Travelling with Fear

I am trying to act in a way that is congruent with the last post I made: when I said that there is nothing to fear but fear itself.

Yesterday and today I took the tube to work; today, the same carriage I travelled in on July 7th, same place in the carriage. Because I know how to escape from there. Fear is my companion when I travel, but some journeys are worse than others.

Last night, after teaching dance class, I had a call from another girl who had just joined Kings Cross United. She lives in Spain. She called me, her voice shaking with emotion as she spoke to her first fellow passenger about the experience we both shared. She is traumatised, trying to be brave: she is brave. It turns out we were next to each other when we fell to the floor. And that she was five seats away from the bomber when his bomb exploded. She remembers me taking her hand, pulling her to her feet, she remembers my voice telling everyone to stay calm and to use our mobile phones as torches, to stand up if we were not injured, to hold onto each other and to ssssh, don't panic, don't scream, because we needed to listen out for the cries of who was injured in the darkness and the smoke. She walked behind me down the tunnel, then we lost touch when we came out into the light. Last night, we found each other. She is flying from Spain to meet us all in March, when we have our next pub get-together.

She has been visited by the police, they are going round the passengers with a plan of the train and asking us all to fill in where we stood. I have not had my visit yet: though I gave a very detailed statement the weekend after the bomb and I had already drawn a plan of the train and where I stood for the officers, so maybe they don't need to talk to me again

That plan I drew became the Kings Cross United train plan, and at each meeting new joiners can sign themselves on the train plan and see who was near them. It is very moving to see the Kings Cross United book, with everyone's names in their handwriting.

Today I thought of the brave girl from Spain as I took my place on the train. I thought of the other passengers I have got to know and how much I like them all, how knowing them has helped me get back on the train to work. Then, at Kings Cross, a heavy-set Asian man with a rucksack and a beard stood right in front of me as I sat by the first set of double doors. The train was too crowded for me to move away, and I realised that I was in the kill zone if it was a bomb that he carried.

There was nowhere to go. The train moved off and I stared through the train window at the new red wiring on the restored tunnel walls: that is how you can tell exactly where the explosion happened between Kings Cross and Russell Square. I stared at his rucksack, trying frantically to see his face, his demeanour, see if he sweating with fear - to look for clues - but his face was turned from me. I tried to cover my face under my coat, behind my hands, like a child. Knowing that it was pointless: if it had been a bomb in his rucksack my body, my face, my coat, my hands would all be blown to pieces. I was feeling sick as the fear gripped me and the remembered shock tore through me, leaving me shaking and gasping. I waited to die. I looked at my fellow passengers and waited for them to die. I tried to hold onto what I was, to collect all I was, ready for oblivion. I thought of the people I love. I was angry, I was afraid, I didn't want to die.

We stopped at Russell Square: I have not stepped on that platform since July 7th. Passengers surged off, the man with the rucksack stayed on. I watched the train disappear into the tunnel, I curved my body behind a wall to shield me from the explosion my body told me was coming. I waited for the bang and the smoke.

Nothing happened.

It was an ordinary train and there was no bomb. But I was standing on the platform, reacting as if I was in the middle of a war. Adrenaline was thundering round my body and the station was shimmering and swimming in front of my eyes. I realised that I was so afraid I could not focus properly, that my eyes were full of tears and that my face was wet with sweat but I was freezing cold.

The man with the rucksack was no-one to be afraid of. I wanted to apologise to him for thinking he was a killer.But of course, he was long gone into the tunnel.

I looked at the station clock, it was 8.42am.

I had to get to work for a meeting at 8.45am.

I forced myself to get on the next train.

It got to Covent Garden and I was safe. For now. I walked into the meeting late. I tried not to show that I was still shaking.

The worst thing of all is the fear; I have so few defences against it.

Getting to work is still so very hard. Blogging why helps, writing this has calmed me down.

I need to go to another meeting; thank you for reading this.