Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘All these tubes…?’

‘All these tubes,’ the consultant answered gently, ‘some of them are keeping her secretions cleared and others are pumping in antibiotics to prevent any possible infection.’

‘Secretions?’ Solly pounced on the word.

The consultant nodded again. ‘Blood in the alveolar spaces provides a breeding ground for infection. The tracheostomy was necessary to allow us to drain it away.’

Solly held up a hand. His stomach was trembling now with a sudden desire to expel what little breakfast he’d managed to eat. The consultant rose from behind the desk and came around, putting a sympathetic hand on Solly’s shoulder.

‘Would you like to use the lavatory?’ he asked, indicating a small door to one side of the consulting room.

Solly made it just in time, retching over the gleaming porcelain. He groaned as he stood up, a hot flush of embarrassment sweeping over him: the man must take him for every sort of feeble wimp. But when he emerged from the toilet, the consultant came towards him and grasped his hand warmly.

‘You’ve been through a lot, my friend,’ he told Solly. ‘It takes courage to do what you’ve been doing.’

Back in Rosie’s room, Solly wondered at the doctor’s words. Courage? He didn’t feel as if he was doing anything at all, simply waiting by her side: waiting and hoping that she would wake up, look at him and smile that wonderful smile of hers. Then he would know that the world had not stopped turning on its axis after all and that there was more to life than this small space where they breathed the same air. He shivered suddenly despite the sunlight’s warmth through the glass, imagining Rosie’s breath disappearing in a moment and leaving only his own exhalations swimming through the atmosphere. She was so still, so small and still, her body functioning at the whim of all these contraptions that looked more as if they were hurting her than saving her poor damaged tissues from further attack. And if she should die? He shuddered at the thought, banishing it with a determination that surprised him. No. He would stay here and will her to live. What else was there to do?

Patrick Kennedy put down the telephone, his hand trembling with rage. How dare they? He had given a terse reply to the question from that reporter. Had it been too abrupt? Should he have tempered it with some tact? The very cheek of that man Greer had thrown him. Where were you the night Jason White was killed? Kennedy had sworn at him, told Greer to mind his own business. But of course, he thought reluctantly, that sort of stuff was a hack’s business, meddling in other people’s private lives. It would have been better to have cut him off without a single word. Let him come to his own conclusions. But what if he already knew? The massive fists that had balled in anger now uncurled in lines of clammy perspiration.

Would Barbara remember he wasn’t at home that night? Kennedy’s lip curled in contempt. Of course she would. His wife knew every minute of every day: when he was home and when he was out. Her fretting over dates and timetables drove him crazy. Sometimes he wondered why he put up with it then he would look out over the green sward of Kelvin’s pitch and remember. If he gave up on Barbara, with her controlling interest in the club, he’d have to give up on all of this. Once everything was sorted he’d begin divorce proceedings. But not until then. Too much still hinged on Barbara selling what looked like becoming a load of worthless shares. But there would come a time … Kennedy looked into the distance, imagining the future he’d so carefully planned. A thought came to him suddenly and he lifted the phone again.

‘Marie? How did that journalist get my direct number?’

Back in the glass box that was the Gazette ’s offices, Jimmy Greer took a celebratory swig from the half-bottle he kept in his desk drawer. He’d fairly rattled Pat Kennedy’s cage. Maybe there was something in it after all, a wee crumb of information that he could chew on and digest. The anonymous phone call that had suggested he ask about Kennedy’s movements on the night Jason White had been shot had piqued his interest. Why call him and not the CID? Should he let Lorimer know that Big Pat was unhappy to be asked his whereabouts the night his bad lad was topped? Maybe. But his story would be all the sweeter if he could find out a bit more without having Strathclyde’s finest ruining it on him. Still, it would have to be handed over to the police press office eventually but the timing of that was in his own hands.

Greer imagined Lorimer’s fury at not being told this latest snippet and the picture made his face break into a large grin. Serve the bastard right, he thought.

The boot room was possibly the smelliest place in the whole club, Jim Christie decided, closing its door on sweat, leather and polish, then turning the key in the lock. Big Pat had stormed at him that morning about locking up, as if Jim was less than conscientious in his duties. The kitman had taken the huff. It wasn’t just these wee boys running daft out there on the pitch, he’d reminded the chairman. He worked his butt off week-in, week-out so the club could turn out their teams properly.

Jim kicked the door of the boot room, adding one more scuff mark to the thousands that had accumulated over the space of several decades, then, as he spotted Wee Bert watching him, he scuttled back up the stairs.

*

Albert Little scowled as he rubbed the boot room door with a damp cloth. The kitman had been right out of order, kicking it like that. It just gave him more work to do, Bert grumbled to himself. When he’d first come here as assistant groundsman, there had been three of them to do the work that he had to do nowadays. Out in the open air, Bert wanted to spit on to the gravel pathway but he stopped himself; the sight of the swirling pattern that his rake had made calmed him down in a way that no soothing words could ever have achieved. He took a deep breath and scanned the grass, running his eyes across the camber and nodding in satisfaction at its perfect curve. Drainage hadn’t been a problem this summer. Bert looked up into a sky that was devoid of cloud, a burning blue that claimed every speck of moisture that he showered over his precious turf. It couldn’t last, this endless heat. Surely there had to be a break in this relentless sunshine? The forecast was for more sun later in the week. There were only four more days until the next game; four more days in which to cosset and cajole the pitch into a state of perfection. Bert closed his mind to Jim Christie’s childish behaviour. He had better things to think about, like how long he’d leave it until setting the sprinklers to dance across his grass.

Something made him look up at the windows above the stadium. A face was peering down at him, a reminder that they were all being watched. Well, let them watch. What would they see? A middle-aged man going about his lawful business, that was what. And, thought Bert with a sudden shaft of malice, it was a damn sight more than could be said for some of them.

‘We have to be careful.’

‘I know,’ she hissed. ‘Think I’m not aware of all these journalists around the place?’

Pat Kennedy bent his head. ‘Sorry. I’m just so keyed-up these days.’

‘Och, I know. It’s no wonder with all that’s been going on.’ Marie slid her narrow rump across the chairman’s desk, circling one hand around his bull-like neck.

‘No,’ Kennedy said shortly, disengaging her hand and pushing her gently but firmly away. ‘We have to be careful,’ he repeated. ‘Maybe I should spend a bit more time at home.’

Marie McPhail raised questioning eyebrows at him, her arms folding across her chest, pulling her rows of chains into a golden river that fell between her cleavage.