This is a poem taken from the film "The Not Dead" about post traumatic stress disorder. And it was written for a young soldier called Rob, who'd joined the British Army, I think when he was 19, and been called up almost straight away to the first phase of the Gulf War and went off to Baghdad and told us that he'd been in a firefight with some looters and had ended up killing somebody. And he went on to say that in the time afterwards when he was out on patrol, he'd had to walk across what he described as this man's blood shadow. So the man who he'd shot had bled out on the pavement and left the outlining impression of his body on the pavement. And this was an image that Robert really struggled to come to terms with when he'd come home. It was there in his head all the time. He also told us that when he'd pulled the trigger, he thought he'd seen the round, the bullet pass through this man's body, and he'd seen daylight through the exit wound on the other side. I'm not sure that that can be true, but it was true for him, and it was just something else that he was struggling to deal with. Poem's very chatty and colloquial and vernacular. And it's because I wanted it to sound authentic. I wanted it to sound like Rob speaking. I made the poem out of Rob's words, and then he read the poem in the film to the camera. So I wanted it to be accurate. So I listened to him talking and I picked up on his verbal mannerisms and his speech patterns. And I dropped some of his phrases directly into the poem. The poem's called "Remains," and that's just a straightforward play on words, the remains of the body on the pavement as I've just described them and then what remained of those remains in Rob's head once he'd come home. "Remains." On another occasion, we get sent out to tackle looters raiding a bank, and one of them legs it up the road, probably armed, possibly not. Well, myself and somebody else and somebody else are all of the same mind. So all three of us open fire, three of a kind, all letting fly. And I swear I see every round as it rips through his life. I see broad daylight on the other side. So we've hit this looter a dozen times and he's there on the ground, sort of inside out. Pain itself, the image of agony. One of my mates goes by and tosses his guts back into his body and he's carted off in the back of a lorry. End of story, except not really. His blood shadow stays on the street and out on patrol I walk right over it week after week. Then I'm home on leave, but I blink and he bursts again through the doors of the bank. Sleep, and he's probably armed, possibly not. Dream, and he's torn apart by a dozen rounds. And the drink and the drugs won't flush him out. He's here in my head when I close my eyes dug in behind enemy lines, not left for dead in some distant sun stunned, sand smothered land, or six feet under in desert sand, but near to the knuckle here and now, his bloody life in my bloody hands.