“Of course,” I said. “You’ve got lots of important work to do.”
There was the sound of a key being placed in a lock, and a click as a bolt was pulled back. In a flash, I rolled across to the door just as it opened to reveal a tall, stocky shadow.
“Wait a minute,” said the shadow. “I don’t see no cake in here.”
Then he took a step into the cell. His feet caught on my prostrate body and he went sprawling to the ground.
With a cry, Peter launched himself into the air, coming down with a thud on top of the shadowy figure’s back. The figure let out a yell and began to twist and flail, nearly sending Peter flying. But the old man was just able to hang on, balancing precariously atop the heaving, tossing mass like a wizened surfer atop a particularly treacherous wave.
“Quickly, Jimmy,” he called. “Get the leg off.”
I twisted around so that I was lying on the floor facing away from the man on the ground. Then I reached backwards with my hands and grabbed at the nearest leg. It was a normal leg, no different from mine, apart from the fact that it was probably three times as thick. I rolled around the thrashing figure and reached for the other leg. I stretched my hands back as far as I could, desperately hoping my fingers would touch cold, hard wood, and trying not to remind myself how ridiculous this plan really was.
My fingers found the leg. It was cold and hard and definitely woody. I grasped the leg firmly and gave it a twist. The guard howled in pain and began to writhe even harder, rocking Peter like a wild bull in a rodeo.
“Hurry up!” he cried.
“The leg isn’t coming off,” I cried back. “I can’t unscrew it.”
“Right-hand thread!” Peter screamed. “Right-hand thread!”
I turned the leg the other way, and suddenly it gave. I kept on turning until finally the leg came out of the man’s trousers and fell with a rattle onto the ground. I rolled towards it, but immediately found another problem. With my hands tied behind my back, I could pick up the leg but that was about it.
“How am I going to hit him with the leg? I can barely move my hands.”
“Your feet,” Peter yelled, his voice quavering from the strain of staying atop the bucking figure. “Grab it in your feet.”
I dropped the leg, twisted around, and picked it up between my feet. Then I slithered along the floor like a seasick caterpillar until I was lying adjacent to the man’s head.
“Quickly,” Peter cried. “I can’t stay on much longer.”
I raised my legs and then lowered them again, bringing the wooden leg down upon the guard’s head with all the force I could muster. Straightaway, his movements ceased. Peter rolled back onto the ground and lay there panting.
“The knife,” he said. “Shake the leg and the knife should fall out.”
I raised my legs again, holding the wooden leg up above the ground and shaking it for all I was worth, but nothing came out of it.
“You’re holding it the wrong way,” Peter said. “Give it to me.” He lifted his feet up and somehow I managed to pass the wooden leg across to him. He deftly flicked it over, and a small knife fell to the ground with a clang.
Peter dropped the leg and rolled towards the knife. He picked it up in his hands and rolled back to me. We both twisted around so that we were lying back to back, and he cut the ropes at my wrist. I took the knife from him and cut the ropes at my ankles. Then I cut the ropes on Peter’s wrists and ankles, and we both stood up, unbound at last.
The guard was still lying on the ground with the keys in his hand, completely oblivious to everything around him. I grabbed the keys, and then Peter and I walked out of the cell and into a dark tunnel, closing and locking the cell door behind us. We were free.
“Do you have any idea where we are?” I said to Peter as we made our way along the tunnel.
“Nowhere in Heaven I’ve ever been before.”
We continued walking. It was damp and musty. Water dripped down on us from the ceiling and cobwebs brushed our faces.
“What made you think of that plan?” I said. “The wooden leg, the right-hand thread. How did you come up with all those details?”
“Simple,” said Peter. “It’s how the detective escapes in the book I’m writing.”
“So what happens next?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You’re the one who wrote it.”
“Yes, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“Well I guess I can take it from here. Our next plan should be to find a way out.” I paused for a moment, listening intently. “Before someone else finds us.”
Peter stopped too. We could both hear it now. The sound of footsteps, ahead of us and approaching quickly. We turned and hurried back the way we had come, eventually finding a small alcove in the wall. We squeezed in and waited as the footsteps grew louder. Then, out of the shadows, a figure emerged. Short and skinny, he appeared as threatening as an anorexic kitten.
“I’ll deal with him,” I whispered. “You wait here.”
I jumped out of our hiding spot and lunged at the little man. I grabbed him around the neck, aiming to drag him down and pin him to the ground. It all worked perfectly—except for the one minor detail that when the dragging and pinning was complete, I was the one being held to the ground. For a puny little figure, this guy was amazingly strong.
“Are you dealing with him?” Peter called.
“Maybe I could use a little assistance,” I yelled back as my head was slammed into the floor.
Peter came charging out, huffing and puffing like a weatherworn locomotive. At full tilt, he barreled into the side of my tormentor. The overly-muscled midget was barely knocked off balance, but it was just enough for me to tear myself away from his grasp. Though his hands reached for me, he only succeeded in ripping a long scratch on my arm with his fingernails. Then Peter and I were gone, scurrying away along the tunnel.
Almost at once, we heard the midget’s footsteps in pursuit. He was as surprisingly quick as he was surprisingly strong, and the footsteps gained rapidly. Luckily, not far along the tunnel, we found another hollow in the wall. Right in the nick of time, we darted into the tiny space as the little man raced past the opening.
“Looks like we’ve given him the slip,” whispered Peter.
“Yes, but for how long? We can’t play cat and mouse in these tunnels forever. We need some sort of weapon to fight him.”
“What about the knife?”
“The knife?” I plunged my hands into my pockets, but all I could find were the keys I’d taken from the guard. “I thought you had it.”
“I gave it to you.”
“I must have put it down when I picked up the keys. Damn, we’ll have to improvise. Do you have anything in your pockets?”
Peter reached into the pockets of his robe.
“Not much,” he said, holding up the spoils—an old pen and a packet of chewing gum.
“Give them to me,”
He handed them over. I unscrewed the pen and removed the ink cartridge. Then I took a stick of gum and put it in my mouth. I chewed until the gum was soft and sticky, and pulled the small wad out of my mouth.
“Weapon,” I said holding up the empty pen in one hand. “Ammunition,” I added, holding the soggy piece of gum in the other. I handed the packet of gum back to Peter. “I’ll be the gunman. You keep me supplied with ammo.”
Peter immediately pulled out a stick, placed it in his mouth, and began to chew. I loaded up the pen with the piece of gum I was holding and waited. It didn’t take long for our pursuer to realise he’d been sidetracked, and we soon heard his footsteps returning. When I figured he was in range, I placed the pen to my lips, poked my head out of our little nook, and blew.
I miscalculated. He was much further away than I’d hoped, and the gum fell harmlessly to the ground at his feet. Now aware of our presence, he flattened himself against the side of the tunnel.