On July 6, 2005, my father and I attended The Postman Always Rings Twice at The Playhouse Theatre in London, starring Val Kilmer. Among the many high-profile plays I was fortunate to see while studying in London, this one stands out for two opposing reasons.
First, Val Kilmer’s performance as Frank Chambers was mesmerising. My father and I were captivated by his raw intensity, rebellious energy, and the poignant depth he brought to the role—pure method acting at its finest. When the curtain fell, we rushed to the stage door to congratulate him. He stepped outside, warmly greeted the crowd, and took the time to shake hands and engage with his fans. My father, in a playful nod to the play’s plot, said, “We are Greeks, by the way,” referencing Frank and Cora’s murder of Nick the Greek. Val laughed and replied, “Please don’t hold it against us.” We chatted briefly, took a photo, and went our separate ways—but the magic of that moment has stayed with me ever since.
The second reason that night remains unforgettable is far darker. The play ended close to midnight, and we followed it with drinks in Covent Garden before returning to my flat in Russell Square around 2am.
Seven hours later, we were violently awoken by explosions. Helicopters circled overhead, and the streets buzzed with panic. When we tried to step outside, armed police blocked our way. Slipping past them, we made our way down Bernard Street—only to be met with a harrowing sight: smoke billowing from Russell Square tube station, stretchers carrying the wounded.
The media would later call it the 7/7 London Bombings. But what shook me most wasn’t just that my father and I had witnessed a terrorist attack firsthand. It was the terrifying realization that we had unknowingly escaped it.
For the previous two weeks, without fail, we had taken the Piccadilly Line from Russell Square to Bounds Green to visit my godfather—my father’s brother—around the same time the terrorists struck that very line, that very station.
We couldn’t help but wonder: What if we hadn’t gone to the play that night? What if we had skipped the drinks? What if we had gone to bed earlier, woken up at our usual time, and caught the 8:30 train to Bounds Green on 7/7?
Those are some heavy what-ifs. If The Postman Always Rings Twice had been a shorter play, we might have gone straight home. We might have woken up earlier. We might have been on that train.
In a strange twist of fate, my father and I have Val Kilmer to thank for ensuring we never had to find out how that what-if would have ended.
