‘The Tavistock Square bus exploded right in front of me’

It was a white explosion, like nothing I’d ever seen before. A smouldering body lay next to my car, as I stumbled to get out. At that point, all I could think of were my two sons, Sam and Josh, and my wife, Lisa. I knew I had to get out of there. 

On July 7 2005, I was 31 and working as an advertising creative, getting ready for a beer brand pitch later that week. Like every morning, I was driving into work from my home in Mill Hill, near Barnet. But that day I was late, really late, because I’d slept through my alarm.

Usually, there was no way I wouldn’t be in work by then, but it was about 9:45am when I got to Tavistock Square, which was just a couple of minutes away from my office in Russell Square.

It was a summer’s day and I was singing along to a Robbie Williams CD, so didn’t have the radio on. I remember thinking to myself: ‘wow, it’s so busy today’.

What I didn’t know was that bombs had gone off across the London Underground system, causing utter chaos – no one knew what was going on and instead people were cramming onto the streets and overground transport to continue their way into work.

Approaching a junction, I swore under my breath as I spotted a bus blocking the route in front of me. It was going much slower than it needed to be. 

Then the back of it exploded in front of my eyes. 

The impact of the blast threw me back into my seat and then forwards again, while a voice inside my head told me it must be a bomb – but somehow it felt perfectly normal. 

I remember staring at the bus from left to right and could see that the roof had been completely blown off. The people on the top deck, those who survived, were looking back at a bus that didn’t exist anymore. As I looked around, pedestrians had been flattened by the explosion. 

From that moment, it was like putting my head into a hornet’s nest. I couldn’t hear a thing, and everything around me was muted. Josh was one and Sam would have been six, and I just knew I had to get out of this alive, for them. I was also thinking there has to be another bomb and I couldn’t underestimate whoever did this. 

As I opened the car door, right in front of me was a smouldering body lying on the floor. I went into survival mode and jumped over it. It was my worst moment of a horrific day. I imagine we’d all like to think we’d help people when something terrible happens – but all I could think was to get as far away from this place as possible, and as quickly as possible.

Despite the hundreds of people around me, I felt alone. Pedestrians had been knocked to the floor and it was eerily quiet. Then came the screams. The worst I have ever heard, the sounds of people dying in those few seconds. It was an almost animal, guttural wail. Soon after I was hit by the smell of burning flesh and I remember how distinctly terrible it was.  

As I walked out into the street, my peripheral vision was full of bright pink body parts and organs, I knew exactly what they were and they were littered all over the road. 

I tried not to look at them, as I didn’t want the moment seared into my memory for the rest of my life – but it was impossible. I kept telling myself ‘just look at the trees, look at the leaves…’ But then I realised the leaves were speckled in what looked like minced beef. The walls were covered in blood and body parts. To get out, I’d have to look. 

Running away from the bus, I was met with police tape closing off another road. In my head I was thinking: ‘what is happening?’ I had just run away from one bomb, and another road had been cordoned off. What I know now is that four suicide bombers had also attacked tube stations across London. Two were on the Circle Line near Aldgate and at Edgware Road, while the other was on the Piccadilly Line near Russell Square. They killed 52 people – 13 in front of my eyes. 

My phone wasn’t working so I rushed into a nearby hotel because I needed to call my wife, Lisa. She’d been at work for an hour and a half and was a bit annoyed. ‘Why are you calling me in the middle of a meeting?’ she asked. 

‘Look, just to say, when you watch the TV, our car is going to be on the news. I don’t know about the car, but I’m okay,’ I replied.

She then said: ‘I don’t really understand why you’re calling me now.’ It’s a joke between us now that she has never forgiven herself for not asking more. 

I ended up walking over two miles to Primrose Hill, and it felt like most of London was on foot too; no one was on public transport. I think that anyone who would have seen me that day would have realised something was wrong. 

I ended up at a pub I’d always loved. It was closed and the barman was cleaning, so without saying a word, I took a seat at the back of the pub. He asked me if I was alright and I replied ‘no, not really’. Pointed at the television, I said ‘I was just there’.

The barman poured me a pint and neither of us said a word, until my brother-in-law picked me up from the pub. All I could think was: why is everyone else being so normal? Why is this a normal day for him? 

I woke up the next day incredibly angry. I stormed downstairs and picked out a piece of cardboard, put some cellophane on it and started to write a response to the people who had done this. It said: ‘Yesterday, we fled this great city, but today we are walking back into an even stronger, greater city. The people who did this should know they have failed. They’ve picked the wrong city to pick on. London will go on.’

Lisa asked what I was doing and I told her that I was going to go back to Tavistock Square and leave the message there. She tried to dissuade me, but I left anyway.

I had to walk into town to find a cab. When the driver asked me where I wanted to go, he initially refused.  I offered him double the fare and he reluctantly agreed. 

When I got to the square, I handed my sign to a police officer and asked him to place it as near as he could to the bus. He left it on the steps of a nearby church. When I got home that evening, my piece of cardboard was on the 10 o’clock news. It felt like closure immediately. I’d responded to these people and it was the fastest piece of therapy that I could have given myself. 

If I had to write that message now, 20 years later, I would say the people who did this should know that they failed. But they should also know that they were failed. They were exploited and manipulated and their lives were over, while we Londoners did indeed go on.

I think the whole office took the next day – a Friday – off, but we were all back on Monday. The beer pitch never happened, I never got my car back from the police impound and I’ll remember that day forever. But life went on. 

I’m 51 now and over the last 20 years those moments have given me perspective. I understand the preciousness of life – and the randomness of terror. 

I also understand the significance of those 13 names who lost their lives and how it affected so many more. I have grasped the situation far more deeply over time and I will always remember those who lost so much more than me that day.

As told to Jamie Boys