Meanwhile as I was walking the other way out of the tunnel, I told my frightened fellow passengers 'Keep going, there will be water and nurses and doctors, ambulances and helpers when we arrive, just keep going...'. And we walked, reassuring each other, trusting that there would be help when we got out. There was none, just a white-faced LU staff member handing us water. Outside the station, where I went to look for help, there were angry commuters trying to get in, and people photographing me, with my black face and bloodied stinking clothes, and a Japanese man filming the scene. An off duty nurse called Anna tried to help me, I asked her to go and help the injured inside the station. Someone called an ambulance. It was 9.18am. I looked at the bone poking out of my wrist, the glass and metal embedded in the bone, and I called a friend to get me in a cab. The cab arrived at 9.40am. I tried to get others to come in the cab with me, but they did not hear me. Most people had blood coming out of their ears; they were deaf, like me, from the blast which had gone off in the middle of our carriage. Passengers stayed at Russell Square, in shock, whilst the injured were carried from the bombed train. Station staff, passers by, and blasted passengers tried to help them. I feel guilty to this day that I did not. The grille doors of the station closed behind me. I got in the cab, and almost fainted.
The government and police are keen to tell us that fresh attacks are imminent, so perhaps it would be a good idea to publicly address the shortcomings of the rescue operation revealed through the evidence of people like Rachel. No matter what the outcome of the Review Committee we should already be looking to put systems in place that mean bomb victims don't have to rely on public transport to find medical assistance.
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