Out of the Tunnel

After work finished last night I caught a bus to Oxford Circus and went to Borders. I was after a book that I knew had been published the week before and which I hoped would be on the shelves. I had already tried a local bookshop close to my office but their copies had not yet arrived. Unsure as to how the book would be categorised, I scanned the shelves of new books, local books, important issues, autobiography, summer reads. But to no avail. Defeated I approached the information desk and tried not to laugh when he directed me to the self help aisle. I can see why they put it there, I suppose, but I don’t think that hiding it amongst the self help titles is attracting it the attention that it deserves.

I started reading the book on the tube on the way home and was so engrossed that I almost missed my stop; walking home was a bit nerve wracking after what I had just read and I was pleased when I reached home and was able to curl up in bed to continue. I read for 2 hours before I finished the book and parts have stayed with me ever since. It was only by reading the metro and determinedly thinking of someone, something else, that I was able to pass Arsenal, Holloway Road, Caledonian Road, King’s Cross, Russell Square before emerging into the sunlight at Holborn wondering why I felt quite so strange. The events that had entered my sub-conscious happened 2 years ago. I travel that route every day and have done so for several months. But still, I felt odd.

On the surface Out of the Tunnel is an interesting insight into the mind and life of the person behind one of my favourite blogs; reading the book meant that I was able to see further and deeper into the life that she writes about on her blog and understand some of the background to the position from which she views the world. It was written well, flowed nicely and I only found one sentence which I would re-write (usually I find 10 or 12). It read differently to her blog though, it seemed more careful, more cautious, almost more simply written. I could tell which passages were lifted straight from her blog, although whether that was simply through recognition or through a shift in style, I am not sure.

Delve deeper though into the content of Out of the Tunnel and it is, at times, rather disturbing; I have never read such a vivid, descriptive account of rape that I could picture it, try as I did to wipe it from my mind. And if I can picture it my heart bleeds for anyone who actually has such an account imprinted on their mind. Some of the text was familiar to me, for I read Rachel’s Story in The Sunday Times, but that description seemed almost to have been censored in comparison to this. I never read the Marie Claire article, so I cannot comment on the content, but it was graphic enough for Rachel to have been re-living that night in 2002 whilst she was reading her story in the magazine on the tube on her way to work on 7/7/2005; the second date that would change her life beyond recognition at the hands of a Jamaican teenager with no care for anyone else other than themselves.

The description of 7/7 is vivid, yet somehow I also felt very removed from the situation, despite travelling daily on the same tube (now, not then, thankfully). I found it hard to picture exactly where she was standing, although I could imagine all to well the feeling of being able to almost lift ones feet off the floor in a packed tube carriage. What did strike me was the way that London pulled together to help each other; from the people involved to emergency services, the police, the general public. Rachel provided a glimpse into the awful world of PTSD, of survivor guilt, of good days and bad days. It is not something I know much about and I imagine that anyone suffering from similar symptoms would draw great strength from Out of the Tunnel.

Out of the Tunnel is not an easy read. It fills the mind with images that one would prefer not to think about, yet it is compelling reading and I couldn't put the book down despite wanting to sleep, to stop, to remove myself from the situation. I didn't, because I could.