They’ve reopened Tavistock Square. Walking through with other Londoners, we all apparently felt the same thing. Everyone looked out the corners of their eyes, briefly, at the BMA building, where the blood of the murdered and murderer had once stained the stone. A bus stopped on the site of the explosion, and everyone suddenly slowed, fixated either by their paranoia or their imagination. Ghandi’s statue looked more pensive than usual as I crossed the gardens, as if he’d seen something he was trying to rationalise – head lowered, gaze fixed to the ground. It has become a truly surreal place.

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