Deep Sea One

Chapter 6

"You suck at pool," Patrick said blandly, as Sam sank another white.

"I don't. I just have a lot on my mind," Sam excused his lack of aim, and he rounded the corner to recover the white ball from the bowels of the pool table.

"Yeah, right, as if you are not used to being a celebrity yet. It is just so alien to you, right?" his friend teased, as he chalked his cue.

It was Sunday night at the pub, but it was unusually busy in the musty establishment. Most of its patrons were comprised of ditched losers, retired coppers and lonely divorcees. The Kilt and Claymore had become Sam's new watering hole when he did not water at home. Having had that spat with Nina and having to deal with the egocentric bullshit of Professor Matlock for so long had put him off academic society as a whole.

Not that he did not already think of them all as pompous twats with God complexes, but he had to remove himself from that atmosphere after winning favor with the media as the Pulitzer-winning explorer, the pioneer of hardcore investigative journalism who could achieve anything short of walking on water. No doubt Nina hated him even more than she had initially, with his name constantly flaunted in the papers and magazines, but he elected to let that ship sail and concentrate on his work. Life after the Wolfenstein expedition had rekindled his fire for taboo topics and dangerous exploration, of hunting the story until he had all the facts, no matter what the cost.

Since his profile on Purdue and his editorial coverage on Matlock as the bestselling author Sam Cleave had become a much-sought-after ally in publishing and media. His name appeared on the acknowledgment pages of several authors and work offers poured in from television networks and newspapers he never thought would even notice his abilities.

"So, when is the next arse-kissing convention?" Patrick asked, as he leaned forward to take his shot, his eyes darting between the white and the stripe he was aiming for.

"In a week. This one is a fundraiser for renovation of some wing at some college in Aberdeen or something. I am representing the Post, so I have to go, I have to dress like a penguin and I have to stay sober… mostly," he sighed and lifted the empty tumbler as if the whisky was invisible. Patrick took his shot and sank the ball. With no amount of enthusiasm on his feat he went for the next one.

"My God, Sam, could you be more indifferent?" Patrick laughed at his friend's dismissive approach to the events he attended.

"I have never been, nor would I ever be, a glory whore, Paddy. You know I hate attention," he said.

"So why do you do what you do?" Patrick sounded like a teacher reminding a little boy why peeing in public is frowned on. Then he sank the black.

"I like adventure."

"And?"

Sam sighed as he gathered up their glasses for a trip to the bar, "Because I love money," he admitted, as he walked away.

In truth Sam did care about the attention he got, garnishing support for his career in the sheer hope that he would be in a position to choose more than just his assignments. It was addictive now, that feeling of being needed, wanted, by people who would previously not give a shit about him or his efforts… his losses. He had stopped obsessing over Trish, but he never stopped thinking about her. Sam found that lately he coped better with his loss of her and slowly but surely he was making peace with what happened and leaving the blame behind him.

However, another female frequently haunted his mind in the form of dreams and memories, sometimes coming at awkward hours in sudden bursts of What if? Nina just simply refused to go away. They had left things on a sour note, unnecessarily, and he often wondered what she was doing at a specific moment. He wondered if she was still angry at the world or if she was drowning in work to forget him and what they almost had. Perhaps that was arrogant of him. Perhaps it was dead on. For now he had the only company he wanted. Bruichladdich was low maintenance, quiet, ever-present and unconditionally affectionate.

The cat was his best friend because he did not talk, although he did give Sam his undeniable opinion with meows and subtle movements of his head. Sometimes Bruich conveyed his thoughts to Sam in facial expressions and that was all he needed. Such things made his cat an invaluable house partner, sparing him sermons about his bad habits and accusations of less than desirable hygiene.

Sam did not have alcohol on his cereal anymore, but actually made the effort to make scrambled eggs and toast to eat with his morning whisky. It complemented his lifestyle perfectly and he had even packed on a few pounds of healthy meat too. No longer was he the malnourished chain smoker with the guilt complex. No, he ate proper food and every now and then he would resort to a well-intended, half-assed workout session comprised of twenty push-ups, twenty sit-ups and often resorted to the stairs instead of using the elevator to his apartment.

"What about you?" Sam asked his friend, the detective, as they sat down at a small table by the window.

"Oh, nothing much. I am thinking about joining the secret service," Detective Chief Inspector (DCI) Patrick Smith affirmed in a nonchalant tone that had Sam howling with laughter. Patrick showed no reaction to Sam other than rolling his eyes and shaking his head. He took a swig of his Guinness and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I'm serious."

Sam stopped cackling and pinned his friend down in a hard stare. He was serious. Sam could basically predict most things about his best human friend and, looking closer at Patrick, he knew it to be true.

"You want to work SIS?" Sam asked, feeling more foolish for second-guessing his friend who he realized was truly perfect for the job. Patrick had the savvy, the grit and the drive to be an excellent agent. Few men were as loyal and assertive as he was and within moments Sam had ceased his mockery in lieu of contemplation about the matter.

"I remember back in 2005 The Scotsman reported that they were planning a permanent office in Glasgow," Sam recalled, while staring into his whisky glass before drinking the liquid in it.

"I hate to admit it, Sam. I am bored. There is just blood and greed and if I am going to work in the abattoir I might as well be a supervisor and leave the dirty work to the fresh lads," Patrick explained and his friend nodded in agreement.

"As you know, nobody understands this better than me. Stagnating is the flat line of any career and when mine was speedily heading for the morgue, you did your level best to slap me out of it. You, my friend, revived me. Now how can I not return the favor, hey?" the journalist smirked and raised his glass. "To the man who woke Lazarus of Dumfries… might he rise to still greater things! Long live the Smith!" Sam roared with eyes shut in lyrical delivery. Patrick laughed and waved his hand apologetically at the patrons who were disturbed by the sincere toast of the drunken reporter.

"Well done, Lazarus, well done," Patrick said, but in his gut he wished he had half the courage of his writer friend.