The Kill Switch

Monday 4th September, 2001

They only really tell you about the things they can predict. Petty theft, street muggings, even hostage negotiation. They sit you down in the big white room, show you the slideshow and talk you through the fifteen year old presentation. But everything works on paper. That's what paper's for. We have control; we only write what we want to write. But the real world isn't like that, and they can't prepare you for the real world. Nobody can.

The first thing I remember from that day is the blistering cold as I made my way through the streets - a thick layer of snow, plastering the pavement, and children running around in hats and scarves bigger than their whole selves. It was chaos, but it was a tranquil chaos; the sort of chaos which ensued on Christmas morning, as the children shake their parents awake to see what Father Christmas has brought them, or the sort of chaos you'd find in a game of football, or on an ice rink, or a house party, or any number of places where people go to enjoy the unpredictability of life - to gamble with the fates and test their luck.

That sort of blissful chaos is obvious when you're looking for it. You can find it in every window, in every house you pass on your daily commute to work - until it's gone. Because when it's gone, it's never back again. Of course, I didn't know that at the time. I didn't realise how valuable and precious these last few hours of tranquil chaos would be - because how could you? I just carried on the same routine, making my way from street to side-street, blissfully unaware of the growing cracks underneath the surface of the city's life.

It was probably no later than 9am when I first arrived at the station. Unsurprisingly, I was greeted by the same atmosphere as every morning - such a blissfully chaotic one. Officers running around for such trivial matters as lost items of uniform, dysfunctional computers, or a coffee with red milk instead of green. It all seems so pointless now.

Just as every morning, I made my way to my desk, took a tired seat, and scrolled through my list of errands for the day. I doubt that I was surprised when I read the endless list of menial tasks - and what could only be described as an offensive amount of emails from my colleagues, all of which found a home in the spam folder.

I remember that there was a distinctive breeze that morning. Nothing too distracting, but I definitely remember feeling the bitter air slash across my face constantly throughout the day. Of course, now I look back on that morning in a different light, I'm tempted to interpret it as a warning. A sign from the universe, perhaps. But it was just a breeze. And to call it anything else would be to unjustly bring residence to my guilt.

Working in a police station was never my first choice for a job - it was probably further towards the bottom of my list. I knew what being a police officer entailed; bravery, courage, integrity. I had none of those things. I still don't, all these months later. I only

ended up in that station because I needed a bit of extra money. It's not like I was fighting crime, or even directing traffic.

If I think hard enough, I can draw details out of my mind and paint a picture of exactly what was happening that day. I can read the posters that were plastered all over the walls, advertising a local fundraiser. I can smell the scent of ground coffee beans from the artisan coffee shop next door. I can hear the playful shouts of school children outside, as they kicked their ball back and forth in the street.

I can't quite remember at what point those playful shouts became fearful screams; there's a haze. The only recollection I have of what happened next, is reading the news report the next morning.

Thursday, 26th January, 2001 (Excerpt from The Guardian)

At 12:29 on Wednesday 25th January, 3 civilians were shot dead, in and around Saint Peter's Police Station in East London. At least 21 people are thought to have been injured in the attack, and the deaths of 3 have been confirmed by the emergency services. The motive of this attack is still unclear, and there is little evidence of terrorist involvement - which leaves the people of London to question why this atrocity has happened to their home.

It was strange, having to read the events of my own life from the black and white print on the front of the newspaper which sat upon the coffee table in every house in the country. I remember being interviewed by several local newspapers in the weeks that followed, all of which asked me the same question.

'Where did your bravery come from?'

Excerpt From The Guardian, continued.

However, in these desperate times, the people of London still have somebody to thank for the brief nature of this attack. 23 year old police receptionist Alexander Mueller was one of the first to respond to the attack, knocking the gun out of the suspect's hands and kicking it away, to a fellow member of the police force. Unarmed and outnumbered, the suspect quickly surrendered.

The truth is, I didn't feel an ounce of bravery in that moment. I felt nothing, except for determination and self-preservation. My actions were totally selfish. As I told the reporters time after time, I didn't kick that bastard's gun to another member of the force, I just kicked it away from me. Partly because it scared me - partly because I didn't know what I'd do if I picked it up.

Excerpt From The Guardian, continued.

As soon as the police arrived on scene, the suspect snapped, taking Mr Mueller as a hostage, grabbing a piece of sharp glass from the shattered windows and holding it against his throat. Despite endless negotiations, the police were unable to come to any sort of compromise with the suspect, and were forced to subdue him. Mr Mueller suffered severe injuries to the spine and throat as a consequence.

It's been eight or nine months now since the attack. I've left my bed twice; once after suffering a seizure in the middle of the night, and once accompanied by a nurse to watch the sunset through my bedroom window. The attacker severed most of the nerves in my spinal cord - now the only muscles I can move are on my face, and my left hand. It's not really any sort of life at all, if I'm honest. Just existence.

The nurses visit me every day - my family come too whenever they can be bothered.

It's approaching dawn, and I can feel the warm sun blistering through my window and resting on my face, as if to tell me that whatever happens, it will be okay; that today is going to be a good day. There are good days - but there are also bad days, and today is definitely a bad day. Maybe tomorrow would've been be a good day, but I'd risked that enough times already. This isn't one of those things to gamble with the fates and test my luck.

My nurse had given me a panic button to press whenever I was feeling like this, and I know I should press it. But I can't. I can't have the nurses rushing here every morning, feeding me and bathing me and dressing me - it's an embarrassment. And I've had enough.

I moved my left hand to my pocket, grasping the panic button tightly. My fingers tensed around it, ready to pull it out at any moment. But I didn't. I've done that too many times before. Instead, I wrote this note. I hope you understand. And I hope you forgive me. I won't die in pain.