One Dead Witness

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Trent knew they were coming long before they arrived.

He could smell it in the air — sense the unnatural quietness, the electric tension which pervaded the prison.

They were coming for him. Again.

Suddenly it was very hot.

His throat became dry and he swallowed with some difficulty. A bead of sweat scuttled down his temple like some sort of insect, leaving a glistening silvery trail in its wake. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, willing himself to have the courage to face up to what was about to happen.

He was laid out full-length on the lower bunk in his cell, alone, his head propped up on the iron-hard pillows. He had been reading one of his well-thumbed, tatty magazines called 13-Plus, aimed at young teenage girls. When he felt the atmosphere change, and his spine tingled in response, he closed it, tossed it to one side and let it flutter to the floor.

He lay there for several minutes, eyes staring upwards at the empty bunk above him.

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