"I want to see the Game Cat."

"I mean, asking to see Hobart. That's ridiculous."

He'd finished with the knife now, and he was gazing down at his desk, almost lovingly. I stepped closer. A line of blue powder on a small shaving mirror, that lay face-up on his desk, and I couldn't tell if he was smiling at the Choke powder, or his own reflection. There was a door in the wood panelling behind him, fitted out with frosted glass. The words Game Cat were etched onto a small brass plate, fixed just below the glass.

"Is he in?" I asked.

"I don't like people wasting my time," he said, rolling up a ten pound note. "Do you think I haven't got work to do?"

"I am a personal friend of the Cat's."

That made him look up. He'd already stuck the note up his left nostril, and what with that, and the thick glasses, it was all I could do not to laugh.

"Oh they all are, they all are," he replied. They all claim to know the Game Cat. None of them do, of course. Only I know the Game Cat." With that, he lowered his head, and sniffed up the line of Choke.

"Tell him that Scribble is here to see him."

The General looked up again, his eyes behind the glasses coming alive now, turned up by the powder. "I've had trouble from you in the past," he said.

"Is that right?"

"Oh yes. Tapewormer, I think it was. I've got the details somewhere." He was shuffling through the piles of paper on his desk. "It was you, wasn't it? Yes. Scribble. That was the name. It's all down here somewhere. You went Meta on that one, into Takshaka. Didn't you hear me calling to you?"

I had done. But I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

"Messing about in Takshaka is not recommended. The cops don't like it." "The cops?"

"Takshaka is a Copvurt. They store all their information there."

"The cops own the King Snake?"

"Well they think they do. Really it's the other way around. Takshaka owns them. But let's keep the cops happy, yes?"

"I just want to see the Game Cat, Sniffing General," I said. "I have an appointment."

"Oh they all do," the General replied. "You wouldn't believe the number of appointments I have to deal with. Of course the Game Cat has never heard of them before. It's all so tiresome. And then there was that other incident, wasn't there?"

"Which one?"

"That Curious incident. Yes. That was most difficult."

"What are you saying?" I asked.

"Really, Mister Scribble... vehemence will get you nowhere. Yes. English Voodoo it was. You lost somebody very worthy that day. She went through a door into Curious Yellow, if I recall. Got swapped. You know that Hobart has to work out all the details of these transactions? Hobart has better things to do. And do you know who gets blamed for it? That's right I do. I got a right dressing down that day, let me tell you."

"Pity about the Game Cat then," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"I thought the Cat did the same? Got lost in Curious Yellow. Isn't that how he ended up here?"

The General was silent for a moment. Just the sound of his nostrils sniffing up the Choke powder, deeper and deeper. "You seem to know a lot, Mr Scribble?"

"I've been around," I told the General. And then, "Tell Geoffrey that I'm here."

That clinched it. .

"Geoffrey?" he asked.

"Yes. Tell him I've come to visit."

The Sniffing General considered it for a moment, and then pressed a button on his desk. He spoke into an intercom; "Game Cat... ahum!... yes, yes... sorry to disturb you... there's a somebody out here, wants to see you, sir. Calls himself Scribble..."

I heard the Cat answering from the speaker, but it was all lost in static.

Sniffing General seemed to get the gist of it, "Game Cat will see you now."

There is a room in England somewhere, but it's nowhere to be seen. It exists only in the mind, and only in the mind of those that have been there. This is where the Game Cat lives, surrounded by his objects. Swapped objects. Kitchen sinks and golf clubs, stuffed animals and antique globes, fishing rods and bus tickets. All the paraphernalia of England that the Cat had gathered around him, swapped in countless desperate deals, from all the people that had come to visit, seeking solace.

I was just the latest.

"Scribble," the Cat said. "So nice of you to make it."

Game Cat was sitting in a wicker armchair, with a balloon glass of deep red wine in his hand. He was wearing a purple smoking jacket, and -- get this -- he had tartan slippers on his feet.

"Would you like a drink, young man?" he asked.

"You know what I want, Cat," I answered.

"You should drink more wine, Scribble. Oh I know that Fetish is all the rage these days, amongst the children, but really... only wine does the job. It certainly eases the pain, my kittling. Ah! How the children love that talk." He held his glass up to the light from a table lamp. The lamp was the shape of a golden dancing fish, and its glow was soothing. Another gift, I guess, from another grateful visitor.

"Yes, certainly," he said, reading my mind. "When people visit me they usually bring something along... some gift... some small thing." He gestured towards the array of objects in his room. "Did you bring anything along, Scribble?"

"Nothing."

"That's a shame. You sure you don't want a drink?"

"You know what I'm thinking, Cat."

"My, my, those are violent thoughts."

"Give me that fucking Yellow!"

"Really, I will not stand for this. Shall I call the General?"

"Do what the fuck you like! Just give me the Curious!"

"He will have you removed. It is quite painful, if I remember --"

"Cat! I want Curious! Now!"

"Scribble..."

"The feather!"

He looked at me. "I don't have Curious Yellow." And there was something in his eyes, some injury... maybe he was telling the truth. No, he was lying!

"Liar! Tristan told me. You're hooked on it!"

He took a sip from his wine glass, like he didn't care.

"You know where Tristan is?" I asked.

"I know."

"He got captured."

"I know, yes."

"It means nothing to you?"

I was playing him along, trying for a reaction.

"Young man," he said, "you can never play me."

How was I going to handle this?

"I don't think you can handle it, Scribble. I know the rules of the game better than you. I know all the rules. The secret ones... the ones that don't officially exist."

"Okay. You win."

Keep it simple.

"Yes. Let's." He took another sip. "I went down to visit him, you know?"

"Your brother?"

"Yes. In his cell. I am not totally without feelings, Scribble. They had... they had hurt him somewhat... he had... he had wounds. Bruises, really. A bit of blood, not too much. He's alive."

"That's good to hear."

"But he seemed very sad and weary to me. He had a collection of very bad thoughts, like it was all coming to an end." He paused. "We have no secrets, of course, my brother and I." Another pause. "I told you to help him, Scribble."

"I tried."

"Did you?" The Cat knew how to hit me.

"Losing Suze was too much for him," I said.

"Yes, I can imagine." "Can you?"

"Yes. I can imagine."

I was getting the picture of a man without connections. Someone to whom real life was some kind of hideous prank, played by a cruel god. And so, from a very early age, the Vurt must have seemed like heaven, like the touch of a strong hand, leading him to feelings. He must have clung to the feathers, revelling in the strength they gave him, the intensity, until feathers were everything. And real life was a bad dream. Takshaka's bite must have seemed like a gift, and the chance of getting lost, getting swapped, was all too much. Cat had taken it, fallen into it; going through the door into Curious Yellow with no regrets; losing himself to the Vurt.