Editor’s Note: The following account of an incident connected with the attempted bombings in London on Thursday was e-mailed to the Bangor Daily News by one of its online readers in England. The reader did not want to be identified.

5:45 p.m. Our [London] time. Close friend Julie told me last week that the results from the biopsy of her left breast were due today. I woke up this morning with my fingers tightly crossed. I knew I would not stop praying until I heard her voice telling me it’s all OK.

She called me 20 minutes ago from University College Hospital of London. She had locked herself in the ladies’ toilets on the second floor. A suicide bomber (6-foot-2 inches, Asian origin with a black backpack strapped to his body) has hidden himself in the building. Wires are protruding from the package and no one must approach. That’s it.

Her voice, usually calm and melodic, has a clipped, almost guttural quality as she begs me to make sure Jim picks up the kids from school. … I will. … and we’re suddenly cut off. The network has cut off. I call back only to be told, “That particular network has been closed down at the request of the police.”

More than 30 armed officers have stormed the building. The antiterrorist squad has just arrived, along with bomb disposal experts. I am watching it unfold before my eyes, and I know Julie promised me she wore the silver four-leafed-clover necklace charm I gave to her last birth year to bring her luck. I pray for yesterday when all I worried for was her breast cancer. I think of her small gentle hands clutching that charm, and wept.