“I think we can safely assume we’re not in Hell,” I said to Peter, who likewise had somehow managed to raise himself to his feet.

“So we must still be in Heaven.” said Peter. “Does that mean any escape plan we make is bound to work?”

I lowered myself to the ground and tried to think through the logic behind Peter’s presumption, but only succeeded in tying my brain into three types of knots simultaneously. Sure, I knew that in Hell things always went wrong, but did that mean that in Heaven they always went right? The idea was alluring, but it had hardly been confirmed by my recent experiences. “I suppose it means that it won’t definitely fail,” I said at last.

“If it won’t definitely fail, that means it might just have a chance of succeeding,” said Peter, coming down to lie beside me.

Peter had a point. A plan with a slim chance of succeeding was better than no plan at all. What did we have to lose by trying? After all, this was Heaven. Maybe things here didn’t always turn out right, but surely the big things, the ones that really mattered, would work out in the end. If I couldn’t believe that, then what could I believe?

“So tell me more about that last plan you mentioned,” I said after a quick assessment of which of Peter’s ideas was least implausible. “The one with the guard and the wooden leg.”

“You really want to hear it?”

“I’m not going anywhere, so I might as well.”

“Well, first of all we have to lure the guard into the cell.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“I don’t know. Tell him it’s his birthday and we’ve baked a cake?”

“Sounds reasonable to me. What happens next?”

Peter thought for a moment. “We’ll have you lying on the ground just inside the door, so as soon as he comes into the cell, he’ll trip over you. Once he’s on the ground, I’ll sit on him while you unscrew his wooden leg. It’s a right-hand thread, make sure you remember. You use the leg to hit him over the head and knock him out. Then, if you shake the leg, you’ll discover there’s a little knife hidden in a secret compartment inside. All we have to do is cut our ropes and we’ll be free.”

“Perfect,” I said. “You’ve covered every angle.”

“Do you really think it will work?”

“Well, we know it won’t definitely fail, and that’s good enough for me. Are you ready? One, two, three.”

Peter and I began to sing Happy Birthday at the top of our lungs. Almost immediately, there was a response.

“What’s going on in there?” It was a gruff voice from the other side of the door.

“What do you think?” I shouted back. “It’s your birthday.”

“It’s my birthday today?” The voice didn’t sound too certain.

“Of course it is. How could you possibly forget?”

“We’ve baked you a cake,” added Peter.

“What sort of cake?”

“What sort do you like?” I said.

“Double choc-fudge with strawberry fondant, sprinkled with icing sugar, and topped with a single glacé cherry.” I could almost hear the voice salivating as it spoke.

“That’s the one,” I said. “That’s exactly the cake we’ve baked for you. Are you going to come in and try some or do we have to eat it all ourselves?”

There was a pause for a couple of seconds. “I’m not sure if I should.”

“Come on,” said Peter. “You can’t mean to tell us we’ve spent all this time baking for nothing.”

“All right, I’ll have a piece. But only a small one, understand?”

“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.”