Chester’s supposed to be my friend, and he’s gone and locked me up in this stinking room. Tom Westonby stared in disbelief at the thick wooden door. Surely, there’d be the click of the lock, the door would swing open, and there’d be Chester’s broad smiling face. After that, they’d laugh, Tom would playfully thump Chester on the arm, then they’d get back to that cherry pie topped with delicious clotted cream. Only, the door stayed locked. Tom rattled the handle. The thing was covered in rust and cobwebs. Spiders scurried over the door panels. They weren’t used to human visitors in their fusty-smelling domain. ‘Hey, Chester. A joke’s a joke, OK? Time to let me out.’ A muffled voice came back: ‘I’m serious about this, Tom. You’re my friend. OK, it sounds soft and dopey, but I care about you.’ ‘So unlock this damn door.’ ‘You can come out when you promise you’ll break this thing off with Nicola Bekk—’ ‘Hey, that’s nothing to do with you!’ ‘—and you swear on your mother’s life that you’ll never see Nicola again.’ ‘You’re insane.’ ‘Nicola Bekk isn’t right in the head.
