International Friendly

International Friendly

"Last stretch through the Chunnel," Laurent thought. He was always
happy to see daylight again, upon emerging from that underwater tube
which connected Britain to the Continent.
"Passport, please.... Are you in France for business or pleasure, Mr.
Rebrov?"
"Business, I am on my way to Paris for tomorrow's football
match."
"Ahhh, Laurent Rebrov, the football journalist, no? I enjoy your
column in the Telegraph; tell me, who is your pick for tomorrow
evening?"
"I'd have to say England 2-1; the French are defending European and
World Champions, but my gut says that the English are due. Besides, you
don't have Barthez in the squad, he was injured in goal last week for
Manchester United which puts you at a sizeable disadvantage."
"Oui, yes, but as you said we are the Champions, I bet my money on Les
Bleus; anyway, have a good stay in Paris, Mr. Rebrov."
"Thank you."
"Allez!" the guard shouted, indicating he was ready for the next
car.
"Och, if he talks like this with everyone, I don't see anyone making
it to Paris for the match," Laurent mused as he drove inland. Usually
he flies to his assignments around the continent, but every so often he
indulges himself with a road trip, an opportunity to take in the
scenery from Glasgow to France. Besides, he just likes driving.
Readjusting his tuner, having moved on a ways from the customs post, he
continued to push towards Paris. "Here we are."
"...1053 and 1089 on your medium wave, this is Talksport, the UK's
first all sports radio station, direct from London..." boomed the
radio. "Good afternoon everyone you're listening to 'The Season
Ticket.' As always, I'm Tom Watt. Beautiful afternoon here in London,
and at 4pm we have plenty of headlines to talk about in the world of
European football..." It was just background for Laurent, the
commentator's news just a confirmation of Laurent's speculation in his
column of the previous week.
"No need to change the clock," Laurent remarked to himself. He had
gone to great pains to set it when he first drove the car off the lot
and figured adding an hour in his head was no big deal. Taking care to
readjust himself to the changed traffic patterns-right side of the road
now, instead of the left-Laurent continued to worry. Having left
Katherine smiling, waving on the porch of their cottage, he couldn't
help feeling as if he were some kind of courier; in his possession was
information enough to destroy an entire organization, and the lives
therein.
"Are you sure you don't want to come with me, Katherine, you love
going to Paris, we could take a little time, just wander the streets,
taking in the atmosphere. I'll even pack for you," he remembered saying
with an adoring smile and chuckle.
"Laurent don't forget Ann is coming and you know I have to stay and
make sure the library's new display is ready for its unveiling, they're
counting on me." Laurent knew this was true, ever since his wife
started her job at the local library, she was happy to have a daily
routine, out and about. The library was unveiling its collection of
books written by various Glasgweigan authors, a tribute to the city's
heritage. It made her happy, which, in turn, made Laurent happy; her
company would have given his mind a release from his worries. Instead
he was left to himself.
"...as we take this week off for World Cup qualifiers, and England's
international friendly in the Stade de France, we have to talk about
the almost storybook success of Scotland's newest top flight football
club, Dynamo Glasgow, who have worked their way from the Scottish 3rd
division to two points clear of Rangers and Celtic after four weeks of
the Scottish season." The radio went on about the club's history. It
was started eight years ago by a group of amateurs in a Russian
neighborhood of Glasgow, and in a relatively short time has become the
toast of Glasgow, edging ahead of the other two teams which have owned
Glasgow's football faithful for the better part of the 20th century.
Funny how whenever there is something on the brain, everything external
seems to bring it to the forefront of the mind; here Tom Watt lauds the
very institution Laurent can't bear to consider. It's heavy on the
soul, knowing that Glasgow's latest diamond is nothing more than cubic
zirconium-drugs, bribes, and extortion have seen to that. Laurent's
sinking feeling won't quit, he can see the inevitable looming.
"They always shoot the messenger," he says over and over again.
Keeping one hand on the wheel and his eyes on the road, he fumbles
around for some cashews he bought for the trip. That, and a swig of his
coke, satisfies him for the time being.
"Ahhhhhhhgood lord...." The satisfaction of his coke bleeds back to his
conundrum. On the one hand, he has journalistic integrity, a duty to
report what he's uncovered. But they are his people, not the fact they
are Scottish, but that they are of Russian descent, just like him.
"They represent people like my father, those who fled to make a better
life for themselves..." He checks this line of thought, his father was
not a steroid addict. Protestants always had Rangers, Catholics have
Celtic; the Russian Orthodox Christians of Glasgow, workers, fans who
will pack a stadium to see their own play, now have Dynamo and it's a
fraud. Something from his literary studies at college struck a cord.
Laurent refused to believe he was an "Uncle Tom," yet he couldn't
envisage the other Russians of Glasgow seeing him as anything
but.
"Katherine, hi!" Her voice was just what he prayed for on the other end
of his mobile phone. "What's cooking up there, how is the library
exhibit working out?"
"Laurent, if I didn't know any better I'd say you missed me." She loved
to be playful it was her way of reciprocating her husband's warm
address. "It's going brilliantly, we've finished arranging the display,
and tomorrow we will unveil it to the city, mayor and all."
"Great, sweetheart, that's wonderful. Any plans for tonight or are you
going to eat something at the house?" Laurent slowed down as traffic
came to a viscous pace, traffic accidents had the same appeal in France
that they did in the UK, apparently.
"Well, Ann and I plan to take in a movie and some dinner, she'll
probably try to tell me about how much better the US is than Scotland,
and I'll tell her what rubbish it is...all in all a good evening
ahead," she said with a grin. Ann was Katherine's cousin from New York,
her father's brother's daughter, who was Katherine's pen pal as a child
and now was visiting Katherine for two weeks, having landed that
afternoon.
"Splendid, Katherine, have a brilliant time and give my best to Ann.
What are the two of you in the mood for tonight, Chinese?
Italian?"
"Ann has this crazy idea for some real Scottish haggis, but I'm going
to push for Chinese." Laurent was approaching a tunnel, which meant
he'd have to finish his call.
"Sweetheart, I'm coming to a tunnel, so I'm going to have to go. I've
about two or three more hours to Paris, so I'll call you once I check
into the hotel. Everything else is alright around the house
though?"
"Everything is fine dear, we'll be here when you call. Is everything
alright with you Laurent?"
"I'm well, no complaints." He hadn't yet had the opportunity to share
his findings with his wife.
"OK then, have a safe trip the rest of the way, and hurry back."
"You bet Katherine, love you."
"Love you too, Laurent, bye now."
"Bye hon." With that he turned off the phone. The sign right before the
tunnel put Laurent 175 kilometers from Paris.
"...after the break we'll be on the phone from Glasgow with Dynamo
Glasgow chairman, Sergi Titov..." Tom Watt's voice cut out just as
Laurent entered the tunnel. He flipped the tuner knob off anyway. He
had no desire to listen to the radio once he emerged from the other
side. Having talked to Katherine seemed to help him relax. It always
did. From the moment he met her, having her at his side, in his
thoughts, never failed to make his life pure enjoyment.
The only daughter of an Italian businessman, Katherine developed an
appreciation for sport that was one more endearing quality to Laurent.
Perhaps it was why she understood the nature of his job so well, and
didn't necessarily mind his traipsing about Europe so often. She went
with him often, but many times, she was content to remain in Glasgow,
to let him finish his business and to be there waiting for him once he
returned. What she loved about Laurent was that he never lied to her,
he could easily help allay her worries and fears with an assuring hand
on her shoulder or an embrace, and that he loved to tell her stories-of
himself, of his work, of his experiences in general. Laurent was
equally pacified by the sound of her voice, a smile, or the way she
squeezed his hand-three times, each for the words "I-love-you." As yet,
though, he had not been able to talk to her about what he had found.
Laurent had no idea what the consequences would be for Katherine if he
did; this is what scared him. As much as he wanted to tell her, his
desire to keep her out of harm's way superceded all. Hence, he kept mum
about it.
In the midst of his reveries, he began conjuring the opening lines for
his match report for the Telegraph. The rest of the article would be
left to the match result.
"The England/France friendly was billed as a test of the progress of
Kevin Keegan's players since this summer's Euro 2000...yes that'll do
nicely to start," commented Laurent to himself. Laurent recorded his
opening line ideas and his pre-match impressions onto a hand held tape
recorder, and placed it next to his laptop on the vacant passenger
seat. A deep inhalation followed by its complimentary exhalation,
allowed Laurent to focus a little more on his job at hand, the
following evening's match. All matters not belonging in Paris that
weekend, Laurent decided, would have to wait for him back in
Glasgow.

? ? ?

"The atmosphere in the Stade de France is electrifying, 70,000
cheering on
'Les Bleus' and 10,000 of our own supporters singing out for England,
it looks set to be a cracker..." and on and on, he could hear the ITV
commentator warming into his match coverage for the evening. Some fans
have been there as long as 3 hours before the start of the match,
singing and chanting, and as the rest have filtered in to their seats,
they take up the tune which they hear around the stadium. The stadium
crowd has enough electricity to keep the "City of Lights" bright until
the sun makes it way back to Western Europe the next morning. Laurent,
himself, had arrived two hours prior to the 7.05 kick-off, which was
now only ten minutes away, and had found time to remind his friend in
the ITV commentary booth, college roommate Duncan Ferguson, of their
appointment for a pint after the match-they always get together and
share a pint whenever and wherever they may be covering the same event.
Right on schedule the stadium public address announcer, first in
French, then in English announced the singing of the national anthems
of the two countries.
"Ladies and gentlemen please rise for the national anthem of England."
Laurent always loved this part of the match, when at the start of the
music every Englishman in the ground would sing the words to the anthem
in unison. The English on this occasion made a very credible showing,
yet the 70,000 French supporters really sang when it came their turn
for "La Marseillaise." From there only the coin toss at midfield came
before the kickoff. In the midst of the building fervor, right before
kickoff, Laurent's mobile phone rang.
"Laurent Rebrov," he announced into the receiver.
"I really hope this is!" Katherine giggled. "You know Laurent, they
are showing you on the telly just now, and you looked out of sorts. Is
everything alright?"
"Dunc must have cameramen working overtime, Kat." He smiled and waved
into the camera, having just spotted it. "Everything is fine
sweetheart, I promise you. The mattress was too hard in the hotel last
night, so I didn't sleep much. Otherwise, I'm just getting settled into
the match, is all." The camera panned away towards the pitch.
"Well alright, love, just looking out for ya. Is it hot there in the
stadium, you look like you're sweating an awful lot." Laurent hadn't
noticed it, but she was right. What she didn't know was that it wasn't
the stadium doing it to him.
"I don't know honey, I guess it is pretty warm. You gonna watch the
match, or do you and Anna have other plans? How was the unveiling today
at the library?"
"Everything was fine Laurent, the mayor was really impressed. Anna and
I may watch for a little bit, she still thinks her Rangers in New York
are better than ours, here in Glasgow. I guess its my duty to show her
how much better our football is better than ice hockey."
"Right, get to it then Kat, I know if anybody will turn her, you
will." Out of the corner of his eye, Laurent saw a reason to collect
his belongings and move to another section of the stand. Evermore
nervous, now, his the cell phone slipped out from between his ear and
his shoulder.
"Laurent?"
"Sorry Kat, some bloke knocked the phone off of my shoulder. The rest
of the media are filtering into the stand here."
"Well I'll let you to the match, Laurent, have fun dear."
"Ok, Kat, I will. I love you, sweetheart, I can't wait to see you
again."
"Ahhh, you're a sweet one Laurent. I love you too. I'll be here when
you get back." At that, she smiled, and hung up the phone. Laurent
folded his phone and put it in his laptop computer bag. He was in the
middle of collecting his belongings when his fear manifested itself in
the seat next to him.

"It should be an exciting match, wouldn't you think, Mr. Rebrov?"
Laurent's belongings slipped out his hands and crashed on the ground,
having flinched at the familiar voice suddenly at his ear.
"That's what I've been predicting for a week now, Mr. Titov," Laurent,
replied tersely, as he began to recollect his things. He found that the
Dynamo Glasgow Chairman, Sergi Titov, now occupied the previously empty
seat to his left. He was a heavy-set, sixty-five year-old man, with a
beard and mustache of mixed gray and black. Titov's eyebrows had a
habit of curling upward and slanting downward toward the bridge of his
nose when he didn't like what was going on around him. For example, the
fact that Laurent tried to get up and move his seat wasn't what Titov
had in mind.
"Where to, in such a hurry? Sit awhile with me." Titov clutched
Laurent's arm in his big lion's paw of a hand. Laurent could feel the
underside of Titov's fat rings biting his forearm. Just then he felt
compelled to stay and figure out what Titov had to say. Like Laurent's
father, Mr. Titov had escaped the former Soviet Union, but while the
senior Rebrov worked in shipbuilding as a means to his future as a
journalist, Titov made shipbuilding into his profession, eventually
owning the largest company in Glasgow. Once word of the emergence of a
new team in Glasgow came, comprising of mainly ethnic Russians, Mr.
Titov had his considerable wallet on hand to weigh in. Laurent had a
pretty healthy professional relationship with Titov, having interviewed
him on occasion for his articles. But, both knew what the other knew,
and so the gamesmanship began. Laurent started.
"What brings you to Paris this evening, dear chairman?"
"Laurent, you of all people ought to have recognized that I have one
of my big foreign stars playing in the French team tonight."
"I am well aware that Thierry Poulin is out there, yet still, ITV
transmits to Glasgow last I checked."
"Who's to say I don't have other business in Paris this evening, other
interests?" Laurent noticed the leather briefcase tucked under Titov's
arm. The contents, Laurent got the feeling, would soon become his
concern. "Besides, I've always fancied the atmosphere of the stadium,
as I know you do Laurent. Tell me, who do you suppose will prove to be
tonight's game breaker?" A fly landed on Titov's finger. Instead of
swatting it away, he squashed it between his thumb and index finger,
and shot a glance at Laurent. Laurent, meanwhile, just watched the
match, and replied as if he hadn't been paying attention to the
fly.
"Just looking at the England bench, I would have to say young Bobby
Hurst could do a job on the French defense, provided he gets a run out
onto the pitch."
"I know you love that lad, Laurent, frankly I don't see why he's even
here," Mr. Titov huffed, his eyebrows contorting inward. The funny
thing about Bobby Hurst, Laurent knew, is how much Mr. Titov disliked
him. Young Hurst was a twenty year-old English prodigy who signed his
first professional contract fourteen months before with Dynamo Glasgow.
He was Dynamo, and Titov's, first sensational, big-time signing. The
season was a dream for Dynamo; Hurst and the rest of his Scotch-Russian
colleagues trashed the Scottish First Division, and gained promotion to
the Premier League after only a season. With a league leading
twenty-nine goals, it seemed to everyone that Bobby was a budding hero
in the mold of other of Glasgow's pantheon of great players. However,
only the previous May he bewildered the public by declaring his
unhappiness with his setup, and demanded a transfer out of Glasgow. The
public saw this youngster as someone just seeking a big money transfer
and lacking one of life's basic virtues, loyalty. The true reason
behind his departure to English champions Manchester United, and the
reason for Laurent's wariness at being approached by Mr. Titov, lied in
this misconception of Bobby Hurst's sense of loyalty. "Hurst is
immature, a baby when things don't go his way," Mr. Titov declared. He
reached into his briefcase and Laurent's heart skipped a beat.
Producing only a cigarette and matches, Laurent's sighed inwardly with
relief.
"You see," Laurent chimed, "I just don't think that makes sense. He
was happy with Dynamo and had all the intentions of honoring his
three-year contract. From what he tells me he loved the city, the
stadium, as well as the supporters." He was far less composed
internally.
"What else does Bobby Hurst tell you, Laurent?"
"Mr. Titov, I wouldn't be very 'loyal' to Bobby if I were to relate to
you everything he told me in confidence. Besides, I'd imagine you know
what he said to me, just as I'd imagine you know why he left Glasgow in
such a hurry." Laurent paused to watch play unfolding in front of him;
he felt like he was treading in very deep water. Fifty-five minutes
gone, and both teams were tied at zero. "To be honest Mr. Titov, I am,
I think, a pretty astute journalist, fairly observant. I take notice of
the little things going on around me and am able to recall them when I
need to." Laurent really didn't want to give away much of what he'd
collected about Dynamo's foul business and sporting practices. Who was
he kidding, though, he knew this was what Titov had come to see him
about. He had no sure idea about Mr. Titov's true capacities, how far
he was really capable of going to secure something he wanted. He was
about to find out.
"Laurent, we are of the same people. Your father fled Soviet Russia
just like me, for Glasgow. I consider you my brother, and we are all
brothers, us Russians in Glasgow. I would hope it stays that way." With
that Mr. Titov pressed his briefcase into Laurent's arms. Laurent
opened the latch to the front of the case, and in it found not
cigarettes, but ?100,000. Immediately shaken by the scope of what was
happening to him, he shoved it back at Mr. Titov, and leapt to his
feet, all of his items firmly in hand this time.
"Do not speak to me again," Laurent declared to Titov and at that he
darted to the other end of the press box and took another seat.
"I won't, Mr. Rebrov," he muttered to himself, taking out a Cuban cigar
to smoke. He etched a note on some hotel letterhead, and gave it to an
associate, who took it from him and exited the press box. Laurent
looked over his shoulder to see if Mr. Titov would follow, and if he
would need to dispatch a steward to prevent Mr. Titov's approach. Mr.
Titov was gone, however. A sudden wave of fear swept over Laurent. As
scared as he was during the entire exchange with Titov, he couldn't
believe what had transpired. He'd been offered a bribe; his findings
were of such magnitude that someone had offered him money to prevent
their uncovering. He was so afraid of the situation he was in, the game
had passed around him without notice. Through eighty-eight minutes not
even screaming fans had alerted him to the 1-1 scoreline. Disconcerted
and fearful as he was, it was a wonder that Laurent even remembered to
make it to the bar that night to meet with Duncan.

? ? ?

A small caf? in the 14th arrondismont of Paris, a few blocks away from
Laurent's hotel, Le Hotel du Parc des Expositiones. Here there are a
few passersby who walk up and down the street, the simple object of
their travels just being to traverse the streets of Paris. It's a late
September Saturday evening, the warm current of Parisian air carrying
on it the essence of this European city, as is the case in many a
European city. It's a rather quiet neighborhood, little traffic,
especially at this late hour after the match. The caf? as well as the
hotel are a stone's throw from the Ponte Versailles metro station.
Laurent stayed here during a childhood trip to the French capital, and
loved the neighborhood it resided in-some houses, some tall buildings,
some short, the actual Parc des Expositiones, which always seemed empty
whenever Laurent was in town, some cafes, restaurants, and stores, no
glut of traffic, and of course people to give it all purpose. Hands
folded, Laurent sits in this caf? with Duncan Ferguson and an Amstel in
front of him while Duncan has some McEwan's Lager-a Scottish beer. The
caf? itself, nothing more than a bar, a back room, and eight or nine
small tables with chairs, is kept immaculate; this keeps customers like
Laurent and Duncan coming back. Fine wooden trimming frame the walls
which are cream colored. Hooded lamps hang from the ceiling, the light
bright enough for customers to see their companions and their food and
drink, but dim enough to create the relaxed feeling many come to expect
in an enjoyable French caf?-this ambiance is accented with marble green
floors. The owner furnished the humble layout of his establishment with
opulent detail. By the bar a medium sized television sits, playing the
evening's highlights for some interested patrons.
"Laurent, why the hell are you drinking that Dutch beer?"
"Because I refuse to think about Glasgow right now, I've had a hellish
evening Dunc, just miserable. You saw me sitting with Sergi Titov,
right?"
"Yeah, I took a look, saw the two of you chatting most of the match,
what's the big deal?" Duncan could not imagine what Laurent was about
to unload on him.
"Dunc, that bloody weasel Titov offered me a ?100,000 bribe this
evening, because I've uncovered a scandal which would rock Dynamo
Glasgow; drug use, bribes, its all there, and it could destroy the
club. It all has to do with why Bobby Hurst left Dynamo, Duncan, he was
being forced to take the drugs to enhance his ability to play through
injury and he's not the only one. I haven't told anyone about it yet,
Duncan, not even Katherine, and I am afraid. What the hell would happen
to me if I reveal this information to the public, not to mention
Katherine, in light of the fact that I just turned down a ?100,000
attempt to keep it a secret?"
"Settle down Laurent, settle down, its alright, everything is going to
be alright. You are going to release what you know in the press...don't
worry I wont scoop this from under you for ITV..."
"Right Dunc, as if that's what I worry about most at the
moment."
"Honestly Laurent, consult your editors, show them everything you have
found, and then release it in your column. Besides, would you have dug
for the truth if you didn't intend to blow the lid off of this?"
"You're spot on Dunc, spot on..." Laurent knew Duncan's words were
true, but fear still raged on through his mind, unlike anything in his
life. Time passed at its own pace in this caf?, hours fizzled away like
minutes and it seemed like the night got darker and darker. "I've got
to get back to Glasgow, I've got to get back to Katherine, she's not
safe, I've got to get back, Duncan."
"Get a hold of yourself Laurent, bloody hell, have you been watching
too many James Bond movies?"
"You don't realize, Dunc, the magnitude of Titov's operation? Drugs
weren't just for his players' benefit, but also to the detriment of the
visitors. For example, did you know that the water source for Dynamo
Park's visitor's dressing room has its own source, so that it is can be
mixed with Chloral Hydrate. This is a compound that makes the muscles
tired, weak, and cuts the player's awareness to shreds. Of course there
is a small enough amount to make it seem like normal fatigue, but it's
enough to provide Dynamo with an overwhelming edge. I've talked to
players, I have even had a water sample tested, Duncan. I even found
the real plans to the stadium, not the ones on file with the city
planners, but the ones in Titov's office, ones that caused his
secretary to move to America after having helped me. These show the
separate water pipes to the visitor's dressing room. Believe me, this
doesn't even scratch the issue of how exactly Titov funded his
operation. I know you are right Dunc, I know I have to blow this out of
the water, but just think for a minute. Titov knows I know, and he's
unsuccessfully tried to buy my silence. I don't know what to do,
Duncan, but I've got to get to Katherine before anything can happen, I
must."
"Laurent, what can I do, tell me what you want me to do."
"Just, make sure you don't let anyone know you saw me tonight." At
that he produced a disk from his jacket. Sliding it across the table,
Duncan examined it.
"What's this Laurent?"
"Insurance. Come find me once you return to Glasgow." Never denying his
friend, Duncan put the disk in his pocket. Laurent stood, left some
money on the table, and made for the exit. "Cheers, Dunc," he bade as
he held one hand on the door.
"Catch you back in Blighty, Laurent." At that, Laurent made his way
back to the hotel, to check out, making sure he hadn't any company
following him up the street. His plan was to drive to Charles DeGaulle
Airport, and fly back to Glasgow that night, not taking any chances. He
packed, and made it down to the lobby to return his room key; a doleful
accordion tune played on the speakers at the front desk.
"You have a message, sir," commented the hotel clerk. "It was hand
delivered at around 11.30." Laurent opened the folded piece of hotel
letterhead from one of the other Parisian hotels-one of hundreds-and
read the one line message.
If you say my name, I disappear.
"What the bloody hell...I'll get to the bottom of this later," Laurent
figured. He assumed it was Titov's writing, but at this point all
Laurent could do was to act on instinct; his instinct was to get home
to Katherine. With swift pace, he loaded his belongings into the back
seat of his Mercedes. He then hopped into the driver's side of the SUV,
thrust the key into the ignition, and turned it. A sorrowful orange
fireball pierced the calm Parisian night sky.

? ? ?

"The BBC interrupts regular programming to bring you breaking news from
central Paris...early this morning a car bomb exploded outside of a
Parisian hotel near the Hotel du Parc des Expositiones...the
circumstances surrounding this tragedy are not yet known, as French
authorities are in the very early stages of an investigation."

? ? ?

It was Titov, Laurent, that wretched bastard Titov. Duncan told me you
were scared, he told me the last thing on your mind was getting home to
me. It's funny though, Laurent, I never knew Duncan had such a flair
for written media. I remember the university well, and that all he was
ever concerned with was being on TV. No, he can write; I always loved
how you could more often than not tell what was going to happen, your
ability to take in everything going on around you and determine what
was next to follow. You stood under this tree and knew that I was going
to say yes, when you asked me to marry you. You also knew Duncan would
take the information you gave him and expose the rife corruption
running amok through Russian Glasgow. He also showed me
the note you included on the disk, the note to me. I don't blame you, I
know you wanted to protect me Laurent. Titov never came for me and
Duncan came to the house straight from Paris and took me with him to
London. He wrote his piece and the authorities took care of the rest.
Dynamo Glasgow is a figment of a painful past, Titov is in jail for
life, and I'm going to miss you for much, much longer. I honestly could
tell something was wrong in the stadium, I've never seen you sweat that
much in my life! I know we weren't together long enough to ever talk
about what to do if we couldn't be together on this earth. I'm not
certain of what to do now. Duncan would like to settle with me, and I
like him, he's a good man, but we are both not sure if it's the right
time. I know you will be with me always, Laurent, and I honestly
believe that I can find happiness again with Duncan. It's been two
years since that fateful morning Laurent, where half of my soul was
torn clear of me. I still want you to know that I will never stop
loving you and that I will not give up hope of one day being at your
side again. Look over me sweetheart, guide me through life and keep me
in your good hands, just as I have been since I've known you. It's been
a long, dark night Laurent, and with Duncan I believe I can come
through it. Yet know you will never truly leave me Laurent, that I
won't ever allow.

Love Forever,
Katherine

It didn't rival some of the epics she had written him in the days when
they courted; Laurent always wrote them just as long, and just as
honest, and Katherine was always enthralled by them. Yet, this
veritably short letter was no less true, no less honest. Katherine had
Laurent's headstone specially made with a slot in the top. She placed
her letter to him inside the headstone, and then very meticulously
smoothed the groove over with mortar. Under the tree in the grove where
Laurent and Katherine had picnicked the day Laurent popped the question
to her, where this place of joy had turned to sorrow when she buried
his remains, Katherine wiped away tears, turned, and walked away with
some vague idea of the direction her path pointed her. It drizzled, and
the wind blew, swirling some leaves about the ground, roughly the same
kind of activity Katherine's life had experienced in the last two
years. Yet, on a slightly colder September afternoon, she saw, perhaps,
the end of her long, dark night. Duncan stood by the car he and
Katherine had rented the previous evening from the airport. He paid his
respects from afar to his fallen friend, the closest he'd ever come to
a brother, giving Katherine her space at Laurent's grave. They had a
flight back to Heathrow departing in approximately three hours.
"You okay, Kat?"
"Duncan, for the first time in awhile, I think I will be. How about
you?"
"Yeah, I trust life's gonna work out for the both of us. I don't think
I could take another ass kicking like this," he joked, trying to
lighten Katherine's spirits. He held her hand, and squeezed it to
reassure her. She smiled, and was at peace for the ride into Glasgow.
The late evening sun was beginning to peak through the drizzly clouds,
imparting a brilliant orange hue to the remains of the day in the
countryside around Glasgow. Duncan turned the key and the two of them
left to catch their flight.