1. Enter Corpse

'When a series of killings occurred within Bombarn, police arrested Benz although there was no proof that he was the killer but due to his previous dangerous criminal history police acquiesced him. As public protested against this, government decided to delay the hanging of Benz. But somehow this news was leaked and public went wild. As situation was getting worse, the government decided to encounter Benz secretly. So, on 3rd March 2234, he was encountered. And as soon as he was killed, killings also stopped and Bombarn returned to its busy tracks of light speed trains.' Ryan read an article from an 10 years old magazine, as soon as he stopped, the door of his chamber opened, 'May I come in?' a rough but elegant voice broke in. 'Yeah, please come in!' Ryan said it with a bright smile. A old man entered with a sigh of relief. On one arm, his umbrella dangled and on the other hand, he held a folded handbag. His hair was very unusual. It is very long and lush with a salt and pepper tint. He must read until late at night because he has crow's feet under his eyes. He has a clipped, Abe Lincoln beard. I reckon he must be in his seventies because his face is time chiselled and weather beaten. He seems a bit spiritless, as if life and old age are getting the better of him. The clothes he wore are ragged and threadbare also, as if he is giving in to the passage of time and is unconcerned about his appearance. 'Outside this building I saw a colossal board which read "Ryan Detective Agency" so I thought might get some help from here' Ryan was shocked by his words and asked him how can he help him. The man started 'It was an overcast day,

the cold wind coming in hard from the north. My son and I were setting off in pursuit of mackerel and sea bass from the local marina. As we slipped away from the pontoon, a couple looking down from the walkway indicated something odd-looking below them. It hung in the water between a couple of moored boats. Could we take a look?

We inched across. It looked at first, just like a mop. Then the mop grew a neck, a leather jacket, and deeper in the water what looked like a pair of jeans. By now, we were nudging the mop. I was in the bow, peering down. The guy's face beneath the curly black hair was clearly visible. Rigor mortis had frozen his body in the foetal position. He looked young. His hands were clenched. His knees were drawn up. He looked reflective, thoughtful, as if he might have been praying.

We inched across. It looked at first, just like a mop. Then the mop grew a neck, a leather jacket, and deeper in the water what looked like a pair of jeans. By now, we were nudging the mop. I was in the bow, peering down. The guy's face beneath the curly black hair was clearly visible. Rigor mortis had frozen his body in the foetal position. He looked young. His hands were clenched. His knees were drawn up. He looked reflective, thoughtful, as if he might have been praying. We signalled to the couple above to call the police. They were there within 10 minutes. What followed was a live performance of the minutely choreographed piece of theatre I must have written a thousand times. The potential crime scene cleared and sealed. Inner cordon. Outer cordon (with a pause to find more tape). Then later, a discussion on how to best recover the body, and a call put in to the Coastguard. The town's inshore lifeboat appeared. The dead man was lifted from the water and zipped into a body bag. Then he was gone, leaving the uniforms to await the arrival of CID. I knew what awaited down the investigative path. I knew about CCTV, about door-to-door inquiries around the properties overlooking the marina. I understood the need to give this man a name and a back story. I knew about the importance of establishing a timeline and some indication of the circumstances of his death. I could even, if I'd chosen to, have imagined the pathologist bent over the naked body at the postmortem, looking for any indications of violence.

In the weeks that followed, I tried to follow the progress of inquiries. As you might imagine, I have friends in the police force and they kept me posted. The lad had been partying at one of the town's nightclubs. He left in the early hours. Under the cold eye of the CCTV cameras, he made his way to the seafront. The tide was high. For whatever reason, he decided to go for a swim. A jump cut to another camera found him in the marina. And there the story appears to have come to an end.

No evidence of violence. No other players in this small, sad spasm of provincial drama. Nothing, in short, for the crime novelist except that moment of stillness, of profound shock, when I looked down from my son's boat and realised what lay beneath me .

Even now, I can't stop thinking about his body in the water. How still he was, and how oddly at peace. Writing crime fiction often compels a completely different take on sudden death. We tell ourselves that people don't want to read about bodies like these, a pale comma suspended in the murk of the dock, a life so suddenly snuffed out. They want something infinitely more shocking. They want something that belongs in a cinema or a video game. Not this.

His eyes were still open. What were his last memories? What was the last thing he'd seen before circumstances stole him away? To these questions I have no answer. Except that death feels suddenly very real and very close. Which is, in itself, deeply shocking.

My son, as it happens, has just had his second child. A couple of months back, I saw the latest scans. The young foetus hung in the sac of amniotic fluid, knees drawn up, tiny hands bunched. Just like the lad in the marina. We end the way we arrive. In mute expectation of what may happen next.