The tunnel had come to an abrupt end. ‘Which means,’ the wicked queen said, as she groped in the darkness, ‘that somewhere here there’s got to be a trapdoor or something of the like. It’s one of the immutable laws of physics in these parts: mysterious tunnels always come out somewhere important. Causes a hell of a lot of problems for big rabbits, I can tell you.’

‘Here,’ grunted the Beast. ‘I think this may be what you’re…’

The rest of his sentence was cut off as he tumbled sideways into a sudden wash of bright light. The queen scrambled after him, but before Sis could follow, the door slammed shut.

Odd, Sis reflected as she screamed and hammered with her fists against the unyielding panel, that we should have been talking about secret phobias only a moment ago. What you might call a curious coincidence. A trifle bizarre, you might say.

Another thing you might say (and Sis did) was ‘HEEEEEEELP!’ It didn’t seem to do any good, though. It rarely does.

Now then. Calm down. In the immortal words of Lance-Corporal Jones: don’t panic. All you have to do is go back down the tunnel till you meet the nice rats — (Nice rats. Just listen to yourself. You’ve been here way too long…) — And ask them if you can borrow a screwdriver or a big hammer or a couple of sticks of dynamite, and then you can be through here and out the other side in no time at all. This sort of thing happens all the time. People are buried alive every day of the week, and…

‘HEEEEEEELP!’ she repeated hopefully. As a problem-solving technique its main virtue was consistency; it didn’t work but at least it kept on not working, so at least you knew where you stood. Looked like it came down to a choice between staying here and losing weight the sure-fire way, or the nice rats.

Query: down a long, dark tunnel with no visible vegetation or animal life, what do the nice rats find to eat? Maybe not the nice rats.

‘Ah’m.’

In any list of things not to do in a five-foot high tunnel, suddenly jumping six feet in the air must come pretty close to the top. ‘Ouch!’ Sis remarked twice; once when her head bumped against the roof, the second time when she sat down hard on what felt suspiciously like a bone.

‘Sorry. Did I startle you?’

Sis had been intending to say ‘EEEEEEK’ or something along those lines; but the voice sounded so soft, quiet, gentle and terrified that instead she sat up, rubbed her head and said, ‘Yes.’

‘Oh. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.’

‘What?’ Oh, no, not really. Who are you?’

The voice didn’t say anything for a moment. Then it said, ‘I’d rather not say.’

‘Huh?’

‘Well — only if you promise not to laugh.’

‘What?’

‘People do, you see. Or else they assume I’m taking the mickey. You won’t laugh, will you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sis replied. ‘Depends on whether it’s funny or not.’

‘All right. My name’s Rumpelstiltskin.’

‘Really? Fair enough.’

‘You’re not laughing,’ Rumpelstiltskin said.

‘Why should I? Listen, compared with some of the stuff I’ve been subjected to since I got stuck in this beastly continuum or whatever it is, your name’s about as funny as the second season of George & Mildred. Do you know a way out of here?’

‘Well, I can recommend the way I’ve just come, if you don’t mind spartan but functional. Nice straight tunnel, nothing fancy, no frills.’

‘Really?’ Sis replied. ‘What about the rats?’

‘Rats?’

‘You didn’t come across a whole load of rats, then?’

Rumpelstiltskin shivered. ‘Certainly not.’

‘Rats in pinnies with carpet sweepers and feather dusters who put down newspaper for you to walk on?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Rumpelstiltskin replied. ‘Rats don’t do that. You’re thinking of the Beatrix Potter mice, and they live over the other side of the forest, just across from the sewage farm.’

‘No rats,’ Sis repeated. ‘Oh well. I’ve stopped being surprised by things like that now. After you, Mr Rumpelstiltskin. And if you’ve been lying to me and there are rats, I’ll kill you. Got that?’

They turned a corner and hey presto, there the rats weren’t. Instead, there was a door.

‘That’s odd,’ Rumpelstiltskin said, rubbing his battered nose. ‘There wasn’t a door here just now.’

‘I know,’ Sis replied. ‘There were rats. In frilly aprons. Well, aren’t you going to open it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rumpelstiltskin said thoughtfully. ‘You hear all sorts of things about unexplained doors and stuff in this neighbourhood. There’s supposed to be one in the back of a wardrobe somewhere that’s an absolute menace. You can get into a lot of trouble going through doors.’

‘You can get into a lot more not going through them,’ Sis pointed out. ‘If you don’t believe me, I can arrange a demonstration.’

‘Please try not to be so aggressive,’ the dwarf replied. ‘Really, it never helps in the long run. I’ll open this door if you insist, but don’t blame me if you don’t like what’s on the other side of it.’

‘Oh, get out of the way and let me do it,’ said Sis impatiently. ‘So long as it’s not the rats again, I don’t mind what it…’

Mistake.

‘Oh marvellous,’ moaned the wicked queen. ‘That just about wraps it up as far as I’m concerned. Now what do we do?’

The Beast shrugged its asymmetrical shoulders. ‘Depends,’ he said. ‘If she had any luggage, we could sell it.’

The wicked queen tried the panel again, but it wouldn’t budge. ‘Nothing for it,’ she sighed. ‘We’ll have to get out of the castle, go round to the entrance of the tunnel and go back in to look for her. What a nuisance.’

The Beast clicked its tongue. ‘Actually,’ it said, ‘that might not be possible. You see, I have an idea the tunnel isn’t there any more.’

‘Oh? What makes you say that?’

By way of reply, the Beast banged its fist against the panel. ‘Solid,’ he pointed out. ‘Therefore, no tunnel. Not in this version of the story, anyway.’

The queen closed her eyes and counted to ten. ‘I’ve had about enough of this,’ she said. ‘This domain was never exactly what you’d call stable at the best of times, but at least you used to be able to walk through a door without it turning into a wall the moment your back’s turned. It’s intolerable. Think of going to the lavatory, for instance.’

‘Odd you should mention that,’ mumbled the Beast, shuffling its feet uncomfortably. ‘Would you excuse me for just a moment? Only—’

‘Stay right where you are,’ the queen snapped. ‘You’ll just have to wait.’

‘Sorry, I don’t think that’s going to be possible. I’ll be right back, I promise.’

He scampered off down one of the three dark, gloomy corridors that converged opposite the panelled wall they’d emerged through. For a while the queen kept herself amused by poking and prodding at the corners and edges of the panelling; nothing happened. As she did so, it occurred to her that she’d never before met anybody in the domain who’d had to interrupt the adventure to sneak off and have a pee. That sort of thing doesn’t happen in narrative, ever; it’s in the Rules. Why, then, should the Beast be taken short at what was obviously a crucial moment in the story? Good question.

He was gone an awfully long time.

Eventually she got tired of waiting and set off to find him. That was easier said than done; the corridors wound on and on, the way that only corridors in an interior that has no exterior can do. At last, just as she was cursing herself for not marking her way with bits of torn-up paper or a thread or something, she came across a rather disagreeable sight.

On the floor there was a small puddle; but that wasn’t the bad part. What the queen really didn’t like the look of were the chunks of plaster gouged out of the wall, the splashes of blood, the stray bits of Beast fur scattered in all directions, the scorch-marks and the words chalked on the wall just above the puddle. They read: