The Transparency Conundrum

"They wanted transparency so we gave them transparency and sent the Invisible Girl over to Lawwell's country retreat, Schönhausen" said Chris Graham, sitting looking louche on a leather armchair, playing with a cigar which he'd lit ten minutes ago but had yet to taste.

"What she saw there has left her traumatised and it takes a lot to shut up our Gail" he said, talking to Graham Spiers who was sitting opposite him and when I say Graham Spiers, I mean me.  Or the other Graham Spiers because there's now two of us.  Yes, it's quite unbelievable and when I tell people about it, especially fellow journalists, they all put their heads in their hands and sigh which just goes to show that they're now doubly intimidated by my superior knowledge and wit.

"What did she see?" I asked while I spied on myself having an off the record chat with Mr Fantastic of the Rangers Standard.

"Here's the thing Spiers," said Graham, examining the end of his cigar and casually flicking ash onto my lap.  "Gail's quite blind when she's invisible, light photons pass straight through her without interacting with her retinas so she can't see a damned thing; when she was sneaking around Schönhausen, by the time she reached anywhere of any importance she had to become invisible and so couldn't find her way around without being seen.  She knocked over two chairs and a fish tank before Lawwell eventually realised something was awry and called for the guards.  Nobody paid any attention to the French windows creaking open by themselves so she got out okay although granted, she fetched up in a pond before giving up and re-materialising and hopping over a fence before the hounds were released."

I knew these hounds well, hadn't they almost had my arse off before I was pulled to safety by the safe hands of Chris Woods of all people?  My mind wandered back to those halcyon days when everything seemed so simple and innocent, the days before Lawwell's diabolical machinations began to bear fruit when Celtic didn't have a free run at five championships in a row, before the SFA were run by Celtic and before the media capitulated completely to Lawwell.  This was a mistake, letting my mind wander, as Mr Fantastic's specialist power was to stretch his intellect until it entered your mind and once in there, psychic tendrils spreading, he could make you do pretty much whatever he liked.

"I want you to take out Peter Lawwell' he said, fixing me straight in the eyes.

"You want me to kill Peter Lawwell?" I shrieked.

"No, I want you to take out Peter Lawwell for a nice meal and allow us to rummage around Schönhausen in his absence.

"Oh, that's better then,' I said, relieved because as all Scottish journalists know, if you're going to take on anyone at Celtic then you'd better make sure you're going at them from a position of strength or you'll end up on the rack; flayed, beaten and begging for Peter Kearney to put his clothes back on.

"So what's in it for me?" I asked casually, realising the conversation was coming to an end from the way Graham had got up from his chair and was halfway out the door.

"How about three hundred quid?"

"Aye, that'll do."