Sam started babbling about his disappointment in his therapist, a chick called Nina who had a great ass and leaving his cat alone with a genie, all of which was mildly amusing to the young Terry. He smiled more and more at Sam’s ramblings, while wondering how he would get home safely if the weather persisted. His phone rang just as Sam grew quiet at the sight of his street’s name on the sign on the corner. As if he was sober, his laughter waned and his concentration increased on the task at hand — going into his flat.
“’Lo Dad. Yes, we just got here, but Sam is…” he briefly glanced at the slumping drunk next to him who’s eyes stared dead ahead into the night and Terry lowered his voice, “a bit… unstable, Dad.”
Sam heard Terry’s diagnosis of him, but he did not much care. In fact, the lad was not far off. Sam did not know what to expect when he walked back into the flat and he certainly did not want to be alone with that damned artifact. Terry completed the rest of the call before the car came to a halt in the lush growth of the weeping trees populating the complex court yard.
“My dad says if you feel, you know, bad or something, you are welcome to give him a call if you feel the need and all that,” Terry stuttered. He was not the sensitive type of Scot, had there ever been such a thing, and telling someone that they cared about them was always subliminally construed as an infringement on their masculinity.
“I’m alright, Terry. Just had a few shitty days,” Sam assured him as he fumbled at the car door to find the handle. He felt dazed and weak from the alcohol. Not even the ice cold rain could sober him up slightly. Sam felt miserable as he laid eyes on his front door in the corner of the quadrangle which made up the residential complex where he lived.
Terry walked with him to make sure that he navigated his way on the slippery cement that stretched from the entrance of the courtyard toward Sam’s door. Two steps glistened in the garden lamps that stood hidden amongst the well-kept garden’s bushes and illuminated the branches of the tall trees. As the rain fell, crystal tears dripped from the tips of the leaves.
“Hurry!” Sam shouted at the lagging frame of the skinny young man following in his trail.
“Mind the steps, Sam,” Terry warned.
“Hey,” the inebriated Sam turned to face him with an amused chuckle, “I’m the one who lives here. I know we have steps.” He scoffed and turned, immediately tripping over the first increment and landing on the top step with both knees. He groaned as Terry helped him up.
“If you say I told you so, I’ll kill you,” Sam said as he was helped to his feet, but Terry only wanted to get under the roof of the long external corridor so that they could open their eyes properly. The showers were gradually flooding the lawns and pathways as they raced for cover, staggering as they went. The thunder was kinder than the rain, only rumbling softly now and then while the wind grew stronger, battering their backs with sheets of water.
Finally, Sam managed to get his key into the door and when they entered the dark warmth of his home, they felt momentarily relieved. Sam quickly slammed his hand on the wall switch and illuminated his modern living area. Closing the door behind them, he looked around for anything suspicious. But all was normal and unperturbed. Even Bruich jogged out to say hello and Sam briskly whisked his pet up in his arms, something he never readily did anymore. Terry petted the large yawning Bruich, immediately evoking a purr from the intelligent feline.
“You want a whisky to warm your bones?” Sam asked, heading to the kitchen to get Bruich some food.
“I still have to drive home, Sam. Can’t be drinking now,” Terry explained. Sam gave him a long look as he let the cat jump from his arms, then looked out the window at the flashing heavens and the rivulets that decorated the outside of his windows. With a pointing thumb, he asked, “You plan to drive home in this flood tonight?”
Terry had to consider Sam’s question. It was true. The place was flooded from the downpour that the drive home through Edinburgh would be quite dangerous.
“Alright, let me call Dad and tell him I’m sitting out the rain for now,” Terry decided out loud.
“Aye, let him know you might have to stay the night. I’ll get you a glass,” his host answered and without waiting for a reply, went ahead to retrieve the almost empty bottle of Grouse. Terry had to yield. Sam was relieved that his deliberate stalling helped him acquire a companion for the night, so that he was not left on his own with whatever threatened him before. Even just knowing that there was someone else there was good enough for him. Just another soul, so that he did not feel so alone. Sam hesitantly put his palms on his chafed knees under the wet denim of his jeans. He poured them each a drink and shook the last drops from the neck of the empty bottle.
“Shit,” he said.
“No worries. Not as if you hadn’t had any tonight, ‘ey? But I might still have a half jack in my backpack from fishing yesterday. I’ll check later,” Terry laughed. Sam was not really amused that he was suddenly left dry, but he managed a snigger and threw away the glass bottle. Blood was seeping through the denim over his knees and he thought it best to go take a shower before passing out wet and bloody on his clean bedding. He chugged his alcohol.
“I have to excuse myself to get this mess organized,” he slurred with great ceremony, curtsying to accommodate his hand gestures to the injuries he sustained on the steps outside.
He turned on the television and offered Terry the couch as the thunder made the windows shudder under its aural intensity. Terry watched Sam disappear into the dark corridor and the bathroom light falling in an askew square against the wall. Bruich cordially made himself at home on Terry’s lap, but the young man did not mind. With his father’s good looks he was always guaranteed of going home alone, so he found the animal’s affection refreshing, even if it did not judge in finding the softest, warmest spot to sleep on.
Sam looked at the ceiling, avoiding the direct stream of steaming water on his face. His knees burned from the warmth as the tepid streams ran over the raw skin. Apart from the sensation of scalding his knees the water rejuvenated him, but he leaned with one hand against the tiles to support him in the spinning cubicle. Sam’s troubles had not subsided, but his incessant contemplation had been reduced considerably. For some reason, all the things he fought with in the pub had now culminated into one cauldron. Like a pot of soup, his collective thoughts surfaced and sank again before he could fully mull it over, a merciful confusion that had Sam too befuddled to nurture any one of his demons at a time.
When Sam finally sobered up, though ever so slightly as it was, he laboriously pulled on his sweat pants, straining over his still moist skin. It was so taxing that Sam decided not to dress any further. He was tired. He was drunk. He was not in the mood for petty shit like trying to get a shirt over his upper body or drying his hair. In fact, he did not even bother to hang the towel over the aluminum fixture right next to him and just dropped it in a hot wet heap on the floor.
“Have you eaten yet, Terry?” he called down the corridor on his way to where the television was blaring on some documentary about poisonous marine life.
“I had pizza.”
“When?”
“Lunch time?”
“That’s half a day ago, Terry!” Sam rummaged through the kitchen cupboard for something to satisfy his alcohol-induced munchies.
“I didn’t think you’d care about food, Cleave,” Terry laughed, “You are happier drinking than eating, from what I see.”
He placed the two glasses on the counter. Sam loved that sound and instantly he forgot how hungry he was.
“But we drink it my way this time. I don’t know how you can drink this stuff neat. It’s fucking disgusting, like Samagon or any home brew shite. I have mine with Coke and ice, but I’ll void the ice since your fridge has never heard of the concept,” he teased.