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Sleeper
Our first indication that things were not as they should be was when an announcement at Edgware Road said that all services through Baker Street apart from the Bakerloo line were suspended due to a power surge. I was late already and this seemed heavensent to me, I could stroll in at half nine and say that the Tube had delayed me. I mused on whether or not to get cereal on the way in and decided to by hopping off the train at Regent's Park, giving my girlfriend a kiss and a wave.
It wasn't the first time this sort of delay had happened and the last time I had walked from Baker Street to work it had been over fifteen scorching minutes in the summer sunshine. This time it was grey and drizzle saturated the air. I couldn't tell if there were more people on the streets than usual or not, I was more concerned with what cereal would be available.
Sauntering into the office though there were Internet radio connections discussing power surges on the Tube and reports of an explosion at Liverpool Street, the previous location of our offices. The morning simply got worse from then on.
Not an hour later the windows of our boardroom shook as an explosion a block away tore a bus to pieces and everyone was called to the breakout room for a reassuring damage control conversation. The rumors were extolled and common sense prevailed. We all went back to our desks but nobody could focus on work. Those who were fortunate enough to connect to Sky news or the BBC News 24 streaming video site would find themselves surrounded by crowds of coworkers.
A flurry of text messages to my girlfriend told her to sod the new haircut she was considering getting and to stay off the buses. Pictures were now available of the gutted chasis, the orange upright bars for steadying the passengers like the ribs of a cracked open chest cavity of some red beheamoth. Other texts from my sister and stepfather reassured them that all was well.
By early afternoon America woke up and another stream of texts, instant messenger conversations and e-mails were dealt with similar aplomb, except for the mail from my father. Unsure what to say or how to respond I simply told him I was okay, not wishing to open any dialogue.
Rumor-control and panic mongering across the various channels, sites, sources, conversations. "I heard three buses exploded", "I heard snipers took out suicide bombers", "Canary Wharf ferries were targeted" gave way to the facts, "2 confirmed dead in Tavistock Square bus explosion", "Al Quaeda cell claims responsability" and the day was drawing to a close, the sheer magnitude of what had happened finally sinking in.
We left the office in a group, heading north to a pub; the last refuge of sanity for the British. We stopped at the corner of Euston station, looking down towards Tavistock square. With the binoculars I constantly carry we all looked down towards the cracked shell of the bus, devoid of any activity now. nearby a stunned deshevilled man kept repeating "I was on the bus, I was on the bus" to nobody in particular. No paramedic, no trauma councillor, just him and his bags. If he had been on the bus he must have been sat there for nearly seven hours murmuring to himself.
After a torturously long and frustrating bus journey, punctuated by stop after stop as the gridlocked traffic crawled out of the city center my day came to an end with the comforting hug of a loved one and the reassurance that everything will return to normal eventually. They may break our bodies but they need not dominate our minds.
Jul. 7.2005