"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.
"Well that's quite an interesting theory, Scribble," he said. "Doesn't it remind you of somebody?"
"You never told me about Curious Yellow. That you got lost in it."
"Why should I tell you?"
"Because that means you know how to get Desdemona back."
"Yes. I do know."
"Tell me."
"It's quite simple. Find the Thing. Find a working copy of Curious Yellow. Combine the two. Swapback. Quite simple."
"Well fuck you, Game Cat!"
"Oh dear."
"You managed to get Tristan out of Curious. He said that you were working the feathers."
"Scribble, my dear… even at that age I was a master of the feathers. You haven't even started yet."
"I want Desdemona back!"
"How very poetic."
"You bastard!" My hands were twisted up into tight fists.
EVERYTHING OKAY IN THERE, GAME CAT, SIR?
Sniffing General's voice coming over the intercom. The Cat nodded at me as he pressed the speak button and I felt something pulling me back, the Cat's room dissolving around me, intense pain in the body. "Cat! Please!" I cried out.
Game Cat smiled, and the pain eased slightly.
"Everything's fine in here, General," the Cat was answering. Thank you. We're just discussing possible gifts that the visitor might be willing to donate. Get back to your ledgers, General."
"I will."
The Cat closed off the connection and then looked up at me. With a heavy sigh he raised himself out of the wicker chair, and walked over to an antique wooden cabinet. There were five drawers in it, one above the other. He pulled open the top drawer. "This is my collection," he said.
I walked over to the cabinet. I was standing by his side, gazing down into the drawer. It was divided into sections, each section separated by a panel of wood, each section lined with purple velvet. It was a series of nests, and in each nest lay a feather. In this first drawer all the feathers were blue, various shades of. It was like looking into the sky, seeing the glints of the day there. Along the edge of each section, embossed on a brass plate, were the names of the feathers. And, these feathers being blue only, I knew most of the names by heart, having travelled them.
"People come to me for feathers," the Cat said. "Special ones. Dreams. Dreams that they think will save them. They give me gifts in return."
He closed the top drawer, and opened the second. Black feathers lay glistening there. Like looking into the night. Closed that one, opened the third. Pink feathers. Like looking into the flesh. The names brought back some sweet memories.