touch them … for God’s sake!’
‘Oh my God!’
‘Mummy!’
A child’s voice with its upwardly rising intonations, distinct and pure above the cacophony of cries, drifts towards him. The blood pounds in his head, blurring his eyes, making him nauseous. He was hot from running, now he is shivering. A motion of a different kind grips his whole body.
‘Let me through,’ he says. I’m a doctor.’
Inside the blasted double-decker bus, as his eyes focus, he sees that trapped bodies are burning. Some of them are simply torsos without heads.
I’m a doctor,’ he shouts. ‘Let me through.’
I’m sorry, sir, can I see your ID, please?’
The ambulancemen are moving a stretcher and two blood-covered individuals are helped inside. Simon reaches for his doctor’s pass then realises he has left the meeting without his jacket. He has nothing. No ID, no mobile phone, no wallet. If she were trying to reach him she would not be able to. He has rushed out, knowing … knowing what? That he couldn’t wait? That he needs to see for himself?
‘Could you move back, please,’ the policeman says.
His voice is edged with panic, bewildered and with a threat underlying the calmness in it. The glint of metal on his belt is the firearm he is prepared to use in case of necessity. Sweat pours down his face as he answers his radio. He is young, mid-twenties, and what has just happened is overwhelming him. It will mark him forever.
‘We don’t know what’s going on, sir. We’ve only been told there’s been a series of explosions. In the underground. Yes, sir.’
But the bus?
Al-Qaeda?’ asks another voice, uncertain, shaky, on the verge of hysteria. A woman’s voice. ‘Oh my God no! Not here, not in Britain?’
‘Don’t know, madam. Not at this stage. Sorry.’
Simon feels weak. He has to get to the entrance of the tube station; he has to find out what’s actually happened. He needs a mobile phone desperately. Then he remembers, of course, all his phone numbers are in his own phone. He can’t remember any of them. So he pushes his way across the crowds that are gathering and crosses the road, weaving through the stationary traffic. Another policeman stops him.
‘Sorry, sir, could you step aside, please. This area has been closed off to the public’
‘I’m a doctor,’ he says again, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘Can I see your ID, then, sir?’
But of course he hasn’t any. Helplessly he is shepherded across the road, along with a few other onlookers. The sun is exceptionally strong. There isn’t even a small breeze. It is a morning of tropical intensity, a day for spending on the beach, perhaps. There are more sounds as another fleet of ambulances rushes past. The sirens have hardly stopped since Simon arrived.
‘Must be sending them out from several hospitals, I reckon,’ the man beside him remarks.
‘It means a lot of people are involved,’ adds a woman nearby. ‘My mobile isn’t working.’
‘Nor mine.’
‘The network is blocked,’ someone else informs them. ‘Or they’ve been reserved for the emergency services.’
Voices cut across each other, conversations interlock. A woman with a pushchair is crying helplessly.
‘My daughter was going on a school trip today but she had a tummy bug so she stayed at home.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. They would have come to Leicester Square and gone across to the National Gallery.’
‘Some poor parents must be going mad.’
There is another wave of wailing ambulances, louder than before, nearer. How many more are needed? One stops on the wrong side of the now deserted road, flagged down by two police officers who have parked their car diagonally across the kerb. Sniffer dogs prowl at their feet. Simon runs towards the paramedics stepping out of one of the vehicles.
‘John,’ he cries, before the policemen can stop him. ‘John!’
The sniffer dog bares his teeth. Overhead a plane flies slowly through the sky. It is so low that everyone looks up, startled. The moment is frozen, trapped within a bubble of terror. Held steadily.
The plane, it has a blue and yellow tail, glides smoothly above the trees and disappears between two tall buildings.
‘Dr Swann,’ the paramedic says in surprise, and the policeman hesitates.
‘I was in the area,’ Simon says quickly and with deathly calm. ‘Can I help?’
‘They’re on standby, sir. At Tommy’s. And at Charing Cross. It’s okay,’ John tells the policeman, who discreetly lowers his gun. ‘He’s one of ours, off duty.’
And he nods, grimly, as though he has already braced himself for the sight they are expecting.
‘I think it’s a big one, sir, judging by the fuss. Everyone’s on the highest alert. Top priority. Must be bad.’
He shakes his head. He has just been called away from a pile-up on the slip road to the motorway. How many miracles are they supposed to perform in a day?
‘Let me come with you, John,’ Simon pleads as they move off together towards the tube station.
At the entrance to the underground a shudder runs through him. It travels from his feet upwards towards his head. The scene before him is of biblical proportions. A man, or is it a woman, head swathed in a makeshift bandage cut from a shirt, is being helped across to the emergency post recently set up on the grass verge. For a moment the figure hovers, stumbles, its veiled face catching the light. A photographer clicks his camera. This image of a bandaged face will become iconic, one of the images of the year, the decade, even. Someone somewhere loves the face under these bandages. Simon moves towards the emergency post. A waiter has brought chairs for the walking wounded; the lucky ones. There are others not so lucky.
Firemen are bringing out stretcher after stretcher of wounded, mutilated bodies. Cries fill his ears. A charred body, indistinguishable in every way except for a bracelet on a blackened arm, lies motionless. A man, lying face up, stares at nothing, unaware his guts are exposed to the summer breeze. A woman, legs gone from the knees downward, sliced clean, unconscious but still breathing, waits to be whisked off in an ambulance. Two paramedics are already triaging the arrivals. Some to ambulances, some to be treated first for minor injuries, others, with a sheet over them, to be identified later. A cameraman is recording the scene silently. Picasso’s Guernica, thinks Simon, before he can stop himself. And something else, too, he thinks. He sees a room, lit from above, as though with searchlights, and a cupboard that opens out to reveal the hull of a boat. He hears voices. Searching for Lost Time. A figure lies before him, long dark hair, caked with blood, eyes closed. He has seen so much blood in his life. Blood and its seepage has been the thing he deals with
