From the bravecaptain forum, 7th July 2005, che was his username
Today is my first 7/7 without Jamie. He was living on my sofabed in 2005 when it happened and is inextricably bound up in my memories of that day and every anniversary. I think you could say he was collateral damage, a random choice meant that he missed being on one of the bombed trains, but the horror of the bombings brushed so close that he didn’t feel like they had really missed . He was wandering dazed after being let off work early in Camden, unable to get back to Walthamstow because of the tube shutdown, when I reached home and called to see if he was ok.
I worked at Westminster Abbey at the time and Victoria station was emptied due to a “power surge” as I arrived that morning. There were too many Police sirens from Scotland Yard, just around the corner, that morning and just before 10.30 one of the Marshals leaned over the Information Desk and said to me “two bombs, two buses”. The horrible news was updated through the day, but visiting seemed to continue as usual. My journey home was a boat from Westminster to Tower Pier, wonderfully calm after such a surreal day, then the train home from Liverpool Street
At first Jamie seemed ok and we spent the evening of the 7th walking around Walthamstow Village, enjoying the lovely summer evening, peaceful, quiet. But then there was the time he called me from the station, the train was arriving and he couldn’t get on. I had to get him on the train: “you’ve got to get on the train, if you’re late you’ll lose your job”, not too gentle, not rough. “Yeah, I can do it, get on the fucking train, just get on the train”. He talked himself onto the train. He moved out in August, living his dream in Archway in a house share, a better job, having fun in London. Until he just couldn’t do it any more. He went to Bedford to visit his family and on the 5th of December called me: “I’m not coming back, can you clear my room out for me?”
Every subsequent anniversary brought misery at the damage done, the tenth brought tears and anguish. He always took the 7th off and we would talk about it, it ate at him, the scab he couldn’t leave alone. A lovely man eaten up from the inside by the memory of one day in London.