by SARAH HILARY
Black and yellow police-tape switching in the breeze makes a snicking sound, twitchy. Forensics are waiting for the word, Tyvek suits bloated by the brisk wind blowing in. The smell of rust and silage is coming off the water. Everything smells rotten. On this side of the tape lies sanity, order, a hard-jawed resolve against despair. Brushed steel boxes, sterile and empty. The other side of the tape is chaos, a car boot sale of human remains. It’s your job to cross the line, deal with inquisitive bystanders, ‘Nothing to see here,’ and look into the abyss. Fill the boxes.
