The Cabinet of Jorg Albertz

‘How do you suppose we know much of what goes on within the Celtic institution and its many agencies? We haven’t defeated them for three seasons by chance you know,’ smirked Albertz as he led me up the stairs, not one of which was level, jutting out at all sorts of strange angles which made climbing them a real effort.

We reached the top and Albertz lit some candles with his lighter and outside in that cottage room, unseen by Nevin, Devine or Bowditch, a light went on in the top floor of a painted house.
‘Meet Janowitz and Mayer,’ said Albertz, stepping aside to introduce me to – oh my God! I turned and ran for the door but it slammed shut in front of me and I turned in horror, corduroys squeaking as standing beside Albertz, staring at me, were the two dead eyed men from the Edinburgh express. Albertz laughed, ‘Ha! I see they had quite an impression on you! You should’ve seen your face Spiers, ha ha ha!’ and yet the two grey men stood as impassive as ever, those black eyes burrowing into my very soul.
‘Who are they?’ I asked.
‘Not who but rather what are they. Wraiths, Spiers, warnings. Born of Berlin during the fall of Weimar, they appear to warn of impending oppression; they are Die Zwielichthelden. Curious, isn’t it, how they seem very interested in you? You wouldn’t be involved in helping push through aggressive freedom inhibiting legislation designed in secret to repress the human rights of a great section of society, would you? Legislation that could sometime in the future be used to say, oppress people? Legislation towards which the Scottish people sleepwalked while being lulled into a false sense of its urgency by a vested interest media and political complex? No? Then you have nothing to worry about from these twilight men, nothing at all.’

But this worried me, he knew I was lying as I stood there trembling in my corduroys, shaking my head like an imbecile as the dead eyed men regarded me with a chilly concern.
‘How do I get out of here?’ I asked and Albertz laughed.
‘You only have to walk out the front door of course.’ So I looked at his burning blue eyes, his smile which hid a thousand mysteries, and then I glanced at his two friends and shivered, shrugged my shoulders, turned and ran down the stairs across the room, opened the door and I was out onto the path, careering downhill, black branches whipping my face until suddenly I stumbled and I was back in the cottage.

‘Fucking hell,’ shouted Devine when I landed on him as he drove Gillian Bowditch around the carpet horse artillery style. She shrieked as we collapsed in a bundle and then she shouted, ‘Oh good another one. Hop on handsome, your wee pal over there was too shy’ and I turned and noticed Nevin curled up in a ball in the corner, sobbing.
‘That’ll teach the little prick for speaking out about Celtic,’ sneered Devine. ‘This is your punishment, you little arsehole! See Spiers, we always get our man, now get round the front of Gillian and let me take a rest for a bit.’

And that’s how I prepared for the big Rangers Celtic match, all the while aware that in the strange painting above the fireplace, a light glittered, dimmed and then went out.