‘Tough,’ replied Little Red Riding Hood with a grin, and as she advanced towards him, she produced from the pocket of her dainty scarlet cape a pair of handcuffs and a nasty-looking hypodermic. ‘That’s the way it goes, buster. And you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing it’s all in aid of medical research.’

‘Uh?’ Fang goggled at her. ‘What are you drivelling about?’

‘Medical research,’ the girl replied, making a grab for his arm that he only just managed to avoid. ‘The nasty old authorities banned us from using frogs for our—’ (horrible grin) ‘—experiments. But we found a way of getting round that, as you can see. Just turn the frog into a cute boy, the cute boy gives his consent to the experimental treatment programme, and Bob’s your uncle. Now if you’ll just hold still…’

A last tiny drop of adrenaline flopped from his pineal gland and gave Fang the little spurt of energy he needed to dive between the girl’s legs and bolt for the door. ‘Spoilsport!’ she screamed after him; then she threw the handcuffs, which hit him behind the ear and raised a nasty bump. Fortunately, he still had enough of his wolf mindset left to prompt him to jump into a tangled thicket of brambles, where a mere human wouldn’t dare follow for fear of being horribly scratched.

A short while later, he remembered that he was a mere human now, and later still spent a thoroughly miserable couple of hours picking thorns out of all sorts of places, many of which wolves don’t even have.

In fields, mushrooms; in high streets and shopping precincts, video libraries, designer greetings cards vendors and small, eternally hopeful shops stocking silver jewellery, aromatic oils and CDs of traditional Tibetan music; here, castles. They pop up out of the ground, bloom, burgeon; then, when the story’s finished with them, they vanish without leaving so much as a scar in the grass.

This castle, at the other end of the forest from the wicked queen’s rather more substantial pad, is the #2 Enchanted Kingdom set. Its graceful coned roofs and swan-necked towers imply that it’s happy-ending compatible, but the absence of rosy-cheeked peasants and bustling market-stalls outside the gates suggests that the happy ending’s still a reel away, or even that the story hasn’t started yet.

There were two halberdiers in fancy dress armour in front of the castle gate when Dumpy, the Dwarf With No Name, slithered awkwardly off his Shetland pony and tethered it to the guard-rail. He looked at the halberdiers, and they at him.

‘You’re a dwarf,’ said one of them nervously.

‘So?’

The halberdier fidgeted with the handle of his spear. ‘And there’s just the one of you, right?’

‘Reckon so.’

The two halberdiers exchanged glances. ‘Pass, friend.’

‘Mighty obliged to you.’

He chuckled to himself as he crossed the courtyard and started to climb the spiral staircase. How dwarves had acquired this extraordinary reputation for blind savagery and skill at arms he didn’t know. Among the empty cardboard boxes and string-tied bundles of old newspapers in the cellar of his memory was a vague recollection of a time when it hadn’t been this way; of having to scamper out from under the feet of contemptuous humans in the streets, of the sting of sand kicked in his face on a hundred beaches right across the dimension, of jeering references to fishing-rods and dinky red hoods. Since the furthest back he could remember was last Thursday (or Once Upon A Time, local designation) this wasn’t saying a great deal in absolute terms. Around here, people simply didn’t remember things for very long. A goldfish, which forgets where it’s been in the time it takes to swim a circuit of its bowl, could have made a good living in these parts as a database.

In which case, he mused as he rested halfway up the vertiginous stairs of the tower, how come he seemed to remember a time when he was able to remember back to a time he’d since forgotten?

Must be a reason. He scratched his head. If there was one, it had slipped his mind. Couldn’t have been important.

There were more halberdiers at the top of the stairs, standing on either side of the doorway that led to the royal apartments. They looked at him and flinched.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, in a tone of voice implying the exact opposite. ‘Just put down the halberds where I can see ‘em, nice and easy, and nobody’s gonna get hurt.’

The guards did as they were told, laying their weapons down as if they were spun-sugar tubes filled with warm nitro-glycerine. ‘Beat it,’ Dumpy growled. They fled.

And another thing. Why am I talking in this most peculiar way?

Doesn’t sound like the way I’d have imagined I usually talk. Sure does seem mighty odd. Yeah, sho’ nuff

The door wasn’t locked; after all, it was only the door to the king and queen’s private apartments, why the hell should it be? As he reached for the handle, he heard voices on the other side. He listened for a moment or so, then smiled. Yup, he’d come to the right place.

‘Valdemar?’

‘Nope.’

‘Vernon?’

‘Nope.’

‘Victor?’

‘Nope.’

‘Vincent?’

‘Nope.’

‘Well, that’s the Vs. Okay. Walter?’

‘Nope.’

‘Wilbert?’

‘Do me a favour.’

‘William?’

‘Nope.’

Dumpy pushed the door open. Inside the chamber it was dark, lit only by the few skinny photons that had managed to squeeze through the loopholes in the wall, but he could see the King (must be the King, because he’s wearing a crown), his young wife, the baby hugged protectively in her arms, and a short, hunchbacked man squatting on the clothes press and swinging his legs.

‘Say,’ he demanded. ‘You the dwarf?’

The little man looked up and scowled. ‘No, I’m Arnold Schwarzenegger, but they washed me without looking at the label first. Would you mind waiting outside, whoever you are? I’m in a meeting.’

Dumpy ignored him, ducked under a footstool and strode into the room, not failing to notice the way the King and Queen shrank back as he approached. ‘I was told there was a dwarf in this here castle,’ he said. ‘Reckon as how you’ll fit the bill, friend.’

‘Jolly good. Now, if you’d care to wait outside…’

Dumpy folded his arms across his diminutive chest. ‘They call me the Dwarf With No Name,’ he went on. ‘I…’

He stopped abruptly. The Queen had made a funny squeaking noise. Dumpy spun round and glowered at her, then faced the little man again.

‘Do they?’ The little man glowered back. ‘What a coincidence.’

Dumpy’s eyebrows puckered. ‘Don’t say you’re a dwarf with no name too,’ he said. ‘That’d sure make things mighty complicated.’

‘I should say so,’ replied the little man. ‘Actually, to be fair, it’s not so much that I haven’t got a name, more a case of—’

Dumpy reached out and lifted the hem of the hood that overshadowed the little man’s face. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You’re Rumpelstiltskin.’

The Queen made a loud yipping noise and started dancing round the room, while the King clenched both fists, punched them in the air and shouted ‘Yes!’ For his part, the little man gave Dumpy a look that would’ve poisoned a reservoir.

‘Oh thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you ever so much.’ He slid off the clothes press, swivelled round and kicked it savagely. ‘Have you got any idea how long it’s taken me to set up this gig? Six months of hard work, sitting up all night spinning straw into gold, and thanks to you it’s all just gone down the toilet. You blithering…’

He broke off, mainly because Dumpy had grabbed him by the lapels and lifted him off his feet. ‘I’d think twice about calling me names, pal. That’s how come I ain’t got one. I guess,’ he added, suddenly uncertain. He put Rumpelstiltskin down again.

‘All right,’ said the other dwarf. ‘But that works both ways, you know.’

‘Yeah,’ Dumpy growled remorsefully. ‘Guess I owe you an apology, at that. Shoulda guessed you might still be pulling that old name scam.’ He frowned. ‘Another thing I forgot,’ he added to himself. ‘C’mon, let’s git,’ he said, pulling himself together. ‘I get the feeling these folks ain’t feelin’ too friendly.’