This was the story I was reading and reliving on the Piccadilly line three years later in the minutes before I was blown up.
The bomb was detonated seven to ten feet away from me. I realised that I was on the floor and there were squirming bodies lying on top of me.
It took 15 minutes to walk down the tunnel to Russell Square and I saw something shiny poking out of my wrist, jammed into the bone.He forced it over my head as a hood and the beating began again. He went into the bathroom and tied something round my neck. I waited for a blow to the head, collapsed, gurgled and held my breath. I didn't know it but my neighbours had heard me try to get out of my flat and dialled 999. That was when I cried, because he was the first one to treat me like a person that night - not as a crime scene or prey - and they wouldn't let him touch me. I had grown up in a Norfolk vicarage with my brother and sister.I could feel myself losing hope that I would survive. It was five months before police arrested an itinerant mugger who had come over illegally from Jamaica in May 2002. I studied English and Theology at university and settled into a career in advertising in London.In January 2004, I faced my attacker in a courtroom and saw him sentenced to 15 years.A year later, I talked to Marie Claire about my story, because I wanted to do something to help other rape victims.
At King's Cross, the doors slid open, and I was pushed towards the centre of the carriage. It was impossible to read any more, so I read the adverts on the train walls. Not bloody again.' It was almost exactly three years since the early hours of Friday July 17, 2002, when I had forced my way out of my North London flat, naked and covered in blood, with my hands bound behind my back and a wire noose around my neck, screaming as I threw my body across the bonnet of a police car.