The Einstein Equation

4 The Dead Relative Phenomenon

With haste, Sam tried to unlock his car door while Nina wheezed wildly by his side. She had learned by now that it was futile to question her old comrade on anything while he was focused on serious matters, so she elected to catch her breath and hold her tongue. The night was freezing for the season and his legs felt the burning chill of the wind curl in up under his kilt, with his hands equally numb. From the direction of the pub, voices were clamoring outside the establishment like hunters poised to commence on the tracks of a fox.

“For fuck’s sake!” Sam hissed in the dark as the point of the key kept scraping the lock without finding its way in. Nina looked back at the dark figures. They did not advance away from the building, but she could discern an altercation.

“Sam,” she whispered in hastened breaths, “can I give you a hand?”

“Is he coming? Is he coming yet?” he asked urgently.

Still perplexed at Sam’s flight, she answered, “Who? I need to know who to look out for, but I can tell you that so far that nobody is trailing us.”

“Th-th-the… the fu—,” he stuttered, “the fucking bloke that attacked me.”

Her big dark eyes scanned the area, but still, as far as Nina could see, there was no detectible movement in the space between the fight outside the pub and Sam’s jalopy. The door creaked open before Nina could figure out who Sam was referring to, and she felt his hand grasp her arm. He flung her into the car as gently as he could and pushed in after her.

“Jesus, Sam! Your stick shift is hell on my legs!” she complained as she made the arduous shift onto the passenger seat. Normally Sam would have some quip to the double entendre she uttered, but he had no time for humor now. Nina rubbed her thighs, still wondering what the fuss was about as Sam started the car. Performing her habitual locking of the door came just in time as, no sooner, a loud thump against her window started Nina into a cry of terror.

“Oh my God!” she shouted at the sight of the saucer-eyed man in the trench coat, suddenly appearing from nowhere.

“Son of a bitch!” Sam seethed as he threw the stick into first and revved the car.

The man outside Nina’s door was shouting furiously at her, slamming on the window with rapid blows. While Sam was getting ready to speed off, time slowed for Nina. She took a good look at the man whose face was distorted in intensity and recognized him at once.

“The virgin,” she muttered in astonishment.

As the car leapt from its parking space, the man screamed something at them in the red glow of the brake lights, but Nina was too shaken to pay attention to what he was saying. Agape, her lips waited for the right explanation to give Sam, but her brain felt scrambled. Through two red lights they sped in the late hour of the high street of Glenrothes, heading south towards North Queensferry.

“What did you say?” Sam asked Nina when they finally got on the main road.

“About?” she asked, so flabbergasted by it all that she had forgotten most of what she had remarked on. “Oh, the man at the door? Is that the keelie you are running from?”

“Aye,” Sam replied. “What did you call him back there?”

“Oh, the virgin,” she said. “Been watching him in the pub while you were in the bog, and he does not drink alcohol, I have noticed. So, all his drinks…”

“Virgins,” Sam surmised. “I get it. I get it.” His face was flushed and his eyes still wild, but he kept a firm eye on the winding road under the high beam lights. “I really have to get a car with central locking.”

“No shit,” she agreed, wiping her hair back under her knitted hat. “I would have thought that had become evident to you by now, especially in the business you are in. Getting your arse chased and accosted this much would require better transportation.”

“I like my car,” he mumbled.

“It looks like a bug, Sam, and you are loaded enough to afford something in keeping with your needs,” she preached. “Like a tank.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Sam asked her.

“No, but I saw him go into the restroom after you. I just did not think anything of it. Why? Did he say something to you in there or did he just attack you?” Nina enquired, taking the moment to brush his black tresses over his ear to clear his hair from his face. “Good God, you look like you have seen a dead relative or something.”

Sam looked at her. “Why would you say that?”

“Just a manner of speaking,” Nina defended. “Unless he was a dead relative of yours.”

“Don’t be silly,” Sam scoffed.

It dawned on Nina that her companion was not exactly adhering to the road laws, what with a million gallons of neat whiskey in his veins and a helping of shock for good measure. She gently ran her hand from his hair to his shoulder as not to startle him. “Don’t you think I should rather be driving?”

“You don’t know my car. It has… tricks,” Sam protested.

“No more than you have and I can drive you just fine,” she smiled. “Come now. If the cops pull you over you will be in deep shit and we do not need another sour taste from this evening, hey?”

Her coaxing was successful. With a soft sigh of surrender, he pulled the car off the road and changed places with Nina. Still agitated by the incident, Sam combed the dark road in their wake for signs of pursuit, but was relieved to find the threat absent. Inebriated as he was, Sam did not sleep it off on the drive home.

“My heart is still pounding, you know,” he told Nina.

“Aye, mine too. You have no idea who he was?” she asked.

“He looked like someone I once knew, but I cannot put my finger on it,” Sam revealed. His words were as confused as the emotions coursing through him. He ran his fingers through his hair and softly raked his face before looking at Nina again. “I thought he was going to kill me. He did not lunge or anything, but he was mumbling and shoving me, so I got pissed off. Bastard did not bother with a simple ‘hello’ or anything, so I took it as a nudge for a brawl or thought maybe he was trying to rib me in the shitter, you know?”

“Makes sense,” she agreed, keeping her eyes keenly on the road before and behind them. “What did he mumble, though? That might clue you up on who he was or what he was there for.”

Sam recollected the hazy incident, but nothing specific came to mind.

“I have no idea,” he replied. “Then again, I am light years away from any cogent thought right now. Maybe the whiskey washed away my memory or something, because what I recall looks like a live action Dali painting. Just all,” he burped and made a dripping gesture with his hands, “smudged and jumbled in too many colors.”

“Sound like most of your birthdays,” she mentioned, trying not to smile. “Don’t fret, pet. You can sleep it all off soon. Tomorrow you will better remember that shite. Better yet, there is a good chance Rowan could tell you a bit more about your molester, since he served him all evening.”

Sam’s drunken head spun to leer at her and lolled to one side in disbelief. “My molester? Jesus, I am sure he was gentle, because I do not remember him molesting me. Also… who the hell is Rowan?”

Nina rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, Sam, you are a journalist. One would imagine you would know that the term has been used for ages to imply someone who accosts or annoys. It is not a solid noun like rapist or violator. And Rowan is the barman at Balmoral.”

“Oh,” Sam sang as his eyelids drooped. “Yes, then, yes, that mumbling fuckwit molested the shit out of me. I have not felt that molested in a long time, I tell ya.”

“Alright, okay, lay off the sarcasm. Stop being daft and stay awake. We are nearly at your place,” she instructed as they passed along the Turnhouse Golf Course.

“Are you staying over?” he asked.

“Aye, but you are going straight to bed, birthday boy,” she directed sternly.

“I know we are. And if you come with us, we will give you a peek of what lives in the Republic of Tartan,” he announced, grinning at her in the passing yellow lights that lined the road.

Nina sighed and rolled her eyes. “Talk about seeing ghosts of old acquaintances,” she murmured as they turned into the street where Sam resided. He said nothing. Sam’s bumbled mind was on autopilot as he swayed in silence with the cornering of the vehicle, while far away thoughts kept thrusting back the blurred face of the stranger in the men’s room.

Sam was not much in the way of a burden when Nina laid his head on the fluffed pillow in his bedroom. It was a welcome change to his wordy protests, but she knew that the night’s sour event along with the alcohol consumption of a bitter Irishman had to have taken its toll on her friend’s demeanor. He was exhausted, and as fatigued as his body was, his mind was fighting against rest. She could see it in the movement of his eyes behind the cover of their lids.

“Sleep well, lad,” she whispered. Planting a kiss on Sam’s cheek, she pulled up the covers and tucked the ear of his fleece blanket under his shoulder. Faint flashes of lighting illuminated the half-drawn curtains as Nina switched off Sam’s bedside lamp.

Leaving him in satisfied unrest, she headed for the living room where his pet cat lazed on the mantel.

“Hey Bruich,” she whispered, feeling quite drained herself. “Want to keep me warm tonight?” The feline did little else than peek through the slits of his eyelids to examine her intent before snoozing on peacefully in the rumble of thunder over Edinburgh. “Nope,” she shrugged. “Could have taken up your master’s offer if I knew you were going to snub me. You bloody males are all the same.”

Nina plopped down on the couch and switched on the television, not so much for entertainment as for company. Slivers of the night’s incidents passed through her memory, but she was too tired to review too much of it. All she knew was that she was unsettled by the sound that escaped the virgin when he beat his fists against her car window before Sam took off. It was like a retarded yawn, played in slow motion; an awful, haunting sound she could not forget.

Something caught her eye on the screen. It was one of the parks from her hometown, Oban, in the northwest of Scotland. Outside, the rain came down to wash away Sam Cleave’s birthday and announce the new day.

Two past midnight.

“Oh, we made the news again,” she said, and turned up the volume over the rain. “Not too gripping, though.” The news report was nothing serious, other than the new elected mayor of Oban on his way to a national assemblage of high priority and great confidence. “Confidence, my ass” Nina scoffed, lighting a Marlboro. “Just a nice name for clandestine cover up emergency protocol, hey, you bastards?” Along with her cynicism, Nina tried to figure how a mere mayor would be deemed important enough to be invited to such a high profile meeting. It was odd, but Nina’s sandy eyes could bear the blue TV light no more and she fell asleep to the sound of the rain and the incoherent, fading chatter of the reporter on Channel 8.