Bentwhistle the Dragon in A Threat from the Past

by Paul Cude

  * * *

  The tailgate handle of the van squeaked as it turned. Terror raced fear up Peter's spine to see which one would win. The doors whooshed open, letting in a different kind of darkness to the one that Peter had experienced in the last few hours.

  "Ahhhh... look, he's cuddled up like a little fluffy bunny," claimed a voice sarcastically, as the light of a torch played across Peter's face.

  Out of the darkness two pairs of hands appeared and began pulling the metal nets attached to the cocoon towards the back doors of the van.

  "Sorry fluffy," mocked the sarcastic voice once again as Peter clumsily slid towards it, "but we can't have you missing the big show. Boss's orders I'm afraid."

  Wrapped up in the cocoon, slowly sliding towards the open door at the back of the van and goodness knows what kind of fate, he made one last concerted effort to free his hands from the restraints. To his utter astonishment, it worked. His hands were free, without anyone else realising it. More confident now that he was unshackled, he decided to bide his time and wait for the right opportunity to present itself. Things were looking up.

  The last part of his exit from the van was particularly unpleasant. Two large pairs of hands gave a huge yank on the netting, speeding him up, and as he reached the tailgate an enormous fist caught him fully in the middle of his stomach, knocking the wind straight out of him, before he was unceremoniously dumped on the freezing ground. Trying to adjust his eyes to the new environment, all he could tell at the moment was that he was somewhere outside, as the sound of the cocoon that had sheltered him being ripped open assaulted his frozen ears. He wriggled around, acting as frightened as he could, so that no one would realise his hands were free.

  'The longer no one suspects,' he thought, 'the more time it buys me to find the right opportunity.'

  As he was pulled free from the last shredded fragments of the patchwork of coats, a large hand grabbed his shoulder and sent him tumbling towards the floor, face first. Midway through his fall, he managed to spectacularly roll around, landing on his back, concealing the fact that his hands were no longer bound. Landing with a huge bump, his hands took the brunt of the impact. Pain scampered up both his arms, causing him to let out a little squeal, much to his captors’ delight. However, it wasn't the pain up his arms that caused him the most concern. It was the fact that the skin on the back of both his hands had been burnt off quite badly as he'd landed. He recognised the sensation immediately; after all, he'd been experiencing it for nearly two whole years now on a regular basis. He was on an Astroturf pitch!

  'What the hell is going on?' he wondered, through the pain and the cold biting at his body.

  He wouldn't have to wait very long to find out.