle on to his moustaches, then licked them slowly, never taking his eyes off the Kelvin groundsman.