The Train Attack That Never Was

I was in the tube yesterday evening, heading home, reading Zadie Smith's On Beauty, when the train stopped in the tunnel and the driver announced that there was a problem with the train ahead of us. I thought it was the usual train delay I've grown to expect from London Underground, so I went back to my book. The train simmered in the tunnel for what felt like hours until it eventually moved on.

When the train reached Whitechapel station, the driver announced that "the train ahead had been attacked by missiles" and that no trains would be going further east. We spilled onto the train platform, everyone immediatly pulling out their mobile phones, the sound of helicopters zooming above our heads and sirens speeding down nearby roads. I thought that this was it: another terrorist attack in London.

I called Kevin but he wouldn't pick up; so I called Natalia and asked if she knew what was going on. She didn't, so I said my goodbye and texted Kevin to tell him I was ok. I would have texted sarcaustick as well, to ask her if she was watching the news, but my phone credit ran out. I walked down Mile End road, feeling supra aware of the many ambulances speeding past me, the crowded buses (which I avoided, in case one of them blew up), and the faces of other people (which didn't give anything away).

When I got home, there was nothing on the news or on the internet; even today, I can't find what exactly happened. My co-worker thinks that "missiles" means stones and bricks thrown at the train. In my paranoid mind yesterday, I'd imagined men trying to kill commuters with bazookas.