I landed on my sodding arse again, and this time it proper hurt because it wasn’t grass beneath it but cave floor. You know, wet rock and moss and shit. Well, part of it was, and there was also a neat stone path with those knobbly anti-slip knobs carved into it, with illuminated signs every five feet reminding paying hunters to hold the shotgun in one hand and the railing in the other.

I followed the path because there didn’t seem much point in trying to go back up. The ledge was just beyond my fingertips and I’m not a fucking acrobat. It was cold and damp and I really wish I’d brought that fold-up anorak I usually had for isolated castles where I didn’t have to worry about looking like a twat.

My footsteps didn’t half echo as I went along. No directions, no handy map in a little plastic box, no nothing, and my back was killing me as it scraped along the roughly hewn ceiling. It was almost like it had been made by tiny little creatures who had no consideration for the big things that came to murder them for twenty quid (plus fiver deposit) every day. You’d expect better access than this for that price. And I thought everywhere had to be accessible or whatever they said nowadays?

Yeah, I wasn’t having the best time of it. The path twisted and turned and forked randomly. I kept left like I’d read about in some maze book once and carried on, because there wasn’t much point in stopping, was there?

All of a sudden I was a bit peckish, and absolutely knackered. Had I set off some sort of trap, being emptied into the tunnel like that? I hadn’t seen any weight restrictions on the pub door. And if I had set something off, who wanted me? And why?

Surely Mrs. Bradley could help, if only I could reach her. And if the goblins didn’t get me first.

So I plodded on and on and on, and seemingly down and down and down, too. They’d put in some pretty handy hand holds and cordoned off the worst of the toe-shredder infested holes, I had to admit. But I was getting bored, and there was no sign of escape. I really wanted to shout but of course I didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention.

A minute later, I turned a corner and there was a big line of goblins heading straight for me. I needn’t have worried about calling for help. In hindsight, I suppose I’ve always been a bit of a fairy elephant.

The lead goblin gibbered something foreign and pointed at me with one long, twisted finger. From somewhere just behind it, I saw something long and shiny waving in the half-light, and heard the clack of something metallic. I turned and clattered back the way I’d come. The signs hadn’t said anything about the little buggers shooting back, had they? Probably pick off the odd stingy customer who’d looked at the tat in the gift shop the wrong way. Thieving bastards.

At the minute though, the goblins looked more like murdering bastards so I concentrated on that. I kicked out as little hands writhed at my ankles and struggled on, my neck rubbed raw from the rock above. I was like Gandalf in a hobbit hole, and most definitely not like Bilbo in a goblin tunnel, other than actually being in a goblin tunnel. I thought he played it cool in there to be honest.

In fairness, the goblins of Middle Earth didn’t have shotguns, as far as I remember. I’m afraid I let out a bit of a squeal when a wet flappy tongue lashed out at my arm. Then, the pellet blast rang out just behind, and the shrapnel rattled off the walls all about me about a billion times, and I was pleased to be able to issue a proper shout of alarm. I know it’s Yorkshire, but we Brits aren’t really used to guns. Especially when an evil little creature’s aiming it at your back as you hurtle off up a tunnel with no way to defend yourself.

Now I do need to say something here. I’m not racist. I’m not calling them evil because they’ve got green skin. I’m calling them evil because they’re children sized. Anyone who’s been to Tesco on a Saturday tea-time and witnessed the horrifying, squirming tantrum in the toy aisle when someone’s just realised they aren’t getting the two-hundred-quid train set when Mam’s just popped in for a pack of ham and a bottle of wine will tell you that kids are plain evil.

Also, they had shotguns. Did I mention the shotguns?

The shotgun blasts rang out behind as I ran. The shotguns clacked menacingly off the walls as they gibbered something about filling my oversized head in as they tottered after me. The shotguns. That very word has to fill you with fear. I’m allowed to squeal like a little girl now, aren’t I?

I was getting a bit annoyed too. Why couldn’t I be in the medieval zone dodging hatchets? That was always my favourite part of the Crystal Maze, and it would’ve been easier. Sod’s law, that’s the answer.

Stolen novel; please report.

Those deafening booms were the only thing that spurred me on. I was huffing and puffing more than the time I’d

dropped my train ticket on the way to Durham and had to run for the bus to my mate’s so he could convince his Mam to drop me off at the church. I was young, and it was my wedding day, alright? I didn’t usually put so much effort in these days. I know better. But somewhere within that rolling, rippling tub of lard I call a human body, I’d found an extra spark of energy, and I was just scraping round each corner a microsecond before the next explosion of death went off. It was the shotguns, you see? Had I mentioned them?

And now I had a reason to live too. I’d become the legend I always knew I could be. If I got out of this, then I could go back home and tell everyone that I’d become one of the like ten people north of London to ever be shot at. They’d give me a medal. A column in the gazette. Maybe even a pork pie.

I thought I was doing well for a fat lad. I hadn’t been licked for several turns so I must have been building up a bit of a gap. I was at the tenth corner when I almost barrelled straight into the wiry goblin that had obviously gone a different way to cut me off. But this one didn’t look like it wanted to blow my block off. In fact, it didn’t even have a gun. It had a whistle instead, which it blew hard into my poor ear as I whirled past. I was almost round the next bend before I registered its tiny yellow high-vis vest and lanyard too.

“Hold the hand-rail at all times!” it shrieked after me, a warble of panic in the warning. “I repeat, at all times! And for the love of Satan, slow down. ‘Cos all accidental falls are my responsibility, and I don’t want to mop up scrambled brains again.”

There was something else after that, but it was lost in the all-powerful roar of the blast. I’d obviously obeyed subconsciously; I’m a good man at heart. My pursuers were gaining on me. It wouldn’t be long before I could go no more. A desperate, child-sized hand clutching at my leg. Another bruise for my arse. Then a cold, glittering double muzzle staring me down as I wept on the floor. I could see it already.

The vision shut off with a snap. Replaced with another. I opened my eyes wide as sudden, acid-tasting understanding came.

I’d been backtracking to where I’d fell in, all this time. And the other side was a dead end.

I would’ve frozen on the spot, but I didn’t because shotguns. I did slow down though, and as I turned the next corner, there was a sea of writhing green in the corner of my eye sloshing through the tunnel just yards away. I screwed my head round against the ceiling, straining for sight of the forks I’d gone past on the way down. There’d been hundreds of them, I was sure of it. But I saw nothing now. I couldn’t stop to search, I didn’t even know if I’d have time to wrestle my bulk round a hairpin turn if I did see an escape, but the first step was to look at least.

I was still running almost flat out when I got to the next turn. The trouble was, I was looking backwards too. The corner wasn’t really on my radar.

My right cheek hit rock. Hard.

“Arrrrgh!”

But the fact I was screaming was probably a good thing when I’d just crashed headlong into a rock wall. And it wasn’t solid rock, either. I wouldn’t have been in a heap on the other side covered by greyish blocks of the stuff if it was.

As the scrabble of little goblin feet thundered closer, I swiped frantically at the debris holding me down. It wasn’t holding me down at all; it was just painted polystyrene. I was just done in was all.

I heard another sound behind me - a receding wave of gasps and gabbles that had obviously begun with my improvised turn-off. The thought of the double muzzle spurred me on again, and I scrabbled to my feet. When I turned, dozens of goblin eyes stared back at me in shock.

They didn’t have shotguns, though. And it was bright in here, with proper bulbs and those industrial tubes and everything. I was in a cellar, not a cave. A cellar with whitewashed walls with cots built into them, from which bleary-eyed goblins were now rising to stare back. Another green dude with a hat on was shuffling through paperwork completely unfazed at a nearby desk. It was only when I heard a hoarse yet tuneful murmur emanating from his chair that I realised it was because he had tiny green earphones in.

There were a few filing cabinets in the corner. A few kegs of ale. And a nice grey photocopier, beside which an equally pale goblin was now letting freshly-printed Hunter’s Inn pamphlets churn unhindered to the carpet.

And, like everywhere in this tourist deathtrap, there was a sign, this time reminding all gun-fodder to report new offspring to their assigned Intake Officer within five hours of birth or risk losing all obliteration-in-service payouts to their next of brood.

“Y’alright?” I said.

The only reply was the skittering of skidding claws behind me. I turned towards the hole in the wall, straight into the maw of the shotgun. Well, not straight into it. I had to look about three feet down first.

I’d like to say I saw my life flash before my eyes, but I couldn’t really remember half of it.

What I did see though was something else flashing across my chasers’ eyes. They weren’t looking at me. They were looking beyond with an expression that was too human to mistake: unexpected, joyous relief. I chanced a glance back and saw one of those boring white school clocks above a door. It was five-past bloody five already!

The goblin with the gun, however, was still focused on my ugly mug. I tried again with the life flashing thing and decided it wasn’t for me.

“Oi, bud. You seen the time?” said one of my attackers. He gave the goblin before me a sharp nudge with a barbed elbow.

It grunted, lowered the shotgun, and glanced by my waist. Then it let the weapon fall to the soft-pile with a polite clunk. “Well, I ain’t doing no overtime today,” it said in a thick Yorkshire mutter. “Who’s on the booze, boys?”

There were squawks of approval. More guns on the carpet. They didn’t even look at me as they shuffled over to the queue by the barrels.

Well, one did. The little sod with the big fingers that saw me first. “Exit’s there,” he said. “Service door.” He pointed out my way, then joined his crew over at the far side.

I bent over and put my hands on my knees. Trying to catch my breath. “Err, thanks?” I wheezed. No-one cared any more. No-one bothered as I finally straightened up and limped for the door. They wouldn’t care till about nine o’clock tomorrow.

My first thought was that they were poor sods, having to work bank holidays. And then, I settled into a much deeper, seething hatred.

“Bloody hell!” yelled the goblin at the desk as I sidled past. He clawed the earphones from his hairy lugs. “Where the fuck you come from?"

It was my turn for short answers. I pointed back at the ragged remains of the false wall to the cave. The goblin made a strangled choking noise, then turned back to his accounts and started crossing out a line of numbers furiously.

He wasn’t the only furious one. No matter what I’d got caught up in, I was still a tourist here. A tourist who’d like to see a manager.