Day Three: SHOWTUNES!

I stepped off the bus, holding the red envelope. Terminal 5 has this lovely smell of diesel fuel that reminds me of my youth. Strange, how it is, when you realize that diesel fumes can provide a happy memory. No cars are allowed to drive around in arrivals. They have to park. If you want to get picked up you have to clamber all the way up to departures.

Heathrow. I'm horrifically familiar with Heathrow. I was the Queen of Terminal 4 once, back when there was only four terminals and people were chaining themselves to the construction of Terminal Five. Those were the days. It was my three hour waiting session for a colleague to pick me up (only recently surpassed by a four hour session waiting for the dog to clear immigration) that put me on a more than personal level with Heathrow.

Plus there was this overnight stay I did once there that I will NEVER EVER do again.

I digress. Red envelope. In it was the following note:

You are here to pick up your brother. He will arrive at 10:10 AM from Atlanta. Do what he says and nobody gets hurt.

I looked over the card once, twice, three times a lady and pondered. Cops regularly walked the Terminals. (I should know, I had to explain myself several times.) All I needed to do was find two and...

"Nobody gets hurt," came a voice from behind me. I started, turned, and there was Nana.

"You're reading my card," I said back to her, matter-of-factly.

"Yes, but I can also tell you that despite what you might think, dear, you should do what it says."

I was puzzeled. This woman had more mood swings that Lana Lange on Smallville. What was it now?

"He's watching you, that gentleman," she didn't point, she sort of looked over my shoulder. "He was on the bus. He didn't help you on the bus, but he was there. I think... I think that if you don't do what it says, then dear, if you have family or friends or loved ones. They are in trouble." She then walked up, smiled, shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder. "I'm doing this because I don't want to be one of them. Goodbye and good luck."

I turned and walked away from her with purpose. If this was all about the £40 difference on the contract I was writing, then obviously this man was crazy. But maybe I was missing something. Maybe I needed to change perceptions, look at the world with the happy diesel smell. Whistle, shuffle my feet, maybe twirl or jump or do jazz hands.

It was obvious who the 'man' was. Another pressed suit. Granted, black is the color for England. I remember sitting in the lounge looking at all the black jackets, black dresses, black, black, black. But he was just too neat and too tidy to be there. This was not a harried businessman, this was security. I tried not to stare as I wander into the Terminal. International Arrivals, there would be two exits he would immerge from. There I would wait against the cold metal pole and crane my neck, knowing only I was looking for a male.