Mike Shevdon - Sixty-One Nails

I paid the driver and walked into Departures, I was going to take the escalator straight down to Arrivals, but I spotted a small shop selling socks and ties. I stopped and bought a twopack of grey socks. They were overpriced and not really suitable for my boots, but they were better than nothing. I strode through the people waiting to check their luggage and into the public toilets. There was a long line of stalls and I went right to the end. I locked the door, hung my coat on the hook and sat on the seat, removing my boots. My feet were red where the boots had rubbed, but there was little I could do about it. I unwrapped the socks and put them on, relishing the feeling of clean cotton after the harsh abrasion of the boots.

I could hear other people flushing toilets and washing hands as they moved around outside while I slipped my feet back into my boots and laced them carefully.

There was a bang as the door to the toilets was pushed open hard.

"Police! Clear these toilets! Everyone outside, right now! Come on! Everyone out!"

There was muttering among the people outside. I froze. I was trapped and there was no way out. They were going to arrest me.

"Yes, you too, sir. Outside. Right now! Everyone out!"

I could hear people being ushered out. There was a bang from the end of the row of stall, then another. They were checking every stall. There was no way out of the toilets except past them and they knew what I looked like.

Or did they? I had tried using glamour to get past them before in the alley and failed. Now it was my only hope. It was a risk I would have to take. They were looking for a man in his mid-forties in chinos and a T-shirt. I would try to show them someone else.

Steeling myself to ignore the thumps of successive doors being kicked open, I stood up and focused on my image. I imagined a younger me, thinner, none of the wrinkles that had come with age and experience, my hair dark and thick, longer than I had worn it lately. I focused on the sharp black suit, white shirt, black shoes and blue tie I had worn to a friend's wedding long ago. I held the picture of it in my mind, making the image real, making it solid. Knowing it was me and that was how I would look. The feeling inside me grew, sending tendrils of power into my veins. My skin itched and tingled. I repeated the thought to myself. I was sure it was me. I made it real. I thought about how it would feel to wear the suit, how the shirt collar would rub and how the lined suit would sit on my shoulders. I opened my eyes.

They had reached my stall. Before they could kick the door in, I unlocked and opened it. Now was the proof. He was waiting for me, the sound of the door unlocking alerting him to my presence. I stepped out.

He took one look at me. "Didn't you hear me? I said everyone out!" He shouted.

"Sorry," I told him. "Flying always makes me nervous." I edged past him towards the other two officers. They all had batons held ready.

Then I remembered that my coat was still hanging on the back of the open door. He looked inside.

"Just a minute," he said.

I halted, turning slowly, my inner mantra affirming my appearance, believing I was that younger man. "Yes, officer. Is something wrong?"

"A man wearing a long coat, T-shirt and khaki slacks. Did you see him?"

"I was in the toilet," I told him, "with the door shut."

He paused and then said, "You'd better leave." He turned to his colleagues. "You two, check the Ladies on the other side. He's here somewhere. Move!"

The officers ran past me into the connecting passage, heading further down the short access corridor for the Ladies. I walked out, concentrating for all I was worth on being the young man in the suit.

As I walked across the concourse to the escalator down to the arrivals hall, I saw other police, both armed and regular officers. They were walking slowly through the people waiting to check in, searching the faces. My attempt to mislead them by mixing with the crowds at Heathrow had nearly been my undoing but now it worked to my advantage. The face they were looking for wasn't the one I was wearing.

I couldn't see how they had found me so quickly though. It was almost as if they knew where I was going to be. If they had found the taxi then they could have stopped me earlier, but they hadn't. They hadn't found me until I arrived at Heathrow. Something had given me away.

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.