o n e

Hugo Duchamp stepped through the electric doors and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun.  He quickly scanned the area.  Like the detective he was he scoped the immediate area assessing it as a potential crime scene but then he realised that he was not entirely sure what he was looking for or who he was expecting to see, he was not there for that.  Or was he?   All he knew for certain was that he was a stranger in a strange place and the only person he knew there was far out of his reach.  He shook his head, trying to shake away the weariness that had descended upon him on the long flight from Nantes.  Five hours of his life that felt much longer as he struggled to squeeze his six foot four inch frame into a cramped seat, all the while struggling to compose himself for what he knew lay ahead.  He pushed his mop of unruly blond hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear, he narrowed his piercing emerald green eyes that were dry and weary.

For the last few months he had done little but go through the motions.  He had known that this day was coming, each night as he climbed into his empty bed after a long, troublesome day as Captain of Police in Montgenoux, he closed his eyes hoping that he would sleep well.  Each night, as he fell into a fitful sleep he prayed that when he awoke he would turn his head, push his hair off his face, wipe the sleep out of his eyes and smile at the person whom he had come to love more than life itself.  But each morning as he turned his head all he saw was the white pillow with no head shaped dip, no curl on a forehead, no pursed, full lips that begged to be kissed, and he was returned to the moment and it all would come flooding back to him again.  The remembrance of why he was sleeping alone.  He would drop his feet onto the floor, light a cigarette, pour a café and pad towards the bathroom to get dressed and then the same day began again, like a warped, twisted groundhog day.

Hugo looked around the bustling airport entrance and lit a cigarette, his hand shaking slightly as he moved the lighter towards the tip.  The cigarette flashed red as he sucked the nicotine into his body, feeling the familiar calmness that overcame him.  His left hand rose to the scar below his left eye and he rubbed his fingers across it, as he did whenever his mind was troubled.  The scar was a reminder to him that without it he would probably be dead.  It was his reminder that no matter what was happening, things could always be worse.  At that moment, however, Hugo was not sure that was true anymore.  

He pressed his head against the wall and pulled the glasses from his windswept hair and looked around the busy concourse, people rushing to and fro, running for a flight, stepping out into the fresh Irish air, their faces happy and light, full of anticipation for what their journeys promised.  He smiled as he saw an excited girl standing on her tiptoes, a bucket and spade swinging in her hand.  Her father bent to kiss her head, his hand reaching around and pulling her close to him, then moving towards a waiting taxi.  The swing in their steps unmistakeable as that of those off to enjoy an adventure, their hearts light and their minds untroubled, their eyes dancing with the promise of adventure and laughter.  Just then, Hugo envied them more than he cared to admit, he had never been a man jealous of others but now he found he was and it filled him with the kind of disappointment in life that he thought he had gotten over.  He had let his guard down since he returned from a self-imposed exile in London to France, the place of his birth and where he lived out his formative years.  In London, he had lived life on his own terms, finding comfort in relative solitude, choosing friends or lovers only if he felt he needed them, which he did infrequently.  However, since being forced to return to France the previous year, he had opened his heart to the possibility of a life that he had thought was out of his reach, to dare to love and to dare to imagine living a life that he thought he was incapable of.  His own family had robbed him of that hope, but in Montgenoux, despite his reluctance, he had seen the welcoming arms of a modern, nuclear family and he had allowed himself to be enveloped.  

However, on this warm early summer day, as he placed his feet on Irish soil for the first time, he wished that he could be that man, the one who needed no-one, once again.  He knew that what he was about to face would be one of the most painful experiences of his thirty-five year existence.  It was time to say goodbye.