Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Maggie yawned, gazing over the rows of spectators. The sky seemed to beat down on them, a relentless blue devoid of any trace of cloud. In Mull she’d welcomed the occasional nightly showers that had left a sweet scent in the air before the day’s heat had turned the grasses harsh and brittle. They’d passed a low-lying place between their cottage and the village of Craignure, a flat area jutting out towards the water, two sets of goalposts staring blankly across the green. Maybe there would be a couple of teams there right now, knocking a football back and forth between them. Could the locals muster enough talent for a proper match, or would it just be five-a-side? Somehow Maggie found it difficult to imagine that pristine patch of ground being kicked up into sods by a crowd of tackety-booted islanders, but she’d overheard someone talking about local teams: the Tobermory Tigers and the Dervaig Bears.

‘… and Woods is onside, dodges his marker and strikes, but the effort was just a bit too obvious and O’Hagan takes it with no difficulty. Now Devitt picks it up and turns to pass it and — oh! Gemmell goes down, clutching his leg. Looks like a sore one. You can hear the crowd shouting abuse at Clark and the referee seems to agree. Yes, there’s the yellow card … now Gemmell’s back on his feet … no harm done and Dundee have the free kick. Sweeney comes tearing in, forcing Devitt to play it long. Kelvin’s forwards are staying up the field and I can’t help but think this is allowing their markers to mark them a little bit more easily — Kelvin will have to be sharper on the ball. And here comes Thomson, intercepts Morgan’s pass and runs past one, then two defenders, takes a shot at goal but puts it straight into O’Hagan’s arms. Nice try though, and you can hear the fans clapping their approval. Best chance Kelvin have had all afternoon…’

Lorimer gave a sigh. Some games were like this. Try as they might, the strikers simply couldn’t put the ball past the post. Dundee had had more chances and their striker Farraday would probably earn himself the accolade of Man of the Match. He watched, dispassionately now, as the Kelvin players struggled to take and keep possession of the ball. It was as if they were trying to pick their way through a minefield; Dundee were piling on the pressure, forcing the Glasgow team into making just too many mistakes. Twice he’d watched, hope soaring, as Kelvin rattled the woodwork. But this simply epitomised the afternoon’s play. It was a nervy and edgy Kelvin side and he wondered, not for the first time, just what was going on inside the heads of these eleven men.

Ron Clark tried to remind himself that gaining one point was a damn sight better than none, but he experienced a sense of failure nonetheless. If only he could concentrate on the players, the forthcoming matches. They were due to play the Pars at home next week, maybe things would be better by then, back to some semblance of normality. An atmosphere of disquiet still hung about the dressing room and sometimes he sensed the unspoken fears that clung to his players. A sense of horror had gripped the entire community; the tributes of flowers that had been left by the club’s main entrance included messages expressing a collective grief. But instead of being a comfort, their daily presence had made the manager feel increasingly depressed.

Clark climbed the stairs to his den, glad for once that his wife was still out shopping. A bit of a browse on the computer would settle this disquieting feeling he’d had all day, take his mind off things. He logged on to the sports pages, though he’d listened to the round-up programme on the way back from the match. It was still interesting to see who’d scored what and when, who’d been sent off. A shiver went down his spine as he read of a controversial decision from a well-known referee. He flicked from page to page then, as if his fingers had a life of their own, he logged on to Kelvin’s own website, curious to see if anyone had remarked on today’s non-event of a game. There was no comment as yet so he went on to the club’s unofficial page where anyone could log on, without having to register.

Ron Clark’s mouth opened as he read then reread the words. Hands shaking, he reached for his mobile phone.

‘I can’t believe it either,’ Lorimer told the Kelvin manager. ‘It must be some sort of a hoax.’ He bit his lip before adding that there must be any amount of nutters who could have sent the message. A copy of it was up on his own screen now.

Patrick Kennedy will be next. For disservices to Kelvin Football Club.

The sender had signed himself The Kelvin Killer in bold lettering as if to flaunt his self-conferred title.

Ron Clark’s voice was becoming agitated; Lorimer could hear a rising note of panic as he requested police protection for his chairman.

‘Has he asked for it?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

There was a pause before Clark answered, ‘Not exactly.’

‘Does he know about this message, Mr Clark?’ Lorimer enquired.

‘Well…’

‘Look,’ Lorimer began with a sigh, ‘we can’t authorise any further police presence at the club or at his home unless Mr Kennedy asks for it himself. Even then it’s doubtful that an officer would be detailed to stand guard. I suggest you make him familiar with this and let him decide what he wants to do about it.’

Lorimer scrolled down the unofficial website’s chat-room page to see if there had been any response to the threatening message. So far the rest of the page was blank. But for how long that would last was anyone’s guess and as it was out in the public domain, there might be any number of replies. It was probably just some daft wee boys logging on in their bedroom, bored out of their minds during the long school holidays, especially as today’s game had been guaranteed to disappoint anyone looking for another sensation. Not something Strathclyde Police should take too seriously. Patrick Kennedy would throw a fit if he heard that his manager had tried to gain special police protection for him.

He sat back, his mind drifting away from the case. His initial enthusiasm for it had waned in the aftermath of Rosie’s accident. Suddenly what became of the pathologist figured far more prominently in his thoughts than this latest development, if he could dignify it in such terms, ever could.

Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary sat close to the M8 motorway on one side and near to the mediaeval cathedral and the Glasgow Necropolis on the other, a symbol of hope sandwiched between life, death and all its mysteries. Solly watched the traffic streaming along on the main artery that connected Scotland’s two major cities. Thousands of commuters flashed past, oblivious to the quiet drama being played out in this hospital room. Life went on regardless, people speeding towards the city, to nights out at the concert halls, dinner dates or simply to the safe sanctuary of their own homes. His flat on the hill above Kelvingrove had become home to them both these past months, ever since Solly had asked her to stay for Christmas. And they’d made plans, talked about a wedding, a trip Down Under, how many children they’d have: Solly smiled at the memories even as he felt the tears run down his cheeks. What dreams they had! What glorious beautiful dreams! And was that all he would have left: dreams of what might have been?

Looking down at Rosie’s still, pale face, Solly shook his head. No, he wouldn’t give up hope, not now, not until they came to tell him that there was nothing left to hope for. The sounds of the machines by her bed whirred and clicked in subdued monotone, discreet and necessary. He examined the monitors, afraid to see any sudden change that might break that slender thread of existence, but there was no change at all, simply patterns repeating themselves over and over.