Sixty-One Nails cotf-1

by Mike Shevdon

  Two people who looked like flight crew walked past me, a woman and a man in airline uniform. As they approached me, a mobile phone rang and I patted my pockets for it before realising it was the woman's phone that was ringing, but with the same ringtone as mine. She smiled at me as she answered, understanding my mistake. I returned the smile as she walked past.

  It left me with my phone in my hand and then I realised what must have happened. They knew where I was because of my phone. The police had traced my phone and got the network provider to watch for my signal. In the car it had been moving too quickly but as soon as I reached Heathrow they had known where I was.

  I thumbed the button to switch it off and then hesitated. The network provider would know as soon as I turned it off and would realise I had discovered how they were tracking me. I wanted them to continue searching Heathrow and not to start wondering where I had gone next. I left it on, wondering how long I had before they could locate it again.

  As I weaved my way through the people meandering around the check-in area, I noticed a large family, probably Spanish or Italian. They were spread out and I had little difficulty arranging to accidentally collide with the youngest, who was towing along a smaller toy version of the wheeled cases various other family members had. Amid the confusion and apologies I slipped the phone into the front pocket of the bag. I felt a momentary pang of guilt at the chaos that would ensue when the police found them.

  Having ditched the phone, I took the escalator down to the arrivals hall. It was much less populated at this hour. It was too early for the flights coming into Heathrow, though even here there were police officers, watching the exits.

  Enough people wandered around for me not to look conspicuous and I strolled through, trying to look nonchalant. I took the lift down to the Heathrow Express, the rapid transit train into central London. As I turned onto the access corridor, there were three more police officers checking everyone that went past them to the platforms. I walked past them with certainty that I was a young man in a sharp suit and not the man they were looking for. I waited for the train in the full view of the security cameras spaced along the platform. I kept focusing on my appearance, reinforcing my self-image of the man I had once been.

  As the train pulled in, I watched for the carriage with the toilets and walked along the platform as the train slowed. The train halted, the doors opened and I moved to a seat at the back of the carriage, rehearsing my appearance like a mantra in my head. A businessman in a suit followed me inside and sat at the far end of the carriage. Apart from him I was alone. The train remained stationary on the platform. Periodically, an automated voice forecasted journey times or announced that, for security reasons, passengers were not to leave bags unattended.

  I looked at my hands. They shivered momentarily. The texture of my skin aged twenty years in a second and then reverted back. It was getting harder to control now the immediate threat had gone. What had Blackbird said? "Magic responds to need." The glamour had worked while I had needed it, but now it was failing.

  I shuffled sideways out of the seat and went down the narrow corridor to the toilets. Stepping inside, I locked the door behind me, finally releasing the image I had been holding. Looking up into the small mirror my face was my own, wrinkles and all. Now I just had to hope there were no police on the train.

  My eyes were gritty from insufficient sleep and the rough stubble over my chin was like sandpaper. Running cold water over my hands in the sink, I scrubbed my face and then dried it with a hand towel as best I could. I felt the train lurch and breathed a sigh of relief. We were moving.

  I left the toilet and went through the connecting door into the next carriage, taking an aisle seat and scanning constantly down the corridors for signs of a search taking place. No searchers appeared, though a train attendant came and relieved me of more of my cash. It was a small price to pay to get away from the search at Heathrow.

  The train was clean and brightly lit and the day outside had yet to dawn. I sat nervously in the corner of the carriage with half an eye on the corridor and wondered what would become of me. I was sure Jim, the police officer in my back garden, had been killed. The memory of him screaming, "Get it off me! Get it off me!" would haunt me for the rest of my life. My warning had come too late. I should have tried earlier, even though it would have labelled me as a lunatic. Briefly I wondered what had happened to the Untainted in my garden. Would it attack the other officers? Blackbird said that sometimes they just relish the mayhem they could cause.

  One thing was certain now, though. With the strange mould in the flat and at least one officer dead, the police would turn the city upside down looking for me. My only advantage was that they still thought I was somewhere out near Heathrow.

  Would the police go to Katherine? If they did, she couldn't tell them very much. Only that her perfectly ordinary ex-husband was having a paranoid episode and thought someone was trying to kill him. I only hoped she had taken my advice and booked a trip away somewhere for her and Alex.

  Where else would they look for me? If the police went to my office and started interviewing my work colleagues then Blackbird's concerns about my going back to work would be unfounded. I wouldn't have a job to go back to. My company would call it redundancy and I was sure I would receive a generous settlement in return for my silence, but the organisation traded on its reputation for honesty and integrity. With my sudden failure to turn up for work, one whiff of a police investigation and my career would flat-line.

  I stared out of the window as the lights of West London whipped past and contemplated a life in tatters.

  The train slowed as we reached Paddington and drew to a halt in a stately fashion. I waited until the doors had opened and took a long look down the platform. There were no policemen checking people coming off the train. They had placed their cordon at Heathrow and so did not expect me to arrive here.

  I considered trying to use glamour to disguise my exit from the station. Even before the last terrorist attacks, London was one of the most monitored cities in the world and I was sure there would be closed-circuit television cameras. The trouble was that without some immediate threat to focus the magic I wasn't sure I could control my glamour. Having it fall apart on me in the middle of a public place would attract attention I badly wanted to avoid. I would just have to hope they weren't looking for me here.

  I walked as calmly as I could down the platform and out onto the concourse. It was still too early for the mass of commuters and the people around me were either the last dregs of last night or the real diehard early-morning lot.

  Getting a taxi was easy as there was a big queue of them waiting for the early rush-hour. I settled into the back of a black cab and asked him to take me to Waterloo Station. If the police ever traced the cab then they might believe I was getting a train south from there. The Eurostar service to Paris from Waterloo was one of the ways of getting out of the country without flying. I had no doubt if I were to present my passport to United Kingdom customs then my name would flash up in large red letters on the customs officer's screen. That meant the police would know I hadn't left that way, but Waterloo also had trains to Kent and I had grown up in Kent, so there was yet another trail to follow if they got that far – when they got that far.

  We breezed through the streets unhampered, taking routes that would be choked with traffic in a few hours time. As we crossed the river at Westminster Bridge, I asked the driver to pull over and drop me off at the far side. I told him I needed the fresh air. I paid him, giving him an unremarkable tip, and he drove off.

  I walked away from the bridge until the taxi was well out of sight, then turned back and returned to the steps that led down to the Thames embankment. I walked along the river bank past the giant wheel of the London Eye where it stood, silent and empty, waiting for the long queues of tourists who would ride its capsules around the wheel for a panoramic view of the city later in the day. From there I passed under the iron-braced railway bridge and cl
imbed back up the steps and onto the footbridge back over the river to Embankment Station and Charing Cross.

  As I crossed the dark flow of the Thames, I paused above the murky water as it swirled out towards the sea beneath me while the orange glow from the underside of the dense cloud layer faded to a sullen grey. There was no flaming dawn, but the sky in the east lightened. The broken sunshine of yesterday had been replaced by the half-light that represented the majority of autumn days.

  As I crossed to the centre of the bridge I realised the clocks would soon be changing over to winter time, and the days would get shorter and shorter until we were all like Kareesh, living underground. I had all this to look forward to, assuming I lived that long.

  And yet the threat over me lent the day a new flavour. I found myself standing over the river in the misty dawn tasting the drizzle that drifted on the breeze, feeling truly alive for the first time in months. It smelled of salt and ozone and I understood that this was an easterly wind, rather than the prevailing westerly, and that it brought a little of the sea with it.

  Taking my time, I meandered to the far side and took the steps down to the roadway where I could make my way through the open ticket hall of Embankment Station and up the hill to the Strand, turning left past the front of Charing Cross station and along the pavement to Trafalgar Square. I walked up the hill, past the pale portico of St Martin-in-the Fields to the tables where I had sat with Blackbird the previous day.

  The coffee shop showed no sign of life and, after the brief elation at having made it this far, I found myself empty and hollow. I had reached my destination and there was no one there. The pavements were empty and the coffee shop was dark. I walked across towards the National Gallery and down into Trafalgar Square, taking the steps down into the open square. I found a dry spot on the wall of the fountain upwind of the spray carried by the fickle breeze and sat, lulled by the sound of the water and the peace there. A couple of speculative early pigeons came and pecked at the debris around me and I wondered whether Gramawl was foraging nearby, finding titbits for his mistress. Probably it was too light for him now.

  As I sat there, the traffic built slowly and steadily to the everyday muted roar. The cars, buses and taxis intermingled until they became mere background noise, indistinguishable from the whole. That brief period in Trafalgar Square gave me the strength to continue. It wasn't that the stone lions inspired me, though they were very grand, or that I borrowed strength from Nelson, the tragic hero dying in the arms of his friend. I had no intention of dying, honourably or otherwise. What leant me strength was the peace I found there, amid the maelstrom. The traffic revolved around me but didn't stir me, the buses roared and the motorcycles barked, but to no effect. The pigeons came and went and the drizzle faded. I felt like I was standing in the eye of a storm.

  If only I could stay there.

  EIGHT

  I sat for an hour or more before people started walking across the square, heading towards work or some other rendezvous, and it lost its privacy. I was getting chilled so I wandered back the way I had come to find the coffee shop had opened. I ordered black coffee and added sugar before taking it outside. I sat among the deserted tables in the damp air and waited for Blackbird. On the war memorial across the pavement from me I could read the words "Humanity" and "Sacrifice". I hoped it wasn't an omen.

  Waiting for someone when you don't know whether they're going to turn up is like a first date, full of uncertainty and trepidation. You hope for the best, but at the same time you're thinking about what you're going to do if they don't show.

  I wondered what I might say to Blackbird if she walked across the square. I could tell her about discovering my glow and my unwelcome visitor. I could explain about being picked up by the police and the tragic events that followed. I was sure she would know what I ought to have done.

  But then I thought about what she might say when she found out the police were searching for me. I was sure she didn't want that kind of attention any more than I did. What could I say to her? "Hi, it's me, the person you didn't want to see; I have lots of new friends and they're all looking for me." It didn't sound very positive. Then again, the mould spreading across the door might be a vital clue to what I was dealing with. She would have to help me, wouldn't she?

  After an hour, I celebrated the beginning of the second day of my new life with another coffee. It had been this time yesterday that I had first met Blackbird and heard about the Feyre. She had expressed doubts that I would last until this new day and, to be honest, there had been times when I had shared them, but here I was. All I had to do now was repeat my success on a daily basis and I could look forward to a long life. I sipped my coffee but I couldn't enjoy it. I didn't want more coffee, I wanted to go and find Blackbird.

  I was getting twitchy. I didn't know how long it would be before the search at Heathrow extended out into the wider city and my description started to circulate. At the same time, the boredom of watching everyone else go about their daily life wore away at my aversion to risk. I was restless, even changing seats a couple of times to refresh the dampness of my trousers. Still there was no sign of her.

  Finally I had to admit she wasn't coming and that I couldn't stay. It crossed my mind that perhaps she was in trouble. This was followed by the realisation that if she was, she would be far better off dealing with it without my assistance. I needed her help, she didn't need mine. I stood up and looked around. Action was better than sitting and waiting for something that wasn't going to happen and I needed to be doing something. I needed to find her.

  I could retrace our steps but where would that lead me? It would take me back to Covent Garden and to the tunnels beneath the tube station. Would Kareesh know where she was? If she knew, would she tell me? I doubted it but she might be able to get a message to her and let her know I was still alive. That might be enough. At least if I walked that way I could check with Megan to see if she'd seen Blackbird, assuming she was at her usual spot.

  I considered walking up to Covent Garden along the open streets rather than following the circuitous route from yesterday. Blackbird had thought I wasn't ready to take the straightforward route yet. I would follow her route, then.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then walked away from Trafalgar Square into Lower St Martin's Lane, turning into a side-alley where my shoulders would touch both sides if I stood straight on. Halfway down there were doors open into the rear of a pub where the sound of a vacuum cleaner told me they were cleaning up, ready for the new day's business. Stepping back out into the street at the end, I followed the route Blackbird had led me through, taking odd turns into back alleys and walking around the rear of buildings. Blackbird had used her glamour to make sure we weren't noticed but I wasn't sure how to do that. Perhaps if I just exuded a general ambience of I'm supposed to be here then no one would notice me.

  I bypassed a corporate reception, the girl behind the glass giving me a half-glance as I went along the side of the building. Maybe it was working. I turned around the back of the building and followed what looked like a fire evacuation route the wrong way past some metal stairs and down towards a black-painted gate.

  "Excuse me?" The voice came from a side passage.

  A burly looking guy with the buzz-cut hair of a soldier in a security guard's uniform moved quickly up behind me, forcing me to turn and meet him rather than slip through the gate.

  "Where d'ya think you're going'?"

  "Oh, if I go this way I can find my way again." I pointed the way I was going.

  "You can't go down there, mate, that's private property, that is."

  "I'm so sorry." All the time, I was thinking Forget me! Turn away! You didn't see me! But it wasn't working.

  "Well I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me and explain yourself." The security guard indicated back the way he'd come.

  There was no way I was going with him. I glanced back towards the gate and, as I did, he leaned forward and grabbed my arm. I p
ulled away, but he had a firm grip. I turned back to his grim-faced determination and tried to pull his hand from my arm.

  "Now listen, mate, you're going to get into trouble if you don't come with me."

  He pulled at my arm again, tugging me off balance so I staggered towards him. I had my hand on his where he gripped my arm as I tried to pull back. Reaching to the core within me I focused my will on the single instruction: Forget me!

  A pulse of darkness jolted down my arm and he staggered back as if I had punched him. His face went blank. He placed his hand on the wall for support. His hands came up to his eyes and he rubbed them as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. I rushed back to the gate and shot back the catch so I could push my way through. I slammed it shut behind me, glad to get something between us. He was still leaning against the wall, squinting towards the gate and blinking as if the light were too bright to bear. I left him there and hurried down the walkway, cutting around the back of another building and coming out behind a row of shops. Moving quickly along my route, I came to another alleyway where I ducked out of sight into the entrance.

  Now I had time to think, I was worried about the guy. I had tried to push him off but he'd been determined to drag me back towards the building. When I had finally managed to focus enough to get my magic to work on him I had been trying to pull his hand away. Blackbird had said touch intensified some gifts and I wondered what the effect on him would be. Maybe he'd be OK now his mind had stopped trying to deny I was there.

  I took a moment to try and compose myself and decide what sort of spell, if that was the right word, I should use. What I really wanted was to be invisible but if gates and doors started opening on their own then that was bound to attract attention. The idea of I'm supposed to be here was subtle enough but it didn't have the imperative that Forget me had. On the other hand, Forget me had been too strong – or was that because I had been touching him at the time? It still seemed harsh and crude.