Pillow Walker

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream…

More scibbles of police…

I’ve managed to do a bit more scribbling on the story I’m working on… here is a bit of a taste of what I’ve done recently…

Fresh snow had recently covered the ground as he made his walk across the council estate towards a tower block which was the address he was sent to look at, when he finally made his way up to the correct floor level after trudging up several flights of sleet covered stairs he came upon a scene of total carnage…

A male and female police officer stood watch outside the flat, a shorter female with dark curly hair sticking out from underneath her police hat glanced about, looking somewhat bored and embarrassed while her taller colleague in his florescent jacket laughed and smiled at his own jokes… He’s  probably a transfer from a traffic unit thought Ashford taller than Mark but with a red nose from the winter conditions.

He silently noddled to them both, flashed his ID badge and ducked under the crime scene tape and walked into the entrance.

Blood on the walls and blood on the ceilings. That was the scene that greeted D.I Mark Ashford as he entered the one bedroom flat.

He stood on the welcoming mat and glanced about the lounge.

The forensic team had already been in during the early part of the morning to douse the surfaces with luminol, but apart from their recent activity and the yellow crime scene tape that they’d tied up outside the flat there wasn’t any trace of them right now.

On one side of the lounge room presumably where the crime had taken place a wall now sported a stain of blackened carbon which had ran up a length of wall where once pictures and a mirror had hung  which now was splintered into hundreds of shards and half way across the lounge carpet.

An electrical appliance, possibly a hi fi or computer terminal had melted at the foot of the hot spot which was most probably the source of the fire.

Close to the ignition source, metal components and what appeared to be lumps of organic remains had coalesced  in globs of solder and circuitry which had meshed together. The smell of burning carbon was still present mixed with a pungent smell of faeces and death.

Ashford scanned the room…

Remnants of shredded clothing were matted with blood and other bodily tissues to the surfaces of what was left of the remaining upholstery.

On closer inspection he’d notice  fragments which were embedded into the walls and the kitchen door on the lounge side opposite the blackened scorch marks.

A partial skull cranium with matted hair which had coagulated with arterial blood and brain tissue was found next to a splintered coffee table near the center of the room, in close proximity to a charred foot with purple nail varnish most likely from a female victim.

Ashford held a hanky from his pocket to his nose, he could never quite get used to that smell of dead things… it always made him want to gag. There were times when a putrid waft would sometimes trigger a memory he thought he’d once buried in his subconscious. Memories of old cases the ones he’d help solve or the times when they sometimes went cold.

He’d been in the force with the Avon and Somerset Police for over twenty years and was called in to investigate crimes such as this one, as was sometimes customary when the situation was at a standstill or or when manpower dictated.

He’d been witness to the aftermath of murder and unexplained death for almost all of his career and he’d seen just about everything you’d expect to see within the homicide division, such as the violent crimes perpetrated by thugs and low lifes out on the rob, or the gang land style executions by the powerful elite and their unscrupulous no marks, to the unlucky criminals on the receiving end of deals gone wrong.

There were crimes of passion metted out by jealous husbands and wives…and of course there was those people who were suicidal, those poor bastards who’d jump in front of a train, or off themselves by leaping from a bridge or high vantage point.

They all had to be investigated, especially the suspicious ones.

Most of the time a case would have a logical explanation, a natural cause of death for an individual or cicumstances that might appear to lean towards non suspicion, and then other times they’d call in Ashford.

Mark Ashford sent in to make sure a systematic approach was being applied to the behind scenes forensic activities and to sometimes think outside the box if all avenues of an investigation had been exhausted, which meant it had to be seen to be done by the book albiet sometimes obliquely.

He thought of himself as some kind of super plumber, shoring up blockages in the system and circumventing the flow of water in order to deliver a honest result, although never at the expense of other colleagues he’d like to think.

Rarely was he called in to the actual crime scene itself, most of his regular duties involved organising other detectives back at the office.

‘I see you have made a quick glance of the crime scene Mark’

It was Chris Porter from homicide division one of the leading detectives on the case. He’d walked in on Mark who had been surveying the scene from the doorstep.

‘Its OK detective stay there I’ll walk over to you’

Chris was donned in the usual forensics garb to prevent contamination of the scene. He walked over towards Ashford.

‘Good morning Chris, Yes I have… whats your take on things?’ replied Ashford who turned to face his colleague.

‘They got you down here then, sorry to pull you away from that nice warm office of yours hows things Mark’,  joked Porter.

They shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and spoke of the football scores and about drinking establishments and changes to work related business, the usual stuff.

‘Well for all intents and purposes we have what appears to be a fire of some sort and some kind of explosion that occurred within the flat.’, started Porter.

‘Thats quite unusual in of itself unless it was terrorism related, which we don’t think it is at this early stage’

‘What is remarkable is that the windows in the property are not shattered and yet the damge to the vics and I say vics because there is more than one person who died here tonight, sorry I meant yesterday… is quite substantial’

‘Coupled to that we have no reports from any of the neighbours over loud noises’

‘So who rang it in then’, replied Ashford.

‘A delivery agent dropping a parcel off to next doors and happened to notice a burning smell from outside the property  he looked through the letter box apparently he noticed the general chaos inside’

‘Any details on the vics’, Ashford pointed to what was left of them on the interior carpet.

‘Yeah the first victim was an young Caucasian female by the name of Emily Prior, 26 works as a hairdresser, self employed… no partner or relatives to speak of according to a neighbour, although we’re still looking into her life’

‘The second victim again a Caucasian, male, similar age… name unkown so far…maybe a boyfriend or acquaintance of hers, we’re not really sure at this stage, but we’ve got a copy of the flats surveillance camera that was taken from outside her flat the night before the delivery agent noticed the smell … IT have already extracted the video file so we know what he looks like… we’re running prints off the walls and fixtures as we speak’

‘OK thats good, its a bit strange as you mention the explosion or lackof… have you got any of the forensics to get a sample of the carbon for anaysis yet’, queried Ashford.

‘Yes, that’s just been done and is winging its way back to the lab, along with the prints’, replied Porter.

‘It’ll be good to know what caused it’

‘We’ve also got bobbies out door to door and I took the liberty of sending out a couple of PCs to obtain surveillance footage in case it reveals anything suspicious in the neighbourhood or to do with the male that visited Emily… it looks like he could be the last one to see her alive and may possibly be a victim himself, who knows’, Porter gestured towards the broken table and skull fragment littered on the floor.

‘Good work Chris’ remarked Ashford with a smile.

‘I see you’ve locked down the area and are working quickly enough out from the scene itself… standard stuff, but obviously you’ll need futher forensics over the next day or two, I’ll look into granting you the necessary resources when I speak with management, but what you have so far is a jolly good start’

Porter nodded in token agreement.

‘Its puzzling..’, Ashford continued…

‘An explosion and yet no explosion at the same time, no sounds heard of a domestic incident or some violent event, its almost as if they both died some place else and were transferred here.’

‘And yet we have the bone fragments buried into the verticals which definitely suggests otherwise’, mused Ashford.

‘See if you can work out if the fire was separate to or the cause of the explosion will you Chris’, Ashford pointed towards the source of where the fire had started.

‘You’ll obviously need to look at the bone fragments buried in the walls and whatnot and get someone to take detailed pictures of the scene and measurements, you’ll have to fine tooth comb this one OK Chris. Fibres the works’

‘Aye Sir, I’ll do that right away’, replied Porter in a more formal tone.

Ashford left the scene of crime, and headed back down towards his car which was waiting for him at the road opposite the block of flats. It was his pride and joy his old racing green Aston Martin DB4 Zigato. Thankfully it still had its wheels left on it when he returned and he was glad to be heading away from this neighbourhood.

He took out his phone to make a recording of what he would have to write in his report when he got back to the office. 

He was glad to getting  out of the chill but unsure of what management would say about granting Chris Porter more bodies on the ground… All the talk in the office these days was of cuts to the service and at his level of policing it was not something Ashford agreed with.

Although for now he returned to more mundane thoughts of the present, of escaping the winters bitterness, exiting  the shitty housing estate and getting back to that warm office of his.


Funny old me

I’ve been feeling a bit strange today… I suppose it could be because of various things to do with the heart… I don’t mean the physical heart but the emotional one. 

I suppose you could say I’m at a bit of a crossroads…

The strange thing about being at the crossroads level for me is that I’m not entirely sure what my choices are, I just know something has to give…

Life can give you lemons and it is a choice sometimes whether to make lemonade or just manufacture the lemonade bottles…

I have a bottling plant but no lemons or lemonade… Do you know where I could get some please?

Its a strange feeling…taking on other people’s pain and suffering, putting yourself in other people’s shoes…it sometimes leaves me feeling helpless myself… lately there’s been a lot of that in other people’s lives that I know about… I guess thats partly the reason I’m feeling at odds with the world. Maybe I need to suffer…then again maybe I’m just feeling sorry for myself?

Maybe I need to control stuff and then maybe I don’t.

Maybe I need a friend… and then maybe I need a lover and then maybe I need neither?

I’m supposed to be going out this evening to some works do…its no big deal its just a few drinks and some food in the company of work colleagues, it should be nice… but inside I’m not feeling like the harlequin, not that I’m the life and soul of any party… but I’m feeling a little detached from everyone else… people with partners and happy smiling faces.

I do not want my mask to slip off…

I think I may choose to listen to my gut and stay at home this evening…

The Box

Digging around in some of my scribbles I had performed last year, I noticed something I had started work on, which I may pick up again… The idea in mind was for a sci-fi oriented story about a mysterious metallic box.  I did some quick edits on it this morning,  I’m still not entirely satisfied.

I present what I have so far…

The box was his find.

He wanted to show Emily his neighbour, perhaps she could shed some light on its origin and it’s inner workings.

That was one of the main reasons he wanted to show her, but another reason to show her first before anyone else was because he fancied her like mad and somewhere in the back of his mind he thought that if he showed her the box she would be impressed with him, perhaps thought Desmond that somewhere in the not too distant future perhaps she would fall head over heels in love with him, or at least invite him around hers for synthetics and maybe even a complimentary shag. 

Of course that was stupid, especially the shag part and he knew it, one part of him thinking why would she be interested in a guy like me and my hobbies, especially a woman like her, like Emily Sanchez.

The outgoing and vivacious neighbour at number 32, the pretty girl he was desperate to win over. The other part of him just wanting someone, anyone to find him interesting.

‘What do you want Desmond?’, she said as she opened her flat door to him.

She stood in the open doorway and he noticed she was wearing that t-shirt he’d seen her in before, the one which was a deep purple and had that white lettering on with the word FAME written on it.
It was that t-shirt several sizes too small, the one Desmond noticed that accentuated her ample breasts.

Desmond noticed that today she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath the t-shirt and quickly glanced back up to meet her bored gaze.

She was wearing thick eye shadow the colour of fresh tarmac and glossy red lipstick, a pair of hatched blue skinny jeans and nothing on her feet, save for the black toe nail varnish she was sporting.

She had raised her eyebrows somewhat, fully aware that he was staring at her tits and gave out a disgruntled sigh in mild annoyance.

‘You best come in’, she said.

Emily knew the quickest way of getting rid of Desmond was to appease him somewhat, although she knew in her heart he wasn’t datable material,  let alone someone she could fancy for anything else.  She did however feel sorry for him, but the quicker she could talk with him, the quicker he’d go away.

She swore blind he had some kind of mental condition like mild autism, although she wasn’t quite sure quite what spectrum.

She gestured for him to come inside.

‘You’re never going to believe what I’ve found’, Desmond said excitedly as he nervously entered her flat.

The thick polymer front door slid back on its casters,  into its closed position automatically, locking itself shut using various deadbolts and finishing off with a faint metal on metal sound as the magnetic locking mechanism seeled the door off from the hallway.

Muffled sounds could be heard from the hallway recyclers kicking in from inside the flat. 

The security panel on the lounge wall let out a notification chime to let Emily know that the system was armed. Desmond took a spot on the leather sofa.

‘Coffee?’, Emily said.

Back home

Recently I was admitted to hospital on the advice of my GP.  I was complaining of stabbing pains in my chest,  which would happen every time I took an intake of breath.  I’m glad that I did because it turned out (after blood tests and scans) that I had/have blood clots in my lungs. 

I’ve been here before back in 2006 or 07,  when I had a DVT brought about possibly by stress and travel,  this was on public transport and not by airplane.  I was treated with Anticoagulants and after a period of six months or so was withdrawn from them in the belief  that everything would be OK. 

Forward to 2014 and I’m back in the same boat although this time being confirmed to have clots in my lungs,  instead of having specific DVT pain in my leg.

I didn’t really feel worried while I was in hospital,  the condition is potentially very serious I know,  but the best thing to do is not think about that and stay positive,  even though it feels like a guillotine poised ready to chop my head off.  In that regard we’re all like ticking  time bombs,  even without a diagnosis.  So the best thing to do is ignore the fear.

I’m being treated now which is good and I’m back home which is even better,  I’m still waiting for my blood to stay within the therapeutic range to treat my condition and for me to feel better and eventually return to work.

I bought myself a new keyboard for my tablet because I miss the feel of being able to touch type,  so I’m  hoping to write more.

Eating fish just once a week can protect you from developing Alzheimer’s

Here fishy fishy

Names of Shame. The Six Rulers with History’s Worst Epithets

The Social Historian

Image John-George I of Saxony. Mine’s a Pint.

Everyone loves a good epithet. Charles the ‘Great’, Sven ‘Forkbeard’, Eric the, er, ‘Memorable’.

But namecalling, it turns out, is really not cool and can be very mean. So spare a thought for these six men: the Johnny-two-straps of History’s great playground.

James the Shit (King of England, Ireland and Scotland, 1685-88).

Poor James II was probably England’s most rubbish King, ever. In 1685 he inherited a state that was peaceful, prosperous, and financially secure. And yet he managed to mess it all up faster than you can say ‘David Moyes’. Never one to miss the opportunity for a strop, he chucked the Great Seal into the Thames and legged it to Ireland where he made some lovely new allies, before promptly deserting them. They showed their feelings about this through the medium of wit, and dubbed him for posterity as Seamus…

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Unable to sleep

So I’m laying here on my bed unable to sleep. I really hate nights like this where my brain is unable to stop working. It doesn’t matter if I listen to random noise, some ambient sounds to bore myself into a state of sleep. Its just not working tonight.

I turn off the sounds from my headphones and for a second I think I’m able to relax and the silence should somehow wrap itself around me and pull me into its blissful embrace.

Instead of sleep my active mind conjures up images to the sounds I’ve just put to bed. Brass bells and shiny materials wink into and out of existence, and the more I try and stop thinking about them the more my subconscious brings them into the realm of my conscious.
Geometric shapes dance and spin and morph into other patterns in a colourful display of light just behind my eyelids. No matter what I do to will them away from existence they won’t stop forming in my vision.

I want to quieten down the mind, I lay here with my arms still at my sides like in a meditative state, but I just can’t relax. The mind is racing, it wants to move it wants to solve some sort of impossible puzzle.

I get up and start writing, perhaps if I write I might finally give the mind what it so desperately needs. Perhaps after it has time to do some task, to solve some sort of construction, some kind of edifice, perhaps then can it be calm enough to let me be, to give me some space so that I can have some sleep.

As it stands I don’t think I’ll be going into work today. Hah, the menial job that I enjoy so much, said with a bucketful of sarcasm. I don’t think three hours will be enough sleep to do a full day of grafting and my incentives to do the job in its entirety have become non incentives of late. I might reserve a little blog space for those little bitter berries at a later date.

For now I will comfort eat, drink coffee and try and sleep. I may not even phone in first thing, it depends if I’m awake…how rebellious am I.

You never even asked us part 2

I can’t believe it…

If you’ve read part one I mentioned a while back about an Agenda21 project which has recently started in my local town, right outside my house in fact…

In part one I explained that local residents received a rather disingenuous letter from the council which had very little in way of informative information regarding the cutting down of all the folliage and trees, and the reasons thereof.

The explanation given by the council by letter was that it was essential work needed so that the area out the back of us would not flood like it did in 2007.


(In 2007 it flooded because of poor maintenance not anything to do with the local countryside, they could of cleared it by not even cutting down a single tree before it flooded, not unless they wanted it to flood?)

I didn’t and still don’t understand the logic of cutting down trees in the prevention of flooding…

As it turns out the letter they sent out to us is not entirely the whole picture…

  Further up the hill from us there are plans to build a new housing estate and as more houses are being put up in that area the more waste water needs to be shunted downstream (apparently), I was informed by another resident (who now has a rodent problem in her house because of this tree clearing activity) that the area being cleared down hill (right ouside my house) is so the council can build a lagoon in the space that they’ve just cleared, because of the extra water run off by building upstream will create…

Or so they say.

If you are one to believe in the conspiracies surrounding the Agenda21 projects across the planet, you might very well believe that the powers that be want to force residents out of thier homes by devaluing the land so that prices fall and the oil industry can move in and set about buying up land and drilling wells.

You might think this is a ridiculous notion, but it has been already estimated by certain government agencies that the UK would need up to 465,000 small wells built to meet energy demands in the future.

Not only did they clear the land out the back of our house without really consulting the local residents other than an formal letter which doesn’t even mention a pissing lagoon, but they have not followed it up with a consultation with the local residents, or even a follow up letter.

What about our permission as taxpayers and people who live in the area, what about our views. Obviously our opinions don’t matter a shit.


I’m not suggesting that they didn’t make the plans public by putting them in the towns official administrative buildings. They do that as a matter of law,  but to mislead the local residents (who are obviously going to protest or not) by writing a letter which is confusing and doesnt tell the whole picture is quite frankly beyond.

Either way if they did inform the residents and I’ve been misled or the letter about a lagoon had escaped my inbox, its still fucking disgraceful.

They must think we’re all stupid.

UKRAINE: Analyse it objectively, and you will smell the fomenting of false flags.

The Slog.

ukraineballThe crisis in Ukraine: World Cup needle-match or boring friendly?


With the Arab States playing synchronised Ambassador withdrawal against Qatar, once again one is left wondering exactly what sort of World Cup tournament is going to be possible given the increasingly Islamist slant of the Government, the 45 degree temperatures, and the possibility of everyone boycotting everyone else. The assumption underlying even that, of course, is that there’ll be a world of which to be champion by then. Last night, England scraped a late goal 1-0 win over very poor Danish opposition, in a match so tediously coached on both sides I turned it off after half an hour. Our plucky boys in white have now scored just the one goal in their last three home matches. We simply aren’t good enough, thanks to Rupert Murdoch – the Undead One…

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