Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘Where are you going, son?’

Baz looked at the stranger who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. ‘What’s it tae you?’ he asked, his chin jutting out aggressively.

A quick flick of a warrant card changed the expression on the footballer’s face. ‘Aw, awright, pal. Ah’m jist goin tae get ma boots, see?’ Baz looked back at the man then pushed open the door of the boot room. Inside, the airless room was stuffy and redolent of years of sweat and leather. The senior players’ boots should have been taken to the dressing room by the apprentice in charge of them this morning, so why this had been forgotten was a mystery. Baz began pulling pairs of football boots out of their dookits to see if any of them had been put back in the wrong place. But there was no sign of his boots. He swore aloud and banged his fist on the wooden cabinet. Just at that moment he spotted something lying in a corner of the room. It was a rolled up Kelvin FC towel, easy enough to miss in that dark shadow. Frowning, he picked it up.

‘What the?’ he exclaimed as his familiar white boots tumbled out of the towel and fell to the ground with a clatter. Baz scooped them up and turned the boots this way and that. They looked all right to him. And at least they’d been properly cleaned. Stupid laddie had probably been using the towel to wipe off excess polish. Baz threw it back into the corner then froze as the door swung closed and the overhead light began to flicker. For a moment he could feel the hairs rise on the back of his neck and a swish of something cold brushed his bare arms. Baz was out of the boot room like a shot, boots dangling from his hand.

‘Everything okay?’ the plain clothes policeman’s words fell away as Baz Thomson sprinted past him and headed back towards the dressing rooms.

Heart thumping, Baz slowed down. It wasn’t true, these things were just daft stories, weren’t they? But try as he might, the Kelvin striker could not help but remember the often-repeated legend about Ronnie Rankin and how his ghost would appear to anyone who threatened his beloved club.

The duty officer turned around as Alistair Wilson entered the tiny room. Perched high above the North stand, this was where the CCTV cameras were housed and where, during every home game, an officer from Strathclyde Police would sit and observe the crowded stadium.

‘Everything okay, then?’ the officer asked.

‘Aye. Nobody’s been turned back at any of the gates. And so far the dogs haven’t smelled anything suspicious.’

‘Wonder they can smell anything for the guff that comes off that lot,’ the officer remarked, jutting his thumb towards the hot food vans parked near the entrance. ‘Pies ’n’ Bovril are one thing, but they just reek of recycled grease.’

‘Aye, well.’ Wilson moved towards the window that looked out across Kelvin’s football pitch. Already the Kelvin panda bear mascot was capering alongside the front rows in time to music blaring from the sound system, much to the delight of the small boys leaning over the barrier. Everywhere he looked there was a mass of black-and-white. Both teams sported these colours, though today Dunfermline would be in their white shorts and striped jerseys with the home team in its familiar black. Wilson wondered what the referee’s colours would be. The officials usually kitted out in black had an obligation to stand out from the team players, especially on a day like today when the TV cameras were rolling. They had been in two minds whether to allow them in along with the usual press photographers and sports reporters but Lorimer had decided that everything should appear as normal as possible.

Gazing over the stadium, Wilson couldn’t help but feel that nothing out of the ordinary was going to happen. What kind of man would take the risk of bringing a firearm into such a closely policed area, never mind trying to use it? Dr Brightman had talked about someone who felt above such risks, but was he right? Or would the only result they’d have today be the one given as the whistle blew at the end of ninety minutes?

A quick look at his watch, an arm raised and then the referee blew his whistle to signal the kick-off between Dunfermline and Kelvin. A great roar went up as Donnie Douglas scooped up Andy Sweeney’s ball and passed it to Baz Thomson. The striker jinked aside two of the Dunfermline players and looked set to take it all the way down the park, but a brief glance up showed him that Austin Woods was onside and in perfect scoring position. Thomson changed his pace and flicked the ball in towards the space that Woods would make in a few paces. The crowd gasped as Woods headed the ball then a collective shout went up as the ball found the back of the net, leaving a bewildered Pars keeper gazing wistfully behind him.

‘And it’s one-nil to Kelvin in the opening minutes of this match. What a cracker that was! Now let’s see if Dunfermline can come back from that early set-back. Kelvin’s men look to be in fine form despite all the events of the past weeks. Just goes to show how good management and discipline can lift a team,’ the commentator enthused. ‘Ron Clark was never going to have it easy, losing two of their key players, but he seems to have fielded a good side today. And just listen to the crowd!’

For a few moments the television cameras panned across the ranks of cheering fans, holding aloft their black-and-white scarves, pausing to zoom in on the figure of Patrick Kennedy. Anyone watching the game later might note his corpulent figure clad all in black, a bulky baseball cap thrust down over his brow. But the television screen was immediately filled by the pitch once again and anything untoward about the Kelvin chairman’s manner of dress was forgotten in the desire to see the game.

Lorimer touched the earpiece, trying to make out the message coming across but it was useless with this din all around him. He tried to catch the eye of the nearest plain clothes officer standing in the aisle. The man had donned a steward’s fluorescent jacket, the collar turned up to hide his wire. A brief nod told Lorimer that all was well and the DCI looked back at the pitch.

A Dunfermline player went into a hard tackle on Donnie Douglas and the Kelvin player rolled away, clutching his ankle as if in agony. Beside him Lorimer heard a sniff of contempt and he turned to see one of the corporate guests shake his head wearily. It was de rigueur these days for a player to fake an injury and have his opposite number penalised if he could, and Lorimer sympathised with the man’s cynicism. But, for once, this seemed to be a genuine injury as the team doctor ran on to the pitch and immediately signalled for a stretcher. The stadium lights were on now, the sky having darkened to a deep slate-grey, and thunder rumbled in the distance as the crowd waited for the game to resume.

In minutes Donnie Douglas had been stretchered off and John McKinnery was running on to the pitch, shouting out the instructions that had come from Ron Clark, but with Douglas down, the nature of the game seemed to change. Lorimer had seen it all before. The enthusiasm after being a goal up could vanish like a morning mist. Now the Kelvin players seemed incapable of keeping the ball at their feet; their very movements seemed sluggish, as though the oppressive atmosphere was weighing them down.

‘And the opposition is coming right back into this game. That’s a terrible pass by Rientjes, picked up by Dunfermline’s Linley and now the Pars are on the move, deep into Kelvin’s half. Ah! Davie Clark’s swept right in and the whistle blows for a free kick to Dunfermline. But here’s Thomson coming in to argue with the ref and — I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing — Thomson has given the referee a shove that’s sent him flying! Oh, no mistake now. That’s a red card and Baz Thomson is running off the park amidst howls of anger from the fans. What a stupid thing to do! Just when Kelvin is ahead! Well, I’ll bet Ron Clark will have some strong words to say to the striker when he comes off. But Thomson is just running down the tunnel, not looking at anyone.’