Death in the morning
Jonathan Ray was at Atocha station in Madrid when the bombs went off. Here he describes scenes of chaos and terror — and of calm resignation w:r e arrived at Atocha station in Madrid at 7.25 a.m., groggy and hungover from a night on the town. Some of us hadn't gone to bed until 3 a.m.
I was accompanying a party of British chefs from restaurants such as Nobu, Le Manoir aux Quat' Saisons, Spoon at Sanderson and One-0-One during their brief culinary visit to Spain. Including our hosts and PR representatives there were 17 in our group, one of whom was running late. We made our way downstairs to the level above the platforms, and it was here that we hung around comparing hangovers and grumbling about the early start. Eventually the latecomer joined us and our host issued us with our tickets.
We were due to catch the 8 a.m. express to Seville and by now we had a little over 20 minutes in which to grab a coffee, buy fags and newspapers and lug our suitcases downstairs. But for our latecomer, we would already have been on the platform awaiting the train. As it was, we were milling around the concourse, only a few feet from the plate-glass windows which overlooked the tracks.
At 7.39 a.m. there was an enormous 'carrump' followed by a slight aftershock, which we felt as much as heard and which caused the vast windows to bow in and out alarmingly, but not to shatter. One of our party muttered half to himself, 'That sounded like a bomb,' but nobody seemed too concerned; indeed, some people scarcely noticed it. Not thinking, two of us strolled closer to the windows to have a better look. Two more slightly quieter `carrumps' and we still didn't fully take in what was happening. I went off to get a newspaper.
Suddenly a couple of policeman dashed past us at full tilt, and the news vendor grabbed the paper from my hands with a cry and slammed down his shutter. Moments later a young lad was brought quickly up the stairs by an officer who was gripping one of his arms. He was holding his head with his free hand and I thought that he had been arrested. but as he turned I saw that his left ear and neck were gushing with blood. Gradually it dawned on me that things didn't look too good, and as I glanced around I realised that only a few of us were left on the concourse. No alarms or sirens went off in the station, but a policewoman started to shout at us to evacuate. This everyone did at quite a leisurely pace and it wasn't until we reached ground level outside that we began to grasp the enormity of what had happened. Ambulances, police cars and fire engines were already thronging the road as officers began to put up security tapes. Frustrated travellers quickly packed away their mobiles and walked smartly in the direction indicated. At this stage there seemed to be no panic at all, but rather a sense of resignation.
Then there was a shout, I don't know who from, and instantly the crowd acted as one and ran, sprinted even, away from the station. An elderly lady with no shoes and her trousers in rags, blood pouring from a gash over her eyebrow, was being helped by a young man; she looked remarkably unconcerned. Behind me a woman was in tears, shrieking into her mobile, while beside her a young blood-spattered couple were running with their arms around each other. I was carrying two bags and was walking rather than running at the back of the throng, partly because as a journalist — albeit a cowardly one — I thought I ought to hang around, and partly because I recalled an army friend of mine once telling me that secondary bombs were often planted in the path of a fleeing crowd.
But I pressed on. Everyone was confused and on reaching the far pavement nobody was sure where to head. Amazingly, in this crush of many hundreds, our party managed to stick together and we found a quiet corner in which to regroup. We were all talking at once and shaking from the adrenalin. Most of us were calm, although some were pale and unsteady. One of the chefs in particular was very wobbly and had to be comforted and reassured.
We decided to split into small groups and try to make our way to the airport, determined still to get to Seville. There were still several taxis plying for the commuter trade and we all managed to hail one. Reports of what had happened began to filter through on mobiles and taxi radios. Some thought a train had overshot the station, others that there had been a gas explosion, but most were convinced it was a bomb. Several bombs in fact. Five people were declared dead. No, 15. 40. Actually 100. The number kept rising and clearly nobody had any real idea. I managed to call my wife in England. 'I'm sorry, darling,' she said, 'the baby's crying. I'll have to call you back.' An hour later she did so and this time, having seen the BBC news, she was worried.
At the airport we found that flights to Seville were fully booked, and we were put on a waiting list, Within the hour, though, all of our party were allocated seats on the first flight, several of the expected passengers no doubt having perished or been injured by the bombs. To our consternation, there was little evidence of security at the airport. I didn't see any policemen and nobody once asked to see any identity papers or passports. When I went through the X-ray machine the pinger went off, and when I pointed to the mobile in my hand, the guard waved me through with a grin. We arrived in Seville a little after midday and watched as several passengers were greeted by weeping relatives.
During a two-hour bus ride through the Andalusian countryside we gleaned more about the morning's events from calls on our mobiles to friends and family in England who were glued to the television. Delayed shock began to set in as we realised the full extent of what had happened. But a little while later, as we stood in a lush green meadow filled with buttercups and daisies, gnarled oak trees and gorse bushes while a farmer drove a herd of pedigree Iberian pigs towards us, some of us wondered whether the sickening events of the morning had really happened. On moving into the barn to see the sties full of tiny piglets scuttling and footling about, we felt far removed from the horrors of Madrid, both geographically and emotionally.
The day took on an even more surreal hue as the farmer's young son, Pedro, picked up one of the smallest piglets and handed it to one of our chefs. He cradled the little chap in his arms and turned to us with tears in his eyes but laughter in his voice, saying, 'Hey, guys, this is life,' before reluctantly passing the piglet on. Each of us in turn demanded to have our photograph taken with it.
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