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Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details. TRAPPED! by Paul Main. His prison was a small, smelly and very dark. He hated it, and at the top of his voice he begged someone to come and let him out. He shouted and yelled all day, but no one heard him. He howled and cried all night, but no one heeded. The next day it rained, at first, he licked thirstily at the water oozing under the door, but the puddle rapidly spread until it covered the floor. His frantic efforts to escape churned it into a thick, soupy mud, which filled his eyes and ears and plastered itself all over his starving body. He dug at the floor under the doorsill, biting at the wood in desperation, and the thick mess filled his mouth and made him choke and retch. His pleas that night were hoarse and despairing as the cold night filled the sky outside, he gave up. Sprawled in the mud, he pressed his face against the door and closed his clouded eyes. The weary day wore on, and the breath lifting his little chest became ever more faint. An occasional shudder shook him. Remorselessly, quietly death drew near. The old tramp paced angrily on the counter of the police station. "I tell you, there is someone in there," he insisted "I heard them the night before last, it made my blood run cold." The policeman leaned towards him, suddenly realised why the old tramp was called Mucky Mick, and hastily stepped back. "I tell you I personally checked the place after we ejected those squatters last week. There's no one there!" "Well, will you come with me and have another look? Just to make sure." Pleaded the old man. "As a matter of fact, one of my officers is in that area now. I'll call him up and get him to meet you there." Mick hurried away, talking to himself about the people who thought they knew it all, just because they wore a uniform. The policeman sprayed air-freshener around the office, muttering to himself about 'dirty old men who hear strange noises when drunk'. Police constable Westbrook pushed at the front door and stepped in the derelict house, screwing his face in disgust. The squatters had gone, but they had left filth behind them. He peered into each echoing room, but found nothing. "What's out the back?" he asked Mick. "You've slept here a few times, so don't pretend you don't know." "There's the shed," Mick replied, "might as well check the backyard he said, and emerged thankfully into the fresh air. The shed door was hauled open and Mick peered inside. "Noting in here," he announced, "except a lot of mud on the --- Oh, my God!" he stopped in dismay and gasped. "Poor little bleeder! Must have been here for days, too late now it's dead as a dodo". The PC pushed him aside and looked into the shed. He winced at the prostrate corpse. "The squatters must have left him behind," said the PC. Mick scratched his head in amazement. "Never have thought such a little runt could have made all that noise." "There's a pile of old newspapers in the kitchen, Mick fetch me a few, there's a good chap. I can at least see that he gets a decent burial." He spread the papers on the ground, gingerly picked up the dirty little body, and almost dropped it when a small eye suddenly opened, regarding him fixedly, and a long stringy tail began to twitch frantically. As he left the house, a small newspaper wrapped bundle tucked carefully under his arm, PC Westbrook felt unmanly tears prick his eyelids as the puppy trying to lick his rescuer's hand with a cracked and dirty tongue, croaked his incoherent thanks. The End
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