Alex Gray - Pitch Black

He saw the floodlights looming over the motorway long before the actual stadium hove into view. Then some clever technology tilted the image and he was looking down at a manicured pitch, green beyond the dreams of any loving groundsman. Memories flooded back; the first time his dad had taken him to a league match. It had been Kelvin against Partick Thistle, he recalled, though what the score had been on that Saturday derby of long ago he simply couldn’t remember. Flashes of the occasion were all that remained: Dad hoisting him over the black, metal turnstile, the Bovril he’d spilt down his new jeans and the roars of the crowd that crushed him on all sides as they’d climbed up the stone staircase to sit side by side on worn wooden bucket-seats. His dad had been a keen Kelvin supporter and some of that must have rubbed off.

Lorimer had played rugby at school, but he had always followed the progress of Scottish football. It was part of the male psyche, he thought, to know what fixtures were on and to remember the names of players, though these days that was becoming harder with all the foreign names mixed in with fewer and fewer Scots. Some of them, like Henrik Larsson, had stayed long enough to become feted almost as one of their own, but others were barely with a Scottish club for one season before they were off again.

Kelvin FC was one of those clubs that had retained a following among Glaswegians that was both loyal and parochial. Never rising to the greatness of the Old Firm, the club had nevertheless acquitted itself well in all its long history. And that, of course, was the main reason for such ardent loyalty. From its inception, Glaswegians had supported the club with a fierce devotion that was still reflected on today’s websites. Lorimer was reading their latest offering right now.

It took only seconds to realise that this link to the website had not been updated over the weekend. Lorimer grimaced. Well, what had he expected? That the Kelvin Keelies would have posted up information about Nicko Faulkner’s death? It was still holiday time, after all. Yet he’d expected something. After all, the transfer market had been hot for weeks and the new signings of Jason White and Nicko Faulkner had made headlines in more than just the sports section of the Gazette . White was one of the bad boys of the game, his name all too frequently in the tabloids for the wrong reasons. His flair on the park seemed to make up for his wayward bouts of antisocial behaviour though, at least as far as his past managers were concerned. Rumour had it that he’d been denied an English cap due to some of these incidents. How would he fare under the management of Ron Clark? The Kelvin manager was well respected in the game, one of those rare birds of passage, an articulate fellow who didn’t talk in clichés all the time. Lorimer chuckled to himself; Clark had been the despair of Jonathan Watson, the TV comic who had taken off so many of the prominent figures in Scottish football.

Lorimer’s mouse clicked on the last of the website’s pages. At first sight it was simply a chat room for fans to have their say about the team’s progress. The last batch of correspondence was dated 3 July.

Don’t know why they have to put up the season ticket again. How many bums are they going to lose off seats if they keep this up? It’s not as if we’re even in the SPL this season — Chris

Well everyone says that Kennedy’s going to have to put more money into the club or it’ll be in trouble. Remember what happened to Airdrie? They had to crawl back up from Division Two after they’d gone broke — Danny

Aye, and Falkirk. They nearly went bust too, didn’t they? Should’ve been in the Premier League as well, if it hadn’t been for the condition of Brockville — Chris Ancient history, pal. Though I suppose Kelvin’s not exactly state of the art, is it? — Danny

‘D’you want a cup of tea?’ Maggie’s voice broke into Lorimer’s thoughts.

‘Give me a minute. I’ll be right out,’ he called over his shoulder. He scrolled down to the last words on the page:

Well they must have plenty of money if they’re throwing all that dosh at Nicko Faulkner. What d’you think? — Chris

But the chat came to an abrupt end, the invisible Danny failing to respond and leaving that question dangling in the ether. What did he think? What was the consensus of opinion among the fans? Had Nicko been unpopular with any of them? Lorimer gave himself a shake. That was a dangerous train of thought. Looking for some weirdo who’d had a grudge was just daft. Mitchison was almost certainly correct in his assessment of Janis Faulkner: it was so obvious that she must have killed her husband, but still Lorimer sat at the computer wondering that perennial question: why?

‘It’ll get cold,’ Maggie murmured, her warm cheek against his. ‘Come on outside while it’s still light.’ Lorimer put his hand on her waist, ready to encircle it, but she was off with a laugh and he could only follow her out into the garden where two sun loungers lay waiting. From the depths of one of them an orange face looked up.

‘You again,’ he grinned. ‘Right wee chancer you are, pal.’

The sky was still light, the treetops dark against a pinkish haze that signalled yet another sunny day tomorrow. Maggie scooped up the cat and flipped it back on to her lap in one easy movement as she lay back on the lounger. A tray with two mugs sat on top of an upturned plastic litter bin, Maggie’s improvised picnic table until such time as she could be bothered to buy a proper one. Lorimer couldn’t recall when the summers had been as hot as this one. Sitting out in their garden at the end of a working day had previously been more of a novelty; now it was a welcome routine. He closed his eyes against the brightness of the western sky and let his hand fall limply by his side. Somewhere in the shrubbery a blackbird’s liquid notes came through the twilight. He opened his eyes, glancing at the cat, but it was curled contentedly on Maggie’s knee, oblivious to any bird. That was good, he thought. Maybe it wouldn’t be a nuisance after all. The idea of the animal stalking one of their garden birds and sinking its claws into a bundle of feathers made him wince, he could almost feel the sharpness of the points as they bit into the struggling bird.

Lorimer’s imagination took another leap, this time into a kitchen where human flesh had been pierced by sharp metal and where a man had bled to death. Had he been stalked? Had that been a calculated act of cruelty?

The blackbird whistled again but this time Lorimer took no pleasure in hearing the bird and knew he would not recapture the peace he’d found on Mull until he’d come to find the truth behind Nicko Faulkner’s killing.

‘We are the Keelies!’ The rhythmic stamping of feet followed the refrain, echoing round the ground, then a huge cheer went up as their team ran out from the tunnel. Black-and-white scarves held high were waved in time to the chants, roars of approval met the loudspeaker’s announcement of each team member. It was the first game of the season, the sun shone out of a clear blue sky, the score sheet was still pristine and anything could happen. Kelvin Park almost had about it a carnival atmosphere; music blared from the tannoy as a huge panda bear lumbered up and down in front of the stands, its immense paws held out to the front row of wee boys, clamouring to touch their mascot. Their spirits at least had not been dampened too deeply by the sombre aspect of a player’s death. ‘And you can hear the crowd as we look out over Kelvin Park. There’s a sense of expectation in the air, don’t you think?’

‘I would agree with that. Kelvin FC playing at home to Queen of the South today surely have a real chance to go through this first round of the Bell’s Cup.’