This is an incredibly hard article to write, and it shouldn’t really be about me. It should first and foremost be about the student that I killed, the family and friends he left behind to grieve, and the devastation it caused them.
I was 17. I had been playing a gig with my band in north London and was driving home late at night. I pulled away from traffic lights, and as I accelerated a figure appeared in front of us, as if from nowhere. I wasn’t even sure which side of the road he had come from. He seemed to just emerge out of the darkness. What I did see was him lifted by the force of the collision and thrown by the impact on to the windscreen.
The events that followed are a blur. An ambulance came quickly, as did the police, and I was taken to Kennington police station to give a statement. I was led out of the interview room to be told by a group of police assembled there that the man was dead.
Until that point I had tried several times to ask about the pedestrian. I had assumed he would survive. The news that he hadn’t physically knocked me off my feet into a chair behind me. I was left to process the enormity of what had happened.
To go home and wake up a parent at 3am and tell them that you have killed someone is probably the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I wasn’t sure how my dad would react. But I also remember being stunned by his response. I can’t remember his exact words but I recall the sentiment vividly. “You are my son, and whatever happens now we’ll get through this together.” I hope that I’m able to show the same love for my own children.
I also remember clearly the feeling I had when I woke up the next morning. For a split-second it was a normal day, I was a teenager, and the world was an exciting place. But the events of the night came flooding back. A darkness descended and I was overtaken by a belief that I really had no right to go on living. I had taken another person’s life. I felt I deserved to give my own.
Whether it was the moral code I had grown up with or some innate response that comes from being human, I still don’t know. I haven’t met enough other people in similar circumstances to know. But it’s a feeling I will never forget.
At the inquest there was a finding of accidental death. The response it elicited might have been expected to be one of relief. I hadn’t been drinking. I wasn’t speeding. I had been paying attention. But to me these were all incidental. That wasn’t the real issue. The verdict didn’t change the terrible event that had happened.
Everything within me wanted to reach out and try to make things right. But of course there was nothing that could be done, let alone said, that would make it better. As the people at the inquest dispersed, I approached one person who appeared to be a family member. But the words that came out of my mouth – “I’m so sorry” – seemed entirely inadequate.
I still wish I could reach out to the family. I sent a message through a third party that I would like to meet with them if that was what they wanted. I don’t even know if it reached them, but if it did, perhaps the pain would have been too much. And of course, this was about what they needed, not about what I needed. I did not pursue it any further.
But at the same time it remains the single event that has had the greatest impact on my life. I will always carry it with me. It has shaped how I think about life and the values I hold. Not least it’s central to why I feel so strongly about making our streets safer and changing the road hierarchy to prioritise pedestrians and cyclists, over cars and other motor vehicles. It’s also why I believe we must tackle the 40,000 premature deaths each year linked to the air pollution that comes from those vehicles. Driving can never be without risks – but policy changes can save lives.
I’ll never be able to make things right for the family of the man I killed in that awful collision. But there are things that can be done to try to ensure other lives are not destroyed in the future. And in some small way perhaps that is the best, albeit always inadequate response, that anyone can offer.
This is an incredibly hard article to write, and it shouldn’t really be about me. It should first and foremost be about the student that I killed, the family and friends he left behind to grieve, and the devastation it caused them.
I was 17. I had been playing a gig with my band in north London and was driving home late at night. I pulled away from traffic lights, and as I accelerated a figure appeared in front of us, as if from nowhere. I wasn’t even sure which side of the road he had come from. He seemed to just emerge out of the darkness. What I did see was him lifted by the force of the collision and thrown by the impact on to the windscreen.
The events that followed are a blur. An ambulance came quickly, as did the police, and I was taken to Kennington police station to give a statement. I was led out of the interview room to be told by a group of police assembled there that the man was dead.
Until that point I had tried several times to ask about the pedestrian. I had assumed he would survive. The news that he hadn’t physically knocked me off my feet into a chair behind me. I was left to process the enormity of what had happened.
To go home and wake up a parent at 3am and tell them that you have killed someone is probably the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I wasn’t sure how my dad would react. But I also remember being stunned by his response. I can’t remember his exact words but I recall the sentiment vividly. “You are my son, and whatever happens now we’ll get through this together.” I hope that I’m able to show the same love for my own children.
I also remember clearly the feeling I had when I woke up the next morning. For a split-second it was a normal day, I was a teenager, and the world was an exciting place. But the events of the night came flooding back. A darkness descended and I was overtaken by a belief that I really had no right to go on living. I had taken another person’s life. I felt I deserved to give my own.
Whether it was the moral code I had grown up with or some innate response that comes from being human, I still don’t know. I haven’t met enough other people in similar circumstances to know. But it’s a feeling I will never forget.
At the inquest there was a finding of accidental death. The response it elicited might have been expected to be one of relief. I hadn’t been drinking. I wasn’t speeding. I had been paying attention. But to me these were all incidental. That wasn’t the real issue. The verdict didn’t change the terrible event that had happened.
Everything within me wanted to reach out and try to make things right. But of course there was nothing that could be done, let alone said, that would make it better. As the people at the inquest dispersed, I approached one person who appeared to be a family member. But the words that came out of my mouth – “I’m so sorry” – seemed entirely inadequate.
I still wish I could reach out to the family. I sent a message through a third party that I would like to meet with them if that was what they wanted. I don’t even know if it reached them, but if it did, perhaps the pain would have been too much. And of course, this was about what they needed, not about what I needed. I did not pursue it any further.
But at the same time it remains the single event that has had the greatest impact on my life. I will always carry it with me. It has shaped how I think about life and the values I hold. Not least it’s central to why I feel so strongly about making our streets safer and changing the road hierarchy to prioritise pedestrians and cyclists, over cars and other motor vehicles. It’s also why I believe we must tackle the 40,000 premature deaths each year linked to the air pollution that comes from those vehicles. Driving can never be without risks – but policy changes can save lives.
I’ll never be able to make things right for the family of the man I killed in that awful collision. But there are things that can be done to try to ensure other lives are not destroyed in the future. And in some small way perhaps that is the best, albeit always inadequate response, that anyone can offer.