Pilgrimage

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Pilgrimage 'What's it today, then?' Mike asked, smiling down at his
girlfriend. She had managed to get the last seat in the tube carriage.
'Shopping.' Ruth said, an indulgent grin spreading across her face. 'I
think I overdid the art galleries yesterday.' 'You bought enough
postcards to paper the living room.' 'All part of the cultural
experience.' she said. 'They'll help to cheer up that grotty flat -
remind you of me when I'm back at uni.' 'At least I'll be earning money
while you're getting further in debt.' 'Don't be so boring. What have
you got lined up today, new boy? More photocopying?' Ruth asked
cheekily. 'They might show me how to use the fax machine today.' Mike
joked. 'It's tough getting up early, wearing a suit. Funny to think
that just over a week ago, we were at Glastonbury.' 'And last weekend,
we were at Live 8 - how lucky is that?' she declared. 'I think I'm the
luckiest person on this train.' Mike said, enjoying the annoyed look on
the other passengers' faces. It just proved that he was right, he
thought. He seemed to have led a charmed life this year - he'd met
Ruth, got a 2:1 and started a good job in London. Suddenly there was a
flash of yellow light and a loud explosion in the carriage. Mike was
knocked off his feet. He tried to keep hanging onto the strap above his
head, but he was knocked the other passengers. There must be a crash or
something, he thought. Mike felt sharp shards cutting into his face and
hands. He shut his eyes and crouched with his hands over his head. He
could hear people screaming, shouting - none of it made any sense to
him. Mike realised that his mouth was open and he was screaming for
Ruth. Then he couldn't scream any more. There wasn't any air. He opened
his eyes. The carriage was lit by the emergency lights in the tunnel
but it was impossible to see what was going on through the black smoke
filling the carriage from the tunnel. There were people pressing into
him on every side, trying to get up, panicking, and struggling to
breathe. 'Ruth!' he shouted, hoarsely. He tried to stand up, standing
on people's arms, legs, and shopping bags. The doors of the train had
been blown off, and were lying on the track. The seat where Ruth had
been sitting had been blasted away. Ruth had gone. Her pink Topshop bag
was lying on the floor, streaked with blood .Mike grabbed it, stumbling
closer where he thought Ruth might be. People were breaking the windows
now, with their bare hands, to get more air in. He saw Ruth's legs. She
was wearing her new trainers. She had been half blasted out of the
carriage. Mike tried to grab her legs and pull her back into the train.
Then someone was helping him. A man with tattoos bulging on muscled
arms, and blood pouring from a cut on the side of his head. Surely
that's not Ruth? Mike thought, as the man laid a body with deep cuts to
the face and lifeless, drooping arms on the floor of the carriage. But
those were Ruth's jeans, frayed at the knee, now covered in blood and
grime. The man tipped Ruth's head back and opened her mouth. He put his
cheek next to her face. For a second, Mike wanted to punch him. 'Your
girlfriend?' he asked. Mike nodded, unable to do any more. The man
shook his head sadly. 'I think it's too late.' he said. The man had
done all he could, but he nothing could bring Ruth back. Mike waited
silently in the carriage with the others. When the paramedics arrived,
he let them lead him out along the tracks, up into the smoke-blackened
station, then outside. Mike felt completely numb. He couldn't connect
what was happening now with what he was supposed to be doing. Someone
gave him a cup of tea and a scratchy blue blanket. Mike realised that
he was shivering, although he was wearing a suit, and it was a muggy,
July day. Some people were being loaded onto ambulances, other people
just standing or sitting around, less injured ones dazed and wondering
what to do. Mike vaguely wondered if they had heard what had happened
at work. Would Ruth hear the news in a shop and text him? Surely she
would hear about the tube accident soon. Mike thought, confused.
Someone was saying that there had been another explosion. Then he saw a
group of grim-faced paramedics carrying stretchers covered in blankets,
identical to the one he was wearing. Mike suddenly grasped the truth
again. Ruth was dead, and she was being carried out now. He didn't want
to see any more. He dropped the blanket and the empty polystyrene cup
he was clutching, and ran. 'Hey! Stop!' he heard someone shout. Mike
didn't look back. He kept running, his smart shoes slipping on the
pavement. At first, he didn't know where he was going. After a few
streets, he had to stop to breathe some air into his smoke damaged
lungs, steadying himself on a lamp post. His mobile phone started to
ring. He picked it up. His mum was calling. He could picture her,
phoning a hundred miles away, sitting in the living room, vaguely
worried, calling to make sure everything was alright. Mike didn't want
to shatter that image. He switched the phone off. Mike started running
again, this time concentrating on where he was going. He had to get
back to his flat. It was only a few streets away; only a leisurely
twenty minute walk. Just because he'd been late for work. When he
reached his street, a quiet road of large terraced houses, Mike was
surprised by how unchanged it was. The same crisp packet was on the
pavement outside the house. His car was still parked on the pavement.
Ruth had joked about the bird shit on the windscreen this morning. He
went through the automatic motion of getting his key out of his bag and
turning it in the lock. The last time Mike had locked the door, he had
been holding Ruth's hand. Mike ran upstairs and unlocked the door to
the flat. It was too quiet. His housemate had left for work early
today. Mike walked into his bedroom. The floor was littered with Ruth's
clothes and camping things left over from Glastonbury. He picked up the
grubby crochet blanket they had bought from Joe Bananas' Blanket stall
on Wednesday night. They had wandered around, both wrapped in the
blanket, exploring everything, finally ending up at the stone circle,
listening to the people with drums and joining in with the cheers of
people who were just happy to be there. Mike drove down the M4. The
only thought in his head was getting to Glastonbury. Driving was the
only thing that made sense to him any more. As long as he concentrated
on driving, he wouldn't have to think about what he had seen today.
Mike had noticed that his hands, gripping the steering wheel, were
covered in small cuts and marks from the flying glass in the train
carriage, but he felt so numb, he couldn't feel pain anywhere. There
was a sign for a motorway service station a mile away. He noticed the
car was running low on petrol. Mike ignored the main building and swung
straight into the petrol station. He got out and filled the car up,
concentrating on the spinning petrol pump numbers. 'Pump number four.'
he said, automatically, to the middle aged lady behind the counter,
giving her his debit card. She stared at him silently for ages. Perhaps
she was deaf, Mike thought. 'Are you alright, dear?' she asked, bending
her head towards him, her eyes wide with concern and shock. Mike
suddenly raised his hand to his head, feeling cuts on his face, crusts
of dried blood left on his hand. He noticed a jagged tear in the arm of
his jacket, and another below the knee. Then he looked at the woman
again, angry that she had made him suddenly remember. 'Just sell me the
fucking petrol.' he snapped. 'And a packet of Benson and Hedges.' The
petrol attendant turned round. Mike could see her hand shaking as she
reached for the cigarettes. He almost missed the farm. Today there were
no traffic jams or orange-vested stewards telling him where to park.
Just a painted sign that read. Worthy Farm. Deliveries this way. Half
of Mike's Glastonbury ticket was still in his wallet, wedged behind his
supermarket loyalty card. Mike drove down the track, realising that
this was where the festival bus station had been, double-deckers
driving people here from the train station. He abandoned the car on the
dusty ground, carrying the blanket in one hand. The leaden sky was
clearing now and the early evening air was warm. Mike took his jacket
off, wincing as he caught the cut on his arm. The fence was still here,
but the turnstiles had been taken away. He walked in, alone. The grass
under his feet was already more lush and green, compared to the
trodden, baked-mud ground they had left last Monday. The rutted tracks
were the only clue that the festival had taken place. Mike could see
cows grazing in the fields further up the hill. He walked until he
reached the Green Fields, leading up to the stone circle. Mike stood on
the abandoned railway track, suddenly flooded with memories. This was
where he and Ruth had ended up every night after the main bands had
finished, destined for adventure. He took a cigarette out of the
packet, and concentrated on lighting it, taking steady drags from it
until he felt light headed, but calmer. Mike carried on walking,
uphill, through the empty fields. He was disappointed by the size of
the stone circle. At night, with crowds of people, in the flickering
flame of wax flares, they seemed bigger, more important. But as Mike
walked closer, he remembered that the biggest stones were taller than
himself. It's not even a real stone circle, he thought. They only put
it here thirteen years ago. But he sat down, leaning against the
highest stone, staring into the valley. Mike opened his eyes. The sun
was setting, turning the clouds orange and purple. He didn't remember
falling asleep. He drew the blanket around his shoulders now, feeling
cold. Mike looked round, and saw other people, on their own, sitting
with their backs against the stones. In the misty evening light, he
could see a few people walking slowly up the hill. Were they the ghosts
of the people who had enjoyed this stone circle so much, in the
thirteen years since JCBs had dragged the stones here? Mike thought,
crazily. He'd read somewhere that many Glastonbury veterans had their
ashes scattered here. Mike shivered, but he felt peaceful somehow,
surrounded by these ghosts. Maybe that was what he had come here for.
Then a girl sitting by the nearest stone smiled at him, and he knew she
was real. Anne Grange, July 2005