Originally posted on greenfairydotcom
Heading home on the Bakerloo, two stations past Edgware Road. The train stops, half in and half out of the tunnel, and no-one looks up. After a minute or two, the driver tells us he has 'absolutely no idea' why the train is has been stopped, but it has. Five minutes later, in an attempt to assuage or perhaps entertain, the driver tells us that when all trains are instructed to stop where they are it's called a code amber. I amuse myself by inventing emergency train actions for all other possible colour codes when two men wearing London Underground caps at jaunty angles appear by my elbow announcing that the entire tube network is suspended and usher people down through the train and up towards the exit. Tube employees are gathered outside in little huddles of blue, gesticulating upwards.
At street level, the roads and pavements crawl with people muttering apologies into their phones with the perky eyebrows of a genuine excuse. I wedge myself into the first bus heading north out of town and send a text to my boyfriend who left the tube a station before me. As we inch along damp streets two women next to me wonder why the underground isn't protected against power surges, and devise several unique tortures for Ken Livingstone before they alight a few stops later. I'm staring out of the window when my message recieves a reply, and I read the word 'bomb' for the first time.
The police arrive with tape and dogs and noise at the same time as the message. All traffic is halted and we're scooped from the bus and shooed down the road, waved on by a thick line of yellow-jacketed men. Nobody looks at anybody else. Nobody cries out. Nobody shows fear. I try to call my friends but the networks are jammed. I recieve odd, broken texts of concern but have no way to respond. Through the streets and past immediate danger, people stand for a second, look about them, and disperse. I join a group of shoppers listening to a radio that a sandwich bar has rigged up to outside speakers. Two blasts. Four.
No way to get home but to walk. When I can no longer hear the sound of sirens I try my parents again. My mother picks up after half a ring; I hear the television news in the background. She bursts into tears and demands I pack up straight away and move down to the coast with them. A couple of hundred yards from my house I stop in a Turkish baker. Three women are behind the counter, listening to the radio. I buy the sweetest, most syrupy thing I can find and on the way out hear the women agreeing amongst themselves that yes, this is very much more interesting than all that old Olympics chat.
Three hours later, at home, delayed text messages start to arrive. Get out of town. Don't use public transport. There are bombs on the buses..
