Explosion Of Hatred

My mother says that she didn t hear a bang. It was a couple of whooshes, she says. I was chatting to her on my mobile. What was that? she asked. I told her it was a bomb, I had just watched a bomb go off across the road from me, and I had to go. She asked if anyone was hurt. I told her I couldn t see anything, it was all dust. Everyone was quiet, that was the really scary thing.
He was speaking in a strained guttural voice, trying to hold back emotion, forcing the words out.
I couldn t see in for dust, I couldn t see in at all. But did I go in and help? No. No-one came out. No-one came out. And what did I do? I called in to work. That s what I did. I just dialled the news desk, on my mobile, said I was live at the scene of a bomb in Soho, and they put me straight through, live. I described what I saw. I don t remember what I said. What good did that do? I didn t help anyone; I just watched and talked. I was talking to my mother. She said it was like a couple of whooshes. There wasn t a bang. I don t really remember.
I m glad I m not a news journalist. I m glad that it is not my job to sniff out disaster and put an angle on a story of human suffering. I m glad I don t have to maintain a pretence of objectivity, to hide my feelings in front of a camera or in my written words.
He was speaking on Sunday, two days after the blast that ripped through the Admiral Duncan. We were in a club. We had met over the Internet originally, chatted, exchanged photos, flirted with each other when we recognised each other in real life in Soho, but nothing came of it.
We only bump into each other every few months. He s a big cuddly man, with sad puppy-dog eyes, and he probably drinks too much. On Saturday, we got chatting online, and he started to pour his heart out. By the Sunday evening, he was fit to burst with unhappiness. We were out in the same club. He had not been hugged since the explosion; I told him he should immediately sack all his friends, as he collapsed in tears in my arms. By the end of listening to his story, I ended up seeking out one of my best friends, who happily was there too, and I bawled my eyes out in his arms.
My ex-boyfriend, too, witnessed the carnage. He rang me late on Friday night in numb distress, more worrying than any tearful ramblings. He spoke softly to me of horrific wounds and grotesque burns; of pieces of flesh on the ground, of blood everywhere. He had left the building next to the Admiral Duncan, which houses Kairos, the spiritual centre, only moments previously, turned the corner, and the bomb went off. I can t deal with his pain. I couldn t when I was going out with him, and I can t now. I had thought it was my pain I couldn t deal with. Perhaps it s both.
The last time I was in the Admiral Duncan was on a blind date. I answered an ad, we met outside a tube station, and we went for a drink. The Duncan was a small and crowded pub, with no particular type in the ascendant; just a noisy, cheerful, casual place. It was a safe space to get over the nerves of meeting someone new, or so I thought. But my date couldn t relax. He wanted to be with me on my own; but the neutrality of the pub is what I needed, to feel safe. He was nervous, but unfortunately covered it over by laughing at everything I said. I m not that funny. I went to the loo.
When I came back, he was chatting to a little Italian film student, who was amusing, in a Woody Allenish sort of way. I relaxed because I thought my date was easing up on the pressure. But it turned out he couldn t wait to be rid of the student; he just hadn t known how to rebuff the little guy s advances. But, even though I didn t fancy the Italian, I found I could talk to him easily; we talked of films and European cities and Dublin and food and the art of conversation, leaving my taciturn English date, unused to cafi or pub society, miserable. In retrospect, I didn t treat him very well; but then I felt so uncomfortable with him, I childishly said to myself Well, I wasn t the one who got picked up the moment the other went to the loo.
Outside the pub, it was awkward. The Italian was all set for a night on the town with his new friends, having just arrived in London, and my (by then quite surly) date was pressurising me to go off with him on his own. I wanted neither experience, so I told them both I had to go, and I left them standing on Old Compton Street.
What s most disturbing about the bombs in London is the number of people who rang in to claim responsibility for them. What s saddest is that the little fucker whose perverted mind thought up this plan, knew his explosives. Even the IRA, with all their paramilitary training, botched the job frequently during their last London campaign. It s not easy to kill, really. It takes a lot of hate.
On the day of the bomb, with warnings appearing in the gay press and on the Internet, I had spent a few adrenaline-pumped minutes in the bath daydreaming, imagining that I spotted someone leaving a bag in Old Compton Street; how I d chase after him, use my newly-acquired karate skills to apprehend him, how I d persuade him to come back and defuse the bomb to save the day, and become a hero.
They were vigilant in the pub. As soon as a bag was spotted, the manager went over to investigate. And it blew up in his face. n