As Thugger regained consciousness he had the sense of someone stroking his hair, very agitated, and saying sorry all the time.
It was Fisty.
‘Didn’t mean to conk you out, Mister Thugger. I was fighting for me life, after all that rabbit business.’
‘What rabbit business?’ said Thugger, feeling the bump on his head.
‘We’ve been tricked by a rabbit – terrible mean beast, it is, with big staring eyes. It tied me up, but I got one arm free and that’s what I hit you with.’
‘You were born stupid and you will die stupid,’ said Thugger.
‘Elvis is dead already,’ said Fisty sadly, picking up his dog’s ear with his one free hand.
‘He can’t be dead, cos he was never alive,’ said Thugger.
‘He was to me,’ said Fisty sadly, staring at Elvis’s rigid metal body stretched out on the floor.
‘Boo hoo,’ said Thugger. ‘And when we’ve cried over your non-existent dead dog, how are we going to get ourselves out of ’ere?’
‘We can’t. The rabbit has spies everywhere.’
‘I am not scared of a rabbit,’ said Thugger.
‘Wait till you see it – size of a pony, it is.’
‘Gimme yer feet, I’ll cut the twine and we’ll find a way out. Come on, come on!’
When Fisty was free, he carefully put the remains of Elvis, including his ears, into the carrot sack and slung it over his shoulder. Then he followed Thugger round and round the cellar while they searched for a way out.
‘What’s this?’ said Thugger, feeling a metal plate under his fingers. ‘Shine my torch.’
The plate in the floor was rusty and worn, but very clearly written on it were the words
‘Forget it,’ said Fisty. ‘I’ve done rabbits, I’m not doing elves.’
But Thugger had already lifted the plate and was shining his torch down the hole.
‘There’s a ladder here, and if I’m not daft, which I’m not, but you are, I can hear running water.’
‘Water elves,’ said Fisty. ‘Bad news.’
‘Come on, Superman, we’re going down – you first.’
‘No, no, no!’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’
Terrified, Fisty slung his legs down the chute and felt his way down the slippy wooden ladder. For a fleeting moment he had a happy picture of himself back at home, eating an Indian takeaway and watching the boxing, with Elvis at his feet chewing a clockwork mouse.
It was not to be. He was in a hole, all right, and Thugger’s legs were coming after him.
Down they went. Down and down. Above and above, watching watching, were the yellow sulphur eyes of Bigamist.