is prison was 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 door-sill, 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!”