He lay on the straw pallet shivering in the pre-dawn which so far gave just the promise of another hot summer's day. Turning over he succeeded in going back to sleep for a few minutes. In his dream he was being stared down by a giant turnip. Waking again to the cold hard floor and desolate silence. The rising sunlight filtered through the bars. Rustles and squeaks the only sounds in the empty air. He had never been in a place so devoid of the comforts of civilisation.

He had to stand to get the circulation going. A few minutes of jumping up and down and running on the spot made him feel a little warmer but he stopped as he was ragingly hungry. And needed the toilet. He inspected the corners of the room hoping to find a bucket like in Kylie's house or even just a bowl but there was nothing, only a rudimentary gutter leading to a small hole in the corner of the room. He sat down on the straw feeling helpless.

In his mind he reviewed the events of the previous day. It was clear he was caught up in something quite bizarre but whether a realistic dream or actual transformation was still difficult to know. The cold and the hunger and the stink of the prison seemed convincing. He wondered what would be the best way out. Remembering the couple at the top of the hill he thought perhaps they could tell him how to escape, if he could ever find his way back to them. But the only person who might be able to help him at the moment seemed to be Mister Perthwick and he was not in the slightest friendly. He paced up and down the cell.

As the light grew a few birds started twittering and he gazed through the bars over the city. The buildings mostly small, the largest three storeys, apart from the umpteen churches dominating the skyline, and the great castle in which he occupied a tiny corner. A few people about, driving carts, sweeping their yards. A group of labourers chattering as they made their way to a building site near the river. The smaller of the city's twin rivers, which should really be covered over. Ships starting to come to life in anticipation of next tide. Occasional shouting and banging as work got under way. And the light breeze bringing human smells with the clean and unpolluted outside air.

On the other side of the room there was nothing worth looking at. The door was solid, with metal bars which he could stick his hand through but to no purpose. No sign of life in the corridor and he was a little afraid who might be the occupants of the other cells. Sitting on the floor he tried to ignore the feelings in his body. Finding a scrap of paper in his pocket from the previous day he took out the biro he had taken from the bank, feeling both lucky and strangely guilty about the theft. He started to write to Diana.

I don't know where I am or how I got here but it doesn't seem very friendly. Are they all acting or testing me in some way? Maybe it's the last judgement. Maybe I died yesterday. I wish you were here to help me. But then you'd be caught up in it all as well. And to make it all worse I'm wearing the present you gave me for my birthday, it’s all I have. Terribly out of place and an oven when it gets hot. And I've got some kind of rice or something all down inside from yesterday. That was when I was hiding from the police. The witch put a spell on me so that they couldn't find me. I'm sorry, it all sounds terribly confusing. I'd start again but this is the only piece of paper I have. There's no one to ask for any more but later I'll copy it up neat.

I need the toilet so bad if someone doesn't come soon I'll have to go on a bundle of straw and throw it out the window. Hope it hits someone on the head. Must be only five o'clock. Could be hours yet. And it's freezing. It's meant to be the middle of summer. It was hot enough yesterday except when I came through that strange cold bit. Maybe that's when I died. Maybe I hit a car or something. I don't seem very dead. I mean if this is my immortal soul why does it need to go to the toilet? And I'm so hungry. More likely I got caught up in some supernatural event. Those two witches at the top of the hill could have something to do with it. When I get out of here I'll go back to them and get them to send me back. Even if I have to give them my bike and change the course of history. But they seem to have enough cars and tin cans and goodness knows what here and they haven't got a clue what to do with it all. It'd be worth anything to get back. They all smell like rotting horses.

Simon felt a tightening in his bowels and desperately searched the room one more time. He went to the door but there was no one to be seen. He looked at the straw and decided to wait a few minutes. He returned to the letter.

Anyway I'm running out of space. I wish I could see you or speak to you. I didn't realise how much I could miss you. I'll

He cursed as the pen ran out. Folding the paper into his pocket he chucked the pen out the window. Hoisting himself up onto the ledge using the window bars he undid the front of his trousers and sent a powerful jet into the morning air, hoping in his heart that Mister Perthwick would be underneath.

That solved part of his problem, and for the second half he gathered a small bundle of straw into the corner of the room and undid his trousers. Soon a warm brown package lay steaming on the floor. For once he was grateful for the constant draught from the window. Not so keen on picking it up to throw out but maybe if it smelt too bad.

He went back to his sleeping space to gather more straw. As he returned he noticed a pair of whiskers twitching through the hole in the corner of the room. A huge greyish brown shape darted out and started nibbling at the pile on the floor. He jumped back. Before long two of its fellows had joined in and they squeaked at each other as they fought over their tasty breakfast. Simon retreated queasily to the far corner of the room.

A baby, no more than three inches long, stood at the back of the throng, desperately trying to get in on the action. All its efforts were in vain. Simon searched for something to give it. "Sorry, little one," he muttered. "I'm just as hungry as you." But then he found some grains of millet from the day before, which had found their way into his underwear. "Here boy," he called. The little rat sniffed suspiciously and then downed the two or three grains. Simon took off his belt and held it out for the rat to gnaw the leather end.

"I'm going to call you Rufus," said Simon, " as your fur's a little redder than the others." He allowed the animal to swing from the end of the belt. He looked down at the leather, which was looking to start disintegrating under the influence of the animal's teeth.

"Hey, Rufus. You like that don't you."

A noise at the door. A key turning and a man walked in. Behind him was Mister Perthwick. The man came up to Simon and pulled him up by his hair. The rat still clinging to the end of the belt.

"Who's Rufus?" demanded Mister Perthwick.

"He's only a rat. Just amusing myself. It's not a crime is it."

Mister Perthwick, Simon saw, was carrying a crop by his side. He flicked it expertly at the little creature whose body fell instantly to the floor. Walking over he kicked it into the corner of the room, its tail poking into the hole from which it had emerged earlier. Simon was impressed and slightly fearful.

"That's your nasty little familiar done away with. Wonder which teat you feed it from. We'll find out soon enough. Take him, Hector."

"Okay, okay. No need to be like that. I'm not going to run anywhere am I?"

The jailer said nothing. Half pushing, half pulling Simon through the cell door and out into the passage. He stumbled, adjusting his belt as best he could. The inmate of the opposite cell called out to him.

"Say you prayer, Master Witch. They break you down soon or late. I know. I see plenty come in seventeen year." The jailer smacked the edge of his fist against the bars and the man leapt away.

They came to an open door leading into a much larger cell. Inside a man was sitting at a table. Dressed in religious clothes. Holding his nose high in the air. Simon took an instant dislike to him. Mister Perthwick grunted for breath and used his hands to support the lump in his belly as he sat himself on a second chair at the same table. Hector stood in the corner behind Simon who was made to stand attention in front of the table, about three feet from the rear wall.

Still sleepy his eyes took a view of their surroundings. The jailer, from what he could see by twisting his head a little, was a well-built man with straggling locks of shoulder-length black and grey hair surrounding a bald crown. He wore rough clothes and had only one front tooth left. His odour assaulted the damp atmosphere. Simon felt conspicuous in his jeans and Sister Head T-shirt. The table at which Mister Perthwick and his colleague sat looked solid and heavy and on it were placed a number of instruments which could have come straight out of the torture room at Warwick Castle. Behind the interrogators was the only adornment in the room, a picture of Christ on the cross, inscribed at the bottom with the single word Voles.

"Voles?" asked Simon incredulously. "I can't see any."

"Not voles you idiot," said Mister Perthwick. "Voles. It's Latin. Of course. It means you wish."

"I'm not sure I'd wish to be hung on a cross," said Simon.

"You will, amice. You will."

Simon looked across at Hector, who has begun to stoke a brazier. The orange glow brought light and warmth to the room and Simon remembered how cold he was.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Nice to have a bit of heat in here," he said sarcastically. "I could sue you, you know, if I went ill through these awful conditions. And you've got fleas in the straw. Not to mention the rats. Not really very civilised is it?"

"The purpose of your being here is to demonstrate the instruments of persuasion. This man is The Reverend Palsey, who deputises for the bishop. He will ensure your interrogation is speedily and skilfully executed."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Palsey. My family are on good terms with the bishop. As I'm sure you know." Simon held out his hand.

The Reverend Palsey raised his nose slightly higher in the air and looked through Simon. He muttered something Simon did not understand.

Mister Perthwick picked an object off the table. "Do you recognise this instrument?"

Simon took hold of it and gave it a good examination. "It looks like thumbscrews." He fitted one half of the mechanism carefully to his right thumb. Tightening it a little he investigated the mechanism with considerable curiosity. "Blimey, these must be ancient. They're so rusty. You'd better be careful, you could get septicaemia if you went too far with them."

"We'll go as far as turns out to be necessary. And perhaps a bit further if we don't like you."

"Not without gloves you're not. Health and Safety you know."

Mister Perthwick sighed. He lifted a small knife from the table and standing up as far as he could slashed it upwards in front of Simon's face. Simon flinched.

"Careful, you. You nearly slit my nose in half then."

"Don't tempt me. Hector, the irons."

The jailer extracted a long piece of fiercely glowing metal from the brazier. He pointed it at Simon's chest. Simon backed against the wall.

"Take off your clothes," ordered Mister Perthwick.

"What? All of them?"

"Do it."

"I can't do much with him standing there can I?"

Hector moved back the smallest fraction. Simon undid his shoes. He looked up at the two men and then glanced again at the threatening iron bar. He removed his socks, threw his T-shirt on the floor and started to undo his trousers.

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

Mister Perthwick came over to Simon and pointed closely at his trousers. "That."

"What, it's a zip. Don't tell me you haven't seen one of them before. What planet do you come from?"

He slipped his trousers down and stood in his boxers. Marked in capital letters with the branding VISCOUNT CLOTHING.

"What on earth is that? Are you a French noble?" asked Mister Perthwick. The Reverend Palsey lifted his nose even higher in the air and seemed to look through the very walls of the building.

"It's my underwear," said Simon innocently. "My girlfriend bought it for me. And the trousers. She thought it would be good for my birthday, you know, the way girls do."

"Marks of the Devil," Mister Perthwick advised the Reverend. "He may also be connected with the cult of Ganymede." He turned back to Simon.

"So a girl makes you take your clothes off for her? We will have another of the coven in no time. What is her name, Master Witch?"

"Diana. She lives in Yate Gate. Is this about her? OK, she's a Chadwick. But it's none of your business and I don't believe in the curse of the thirteenth."

"Diana?" The men looked at each other knowingly. "Yate Gate Farm? I know it. It's near Breadbourne. And you have relations with her."

"Relations? No, well, she's just a friend of my cousin's."

"You know perfectly well, do you have knowledge of her body? Carnal relations."

"What, sex? Well, yes, of course. We have been going out for six months."

"So. Adulterer as well as witch. Excellent. And nice to see you take the threat of our methods of persuasion seriously. We'll soon have the whole truth of this hideous affair out of you." Turning to the Reverend he muttered something about abomination. "The trial will be a formality. We'll get all this over with in a couple of days. We'll have some men round there to arrest her this very morning. This could prove a profitable hunt."

"Er, well, yes, well... Do you want me to take it off?"

"Of course."

Simon stood naked in front of the investigators. Hector waved the rod menacingly, though by now it had reduced to the barest ruddy glow.

"Careful where you're poking that. It's making me feel a bit vulnerable you know."

The jailer said nothing.

"Hey, what's wrong with this guy? Hasn't he got a tongue in his head or something?"

Hector opened his mouth to reveal a wagging stump behind the tooth. As he did so the metal pole grazed against Simon's ribs. He jerked away shouting in alarm.

"Jeez, that thing's hot! You shouldn't be letting him carry on like that. I want to see my solicitor."

Mister Perthwick sighed. The Reverend Palsey started incanting through his nose.

"Magnus dolor est membrum nostrum gens ad flammis committare ut sui spirit aeternalis salvare. Recantatisne?" He looked at Simon inquisitively.

"Qua?"

"Recantatisne?"

"Are you talking Latin or something?"

Mister Perthwick looked at Simon pitifully. "You are an educated man, Master Witch. Don't pretend. We will give you the night to think it over. You return here tomorrow morning. Should you refuse to recant and name your other accomplices we shall use all the methods in our armoury to persuade you. The purpose is not so much to identify the remaining witches, they will show themselves up soon enough by their own deeds. The purpose is to redeem your immortal soul through confession. Consider it a kindness on our part that we are willing to go to so much trouble to bring you to salvation and if necessary feed you to the flames and purge your wickedness. Think it over, Witch. It will be good to have something to show His Highness when he comes for his visit in a week’s time. We shall be ready for you again tomorrow morning."

Simon looked hard at the Reverend. Something was tugging at his mind. The man said hardly anything but had immense power. Yet he was clearly frightened of something and Mister Perthwick could not see. Like there was some spell on him. Simon remembered the couple at top of the hill. Then like a lucid dream it all clicked into place.

"You're one of us aren't you." he said quietly. Mister Perthwick was across the room setting the door in place to take Simon back to his cell. "You survive by getting rid of anyone who could damage you."

But that was all he had time to say. He just managed to grab his clothes and shoes before Hector hustled him out the door. Sitting in his cell he nursed his cold feet and wondered who on earth might help him to get back to sanity.