Danny, 26, is a building-projects manager and lives in Romford, Essex. His girlfriend, Lisa Flint, 25, works for a shipping company in Hainault, Greater London
"I woke at the usual time, 5.10am, with a migraine. I was with my girlfriend, Lisa, at her parents' house in Romford, Essex — we'd been saving to get married. I said to Lisa: "I'm phoning in sick." Then I dozed off. Half an hour later, my headache had eased up. I had a meeting about a big job, so I thought I'd go in. I got dressed — jeans, T-shirt, Caterpillar boots — kissed Lisa goodbye and left for work.
That extra 30 minutes made all the difference. There was a delay at Liverpool Street, so I walked through to the Circle line, and went to the front of the train. I usually sit at the back because you never hear of a train reversing into anything. Crazy reasoning, but that's what I do. And I always stand up. After all, I'm 26.
That morning I got on the front of the train, which was closest to the stairs, and stood next to the bomber, Mohammad Sidique Khan. I looked at him, as you do. He seemed quite calm. Nothing, in retrospect, made me think: "This guy's got a bomb." He looked at me, and as he did so he put his hand inside his rucksack, looked at me again, looked away, and pulled back his hand.
With that there was a crackly noise like when you tune in a radio, and the train seemed to expand and contract very quickly. I was slammed straight out of the train by the force of the blast, bounced off the wall of the tunnel — that's how I got the big scar on my head — and skidded along like a rag doll. As I landed, the train came to a halt and the doors, opened out by the blast, closed violently — guillotining my legs. I heard everything crack. I didn't lose consciousness. It was all over in 10 seconds. Imagine the worst pain, magnify it by a million, and that's close to what having a train door cut through your legs feels like. I screamed. Then it was as if someone turned the switch off. Boom! No more pain.
Blood was pouring down my face. When I went to put my hand on my forehead I actually put my hand inside my forehead, on my skull. I called for help but all I could hear was people screaming from the carriage. Then someone would stop screaming, and I'd know they'd died. Then this mountain of a guy appeared: Adrian Heili, a fellow passenger, a South African who'd been in the Swiss army. He now works as a bodyguard. "Don't worry, we'll get you out," he said. "I've never lost anyone yet and I don't intend starting now." The track could have still been live but Adrian had grabbed it. Then, when he wasn't electrocuted, he'd crawled underneath the train. At the same time, Lee Hunt, an Underground driver who'd been on his tea break at the depot at Edgware Road, had come down when he heard the explosion. He, too, crawled under the train.
I was calm because I honestly believed I was going to die. But Adrian lifted the door off me, then held me to put tourniquets on my legs to keep me alive. Lee shone a torch in my eyes to keep me awake, and they talked to me about my favourite football team, Arsenal, my girlfriend, my family — anything to stop me going to sleep. By about 10am, they'd got me out. I was the first into St Mary's, Paddington. The doctor looked at me with utter panic. Later, he admitted to me he didn't know where to start. I was bleeding and my legs were all mangled and cut and burnt; my arms were five times their normal size, so I looked like a cartoon; my jeans had been blown off me in the blast. The money in my left-hand pocket had been blown into my right leg. I've still got a 20p piece that blew right through my leg embedded in my thighbone. I've always got money on me! Within seconds there were consultants and Christ knows what at my bedside. I told them my name and where I lived. Then I was out for the count.
I woke five weeks later. At the hospital it was knife-edge whether I lived or died. I had 70 pints of blood put in me — called a total exchange. I suffered three cardiac arrests in the first two hours. The third resulted in them opening my chest up, massaging my heart to get it going again. The police traced me, through bank-account details in my wallet, to Lisa's parents' house. But it took all day, and it wasn't until midnight that they told her to come to the hospital. "Time is of the essence," they said. My dad and mum, who were living in Spain, were called by Lisa's dad. They thought they'd be coming home to a funeral.
At St Mary's, they didn't think I'd last the night. The comical thing was that when this beautiful 25-year-old, my girlfriend, Lisa, arrived that night, my body was so broken up that they'd put me down as 55 years old. Lisa had come to say goodbye. When she came in, I opened my eyes and said her name. It meant that Lisa knew the possibility of brain damage was reduced. I came close to dying that day. I lost both legs and went from being 6ft 4in to 5ft-nothing. I had second-degree burns to my arms and face, a massive cut on my head. I'm completely deaf in my left ear; I lost my left eye; and my spleen, which had ruptured, had to be removed. I spend most of my days in a wheelchair.
Khan took a lot from me. I can't grab hold of him and shout. But I only feel anger towards him, and not to the Muslim religion or Muslims. I channel my anger into getting my life back. I will walk. I will get married. I'll have children.
I won't lie down and let people like Khan destroy my life. Fortunately for me, I had two incredibly brave men, Adrian and Lee — and I can't stress enough how those two guys are heroes for me — and fantastic hospital staff who've got me walking on prosthetic legs. The doctors and nurses at St Mary's, Paddington, and at Queen Mary's, Roehampton, have overwhelmed me with their care and kindness. When I was upset, they'd be there to comfort me, and if I'd wake up in the night, a nurse would hold my hand until I'd gone back to sleep. If I woke up 30 times, she'd come 30 times. I'll never get on a Tube train again; I can't be in the dark now; I can't be in confined spaces. I wake up at night and I can taste blood in my mouth, smell the smell from that tunnel and hear the screams of those people dying. Those screams will always be with me. It sounds funny, but I feel guilty for surviving.
Danny Biddle is now in the Douglas Bader rehabilitation centre at Queen Mary's, Roehampton. He is learning to walk again; "Going back 26 years, and learning to do all the things you take for granted," he says. He is having physiotherapy twice daily, and now has a prosthetic eye. He says he should be able to be 80% recovered. Then he will carry on working for his old firm, T H Kenyon and Sons, in a different role. He and Lisa still plan to get married and they will live in a bungalow. Danny's solicitor has applied for compensation through the Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority (CICA). He has received compensation from the London Bombings fund."
