This is a short blog, to give a few examples of how reality bleeds into fiction and much of what is below is lifted from an entry in the diary.
I may make them public one day in their entirety, they could be good toilet reading I reckon. Most of them are a lighter look at it all but some have a slightly more serious slant when events require it:
The day after getting back from my Honeymoon and I'm called in to assist with searching for a murder victim. The working theory being that the victim has been dumped at a landfill site in a number of plastic bags in the hope that it wouldn't be discovered amongst the everyday, household filth. I'm tasked with searching a silo from the green waste area and I'm told that it should only contain rotting grass cuttings, garden debris, soil and the like. I quickly discover this is massively compressed and what is actually in front of me is a steaming cube of quickly composting animal faeces, mud, nappies, food stuffs, children's outdoor toys and broken gardening implements.
It's packed so hard I use a garden fork to pull it apart bit-by-bit, sweating against a full forensic suit, stood on top of the steaming mass which had been dragged into a hushed, dingy barn with windows only down end and pigeons fidgeting above in the rafters.
It's a funny old game, searching for a body. One that plays with your mind, knowing every swipe of the fork might reveal a hand, a foot or worse of all a pair of eyes forever jammed wide by the last thing they witnessed, by the terror they could see unfolding in front of them, by the helplessness; by deep sadness and regret.
I remember being with a colleague of mine and we were both stood over a corpse at a separate job. It was a young man who had met an aggressive and sudden end when his vehicle had come to an aggressive and sudden stop courtesy of a thick-trunked tree. We found him sat up against a second tree, his eyes were flared wide that night, it was an awful image on a dark, rainy country lane where the blue lights flickered in his pupils, almost feigning signs of life.
We were both silent me and my buddy, who looked at the dead man for a period, then he squatted so he was level with him and he said
'I always reckon the soul leaves out the eyes. You know what I mean?'
I did. At least I thought I did. I nodded solemnly. My colleague farted, loudly, and we both paused; for me it hadn't completely ruined the moment.
'Or maybe it's the arse?' He shrugged.
He got back to his feet and walked back towards the car, his radio already in his hand for a update and I watched him go.
Both scenarios have stayed with me. The ones with emotion attached always do and both feature in my books, the car scene I used bits of at the end of the second book and the environment created by the landfill search was the scene for an early part of the third.
I cut out the fart.
Out of respect.