Simon and the Wardrobe of Destiny

By Ellis Jackson

Simon is having a bad day. A very bad day indeed. He's been fired from work, dumped by his girlfriend and kicked out of his house. And to top it all off, a cat has just pushed him through a wormhole into an alternate reality filled with Orcs, Elves and Dwarves. And it seems like most of them are trying to kill him.

What follows is a rollercoaster ride filled with high fantasy, low humor, daring escapes and vast battles of good versus evil, leading right into the heart of magic itself.

Simon and the Wardrobe of Destiny: A story of wizards, war and some seriously peculiar furniture.

An action-packed adventure fantasy novel filled with tongue-in-cheek humour that will make you laugh out loud.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellis Jackson
• Release date: Aug 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466051294

Ellis Jackson

Ellis Jackson was born in England in 1979 to a bourgeois middle class family who sent him to boarding school when he was 5. Upon release into the unsuspecting population he obtained a rubbish degree in Economics, having spend much of his University time either strutting around like a peacock in an attempt to mate with any female within range, or drinking large quantities of alcohol when he inevitably failed. He has made a mediocre living ever since being a terrible barman, a worse chef, a failed Army officer, a talentless actor, an uncool TV producer and is currently a very bored civil servant, none of which has anything whatsoever to do with Economics. He still doesn't know what to do when he grows up, but until he finally succumbs to maturity he's decided he enjoys writing, and would like to see if he's any good at it.

Book preview

Preface

This book is a first. Not only for me – although it is indeed my first ever book – but I believe for the world. This is the world's first Open Source novel. It was written exclusively on open source word processing software (Initially Open Office, and latterly Libre Office), on a laptop that runs on an open source operating system (Ubuntu). From the moment it was conceived to the moment it was brought to the wonder of Kindle, at no point in time did this book pass through the grubby hands of proprietary software.

But that is not what makes this book open source.

For those of you who have had little dealings with the world of open source, you may not quite understand what the phrase means. Chiefly referring to software, it is often incorrectly interpreted as free, as in has no cost, but this is not the case. It means that the guts of the work, the nuts and bolts that brings the product to life, is freely available to the public to work on and improve as they see fit. It is at the very heart of a collaborative effort that means to push the boundaries of what is and is not possible, and is generally done not for an individual's financial gain, but for pride at having participated, and for the gain of society as a whole.

I am a huge believer in open source as a concept. It puts at its core not profit (though it would be a lie to say that companies involved in open source do not make a profit from it), but a message, a direction. It recognises the fallibility of the individual, and that of the company, and sees the value in listening to the input of the wider audience. It understands that a thousand tiny steps are better than five huge leaps, and that if two heads are better than one then perhaps a million heads could move the Earth.

So what, I hear you cry, does this have to do with a book?

Writing a book is simply a modern way of telling a story. For thousands of years storytelling was an open source process: stories were not owned by one individual, but were part of the fibre of a tribe. The stories helped bind them together through reliving a shared experience, and as civilisation grew, so stories became not so much a retelling of shared experiences, but the telling of what could be, and an experience in itself. The stories were still not owned by one person or another, but were handed around from bard to bard, like a well used map leading the way to impossible treasures. The bards did not own the stories, but the best ones improved upon them, introduced new characters and added new twists to captivate and delight their audience as they sat huddled around the fire on long, dark winter nights. All storytellers told the same stories, but the best achieved greatness in making their version better than everyone else's, in telling it more vividly than their contemporaries could. Those improvements were taken on by those that heard them, including the next generation of storytellers, and so the stories evolved. Stories were never solid like stone, but instead mobile and fluid like water, constantly evolving and adapting to their surroundings and capable, eventually, of moulding their environment to fit the story itself.

And then, suddenly, the stories stopped evolving. They were locked away, not in a prison, but on paper. Printing was – and still is – such an expensive process that stories could no longer evolve in the way they had before. They had to be mulled over, by lone individuals, and perfected, such as is possible by oneself, before being immortalised in print for the rest of time. Changes to stories could now only happen between print runs, because to change mid run would cost so much it wasn't financially viable. As a direct result of the modern printing press the notion of Copyright was formed. This is the idea that the person who put the story on paper was somehow the owner of the story itself, and of everything contained within it. For the next fifty years no-one could work on that story, no-one could improve it or even use the characters without the legal owner's permission. Stories were no longer traded and given, but instead bought and sold, and jealously guarded to ensure only the writer be enriched by them.

The thought of this makes me sad in a way. The idea that we as a people – and quite an advanced people at that – take great pains on putting ourselves at loggerheads with one another rather than combining forces for the greater good is not a happy one. It is true to say that copyright has assisted in advancing our culture by allowing artists to benefit from their work, but it has often stood in the way of open and honest collaboration. Collaborative efforts rarely make individuals rich. Combined with the costs associated with production (be it the printing of books or the marketing of songs) copyright took the power away from the artist, and handed it to the businessman, allowing them to become the arbiters of taste for the entire world. No longer does the best artist win, instead success goes to the best connected or to those with the largest marketing budget, all in an effort to make the businessman (rather than the artist) rich. It allows only the few to be successful while making it increasingly difficult for the talented many to achieve the recognition they deserve.

And yet again I hear the cry: What does this have to do with this book?

As I said at the start, this is an open source book. You who have bought this book own not only a copy of the story, but all that it contains. You own the characters that make the story what it is (for without characters there is no story) and the world in which the tale resides. As much as this story is, as far as I can achieve on my own, finished, it is also a work in progress, and you the owners of this story have a hand in its continued evolution. If you believe you could write the sequel to this story, to tell of where Simon, Thorvid and Alwyn go next (tailed as ever by the resourceful Scragg) then I urge you to do so, and wish you the best of luck in your quest. If, even, you see some fatal flaw in the story I have presented (for I am not so self-assured to believe myself infallible), or some change that would improve the pacing, tone or detail herein, I beg you to tell me and I can try to use it (with due credit, naturally) to make the story more than it was when I alone had a hand in its creation. The beauty of Kindle is that it costs nothing to publish this story, and that it can therefore continue to evolve and adapt until eventually it reaches the peak of its existence, the zenith of its potential.

There is, as ever, a fine print to this. Only a fool would put blood, sweat and tears into a work then allow someone else to re-print it (in whole or in part) for their own gain and with neither effort on their part nor permission from the author, so while this story as it stands is not copyrighted it is copylefted: it is only the constituent parts that are free to use. Furthermore, it would be an idiot who would allow someone to take their creations and twist them until they were scarcely recognisable, so any prequels, sequels or use of the characters and places involved must gain the permission of this author before publication. This will allow me to ensure the characters are treated with the respect they deserve, and that they remain true to the way they were first conceived, and as long as they remain so then permission will be swiftly granted. For comments, concerns or questions, or indeed just to let me know what you think of my first effort, visit me at ellisjackson.wordpress.com.

Finally, one last caveat that will be instantly recognisable to anyone with a passing familiarity with open source: Any product of any part of this open-source story must themselves be open-source when published, under the same conditions that this story has been presented. As you can use this story to tell your own, so you must allow others to use your story to tell theirs.

Simon stared at the computer screen in front of him. The screen stared back. Simon intensified his gaze. The screen didn't bother. Simon had the sinking feeling that he was going to lose this battle, another in a long list of failures in a life whose pinnacle had led Simon to an office, a desk and a computer screen that could out-stare him without any apparent effort. Simon blinked. He looked down at the clock in the corner of the screen. It didn't have the answer he wanted. He was stuck in this place for another hour, and it already felt like he had been here for an eternity.

At 27 years old Simon was one of life's perpetual losers. He was alarmingly average. Perhaps even dull. He had a dull job in an dull company that earned him a slightly-less-than-average wage for spending many dull hours every day pushing dull little pieces of paper around an equally dull desk. He simply couldn't understand why his life hadn't really taken off at all. The internet seemed to be filled with pictures of his old school friends doing heroic jobs for fantastic pay, yet here he was, stuck in a dead end telesales job, making someone else richer and getting more miserable by the minute.

Simon mused on his life. He wondered what had happened. Nothing had specifically gone wrong at any point in time, it just that nothing had happened at all, ever since university. He'd got a job, met Joyce in a pub and then everything had...well...stood still. Sure he'd changed jobs since then, but they were always the same, simple, boring jobs that didn't challenge him. He was scared that any job better would reject him out of hand, so he had found work he could do in his sleep. He knew he was stuck in a rut, but just couldn't see a way out. Life had become comfortable.

Mister Montague! snapped a voice he had come to loathe. His boss was standing by his desk with a scowl Simon recognised all too well.

Yes Graham? sighed Simon, wearily.

You haven't been hitting your targets Simon, and you're holding the rest of us back. You are the weak link in this team Simon. Your probation... Graham's voice faded into the background as Simon lost interest and finally stopped paying attention altogether.

Simon glanced around the office quickly. He guessed that less than half the people in the wide room were even pretending to work. The other half were checking their email, on the phone to their friends, planning their weekend and, in one case, trying to convince the girl in the next door cubicle that she really would like to go for a drink with him after work, even though her expression suggested he would probably have more luck with a paper bag on his head.

Something penetrated his daydream, and he looked back up at Graham.

I'm sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear that last bit. he mumbled.

Simon, I just don't think you're going to survive in the cut-throat world of telesales, said Graham, putting a bony hand on his shoulder, I think you're better off elsewhere, where your talents are better put to use.

What are you trying to say? asked an incredulous Simon.

Please don't take it personally Simon, but, well, you're fired. Simon felt like crying.

But Graham... he tried, but got no further. Graham cut him off again.

"I'm sorry Simon, there is nothing more I can do. You'll clear your desk out by the end of the day, and we'll put your cheque in the post at the end of the month. But don't worry, I did manage to convince them to give you two weeks pay." Graham said, punctuating the words by thumping Simon on the shoulder playfully, "So you'll have plenty to live on while you find something else, something better, OK?". Graham beamed magnanimously, patting him on the shoulder before stalking off towards the buxom receptionist, leering robustly. Simon sighed, rubbed his temples, and turned back to his computer. As he reached over to start clearing up 6 weeks worth of detritus on his desk, he reasoned that at least this day couldn't get any worse.

***

Simon's key finally hit the lock just after ten that evening. He was tired, frustrated and his backpack was hurting his shoulders, stuffed as it was to bursting with all the useless crap he had brought home from work (including, for some unknown reason, a pot plant. He didn't think it even belonged to him). All he wanted was a beer followed by sweet, blissful sleep for the next ten or twelve hours. He would have a quiet weekend in with Joyce and start job hunting again on Monday.

But as he swung the door open it soon because clear he wasn't likely to see sleep for a very long time to come. Music was blaring out, and his apartment was full of people he was fairly certain he had never met before, infesting every corner of his place, grinding away with each other, slobbering over each others faces and generally having what other people would call a 'good time'. His housemates had decided to throw a party again. No-one had even noticed he had walked in, and the few that didn't already have something more interesting to do with their mouths were heavily involved in drinking the rest of his beer. This upset Simon. A lot.

He tried unsuccessfully to push his way through the swirling mass of bodies towards the bedroom, but found himself caught in a human rip-tide that took him into the kitchen instead. Finding himself deposited unceremoniously by the fridge, he decided to take advantage of the situation, and grab something to drink. As he opened the fridge door a hand shot past him and grabbed the last remaining can of beer. Simon turned to face the owner, ready to protest at his poor manners.

Cheers bro, drawled the offender, in a broad Australian accent, Wicked party eh?!, before opening the can of beer and showering Simon in a fine haze of ice cold lager.

How did they do it? Simon wondered. How come there is a token Australian in every party in London, yet they never to know the hosts? He couldn't remember a single party he'd been to in the last five years that didn't feature an Aussie, drinking the last can of beer and never offering to pop to the shops for more.

Simon looked around, and realised the stranger was looking at him, expectantly. He slowly became aware that he was meant to answer something, but wasn't sure what the question had been. Uh, I'm sorry, what? he said.

The Australian leaned forward, and yelled in Simon's ear I said nice plant! gesturing to the foliage sticking out of Simon's backpack, This is a wicked party, eh mate?.

Simon sighed despondently, ignoring the man's expectant look, and pushed his way through the crowd to get to his room, apologising all the way. He didn't really know why he apologised for pushing annoying strangers out of the way in his own house, it just seemed the British way to do things.

Finally he made it to his bedroom. Finally, he thought, I can crawl into bed and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist. He pushed open the door and slipped in, and was about to shut the noise of the party out when he realised he wasn't alone. In the half-light he could make out two people in the bed, obviously engaged in a very personal and intimate moment.

What the hell do you think you're playing at? shrieked a voice at him Get the hell out of here, can't you see we're busy?!

Oh Christ, uh, sorry, I'll, uhm, leave you guys alone. Sorry. he muttered, turning to leave.

Then he stopped. Something about that voice had rung bells in his head. He knew that voice. The unpleasant screechy tone, the haughty overbearing attitude behind it, the way every syllable grated on his nerves, like fingernails scraped across the blackboard of his eardrums.

It was his girlfriend, Joyce.

She was in his bed – their bed – with another man. Simon felt sick to the pit of his stomach. He didn't know what to do, apart from try not to vomit. Thousands of years of evolution reared up in him, making visions flash past his eyes, of himself leaping forward and pummelling this stranger, this cuckold, this man who had violated his woman. He fantasized about bloodying the interloper's nose and asserting his dominance over this threat to his manhood. Gallons of testosterone surged through his veins, willing him forward to avenge his lady's honour with a flurry of blows, aimed at this heathen who had dared go near what was rightfully his.

The visions passed. Simon sagged. He knew in his heart he couldn't do it. He knew he would be pulverised in a heartbeat, made a mockery of in front of this crowd of strangers. He could almost feel the generations of alpha males laughing at him, at his inability to even lift a finger to defend his woman. So he left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

***

Simon sat on the stairs, picking at his fingernails. The party ebbed and flowed around him, as unconscious of him as he was of it. Half of his mind couldn't believe that she was cheating on him, having sex with another man, in their own house, in their own bed! But the other half of his mind gave him a kick in the groin, told him to wake up. He had always known, deep down, that she was playing around. He had buried the shame, pretended not to notice the secret texts, the late nights in the office, just so he could stay in the relationship. He was too scared to be alone.

He stared at his fingers again, feeling close to tears. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn't want to see who it was, because he already knew by the cloying perfume that had preceded it.

I'm sorry Simon, said Joyce. He realised she was only wearing an oversized t-shirt. It was one of his.

I didn't want you to find out like this. It's just, well, Antoine and I have something special, something totally different. It's not like you and me, it's better than that. What a line, thought Simon, looking her in the eye. He couldn't hold her gaze for long.

So, it's over? he asked, staring at the floor. Joyce looked at him, with a pained expression.

Of course it's over Simon. It hasn't really been working out for a long time, has it? she said in a horribly condescending tone. I think it's best if you come back in the morning to clear out all your stuff. Antoine is going to move in here, with me. she said. Simon looked over her shoulder to see Antoine hovering in the background, He was tall, handsome, tanned and even his muscles had muscles. Antoine grinned at him, and waved. Simon found himself waving back.

I think it's best if you stayed somewhere else tonight Simon, said Joyce, I don't think this is the best place for you to be right now.

Simon put his head in his hands. He felt...numb. He knew this was his fault, that he had been so timid, so scared, so boring that he had pushed her away. Right into the muscular arms of dreamy Antoine. He looked at this new man, to find him staring at himself in the mirror, carefully adjusting his hair. What chance did Simon have in a world where guys like Antoine were always around the corner, ready to show him up with a smile and a wink? How could he compete against all that? Simon realised Joyce was looking at him.

Do you know where you're going to go Simon? she asked It's just, well, you're kind of bringing the place down a little. It is meant to be a party after all. She smiled. Simon felt like he'd been kicked in the nethers for the fifth time in the evening. Dammit, he thought, If I have to leave here, then I'll do it with my head held high. Without a word he stood up, shouldered his backpack, and squared up to Joyce, ready to show her he was strong enough to take this like a man.

One look in her eyes and his false bravado melted. He dropped back into his apologetic slouch, and turned for the door. Around him the party raged on, as if Simon's world hadn't just ended. He stepped outside, and closed the door gently behind himself.

The sun came up, many hours later and it was turning into a bright day as Simon staggered through London streets, feeling lost, lonely and very sorry for himself. The only companion he had left in this world was the pot plant in his backpack, which had taken to tickling his ear. He had tried holding a conversation with it, but although pot plants may be extremely friendly beings, they aren't particularly good talkers. He'd tried listening to music, but realised Joyce had put all the songs on his MP3 player, and he really hated R n B. So he'd headed to a pub nearby, and drank far more than he should have. He didn't have anywhere to stay that night, so he'd decided to just stay up, and figure it out in the next day. Now it was the next day and he was too tired and drunk to care about anything any more. He felt numb.

As he wandered through the deserted neighbourhood, something in the back of his mind told him he was being followed. And although he wasn't in the worst part of London, the city was full of people you didn't want to meet at this time in the morning.

Afraid to turn around, he stepped up his pace, willing his wobbling legs to move faster, but they refused to respond. They had had a good time in the pub and it was far too late to ask for the hundred metres sprint right now. And they made it very clear that even if they hadn't consumed as much alcohol as a dozen Glaswegian football fans, it had been a very long time since Simon had been to a gym, so whatever top speed sheer terror may have been able to propel him to, it was obvious he wasn't going to be able to maintain it for long enough to escape. In fact he would probably hasten his death by bringing on a massive heart attack.

Simon briefly considered the remaining options available to him. There was nowhere to hide in this empty street. He could turn and fight his attacker, face to face, hand to hand, man to man, but a lifetime of being beaten up on the playground told him that wouldn't go very well for him. He rummaged through his pockets, desperately searching for something to use as a weapon, though he had no idea of what he might have in his pocket that would help. He turned up nothing more than pocket lint and small change, neither of which is known as being the soldiers weapon of choice. Which left only one thing he could do: Surrender. There was nothing left but to turn around, hands raised aloft in abject terror, and offer the assailant whatever he wanted. Simon sincerely hoped it was money, because he didn't think muggers generally went for pot plants, and Simon wasn't feeling like offering up anything more personal, not without at least dinner and a drink beforehand.

Simon stopped, breathing hard from the attempt to flee. It was now or never. He spun on his heel, eyes screwed shut and arms raised aloft in the time honoured pose of the unmitigated coward.

ImsorrypleasedonthurtmetakeanythingyouwantImsorrypleasedonthurtme he blurted out, and waited for the pain to start.

But nothing happened. Simon didn't know whether to be relieved or horrified. Either there was no attacker, and his sixth sense to danger was faulty, or the attacker was preparing for something a lot less pleasant than relieving Simon of his wallet. Less pleasant for Simon in particular. Simon, against all experience, decided that knowing what was about to happen was much better than not knowing, slowly opened one eye.

To discover a small, ancient tabby cat, looking at him expectantly.

Simon opened both eyes, and peered around him. The street was completely empty, save for him and the tabby. He lowered his hands. In a day plagued by what he thought of as gross injustices, surrendering to a mangy old cat definitely ranked amongst the worst. The cat cocked its head to one side, curious about what the strange human with the plant growing out of his back was going to do next. Always hopeful of food, it sidled up to him, rubbing its head against his leg, wheezing in an asthmatic purr.

Simon sighed yet again, and bent down to stroke the animal. Judging by the smell it was incontinent at best, but he had always liked cats. Unfortunately, the feeling wasn't always mutual.

As soon as his hand got near the tabby's head, its demeanour changed from friendly-if-smelly-pet to trained-killer-that-doesn't-care-about-personal-hygiene. It raised its hackles, hissed viciously at him, and swiped a paw full of razor sharp claws at Simon, cutting deep into the back of his hand, before leaping away towards a nearby house.

You little bastard! yelled Simon, clutching the wound to stem the bleeding. He started after the cat, but it had disappeared through a catflap in the front door. Simon tried stopping, but his legs remembered they were drunk, and refused to help. He smacked face-first into the front door, leaving an imprint of the house number on his face and bruising his cheek.

Yeough! He yelled, rubbing his cheek to stop the pain. Great, he thought, one night on my own and I'm bruised, battered and possibly infected with rabies. If this is the single life, you can bloody well keep it.

The front door swung open, startling Simon. He stared, dumbfounded, at the person who had opened it. A myopic old lady dressed from head to toe in nylon peered back at him. She smelled faintly of moth balls and cheap perfume.

Hello my dear! she said brightly, smiling at him I take it you've come about the room? she said, questioningly.

Erm, pardon? said Simon, rather confused and swaying visibly. I don't understand.

The room. said the old lady I have had it advertised for a little while now. She gestured at a tiny, hand written note taped into the window. It was scrawled in the standard old lady handwriting, and was barely readable. Simon moved closer to read it. It said:

Room to let, fully furnished, with use of the kitchen. Would suit tidy non-smoking professional gentleman. £40 per week.

Underneath it had written in smaller, even more scrawled letters:

Must like cats.

And underneath that, in tiny capital letters:

A LOT.

Simon stepped back, away from the window. He looked up to find the old lady was staring at him, smiling sweetly.

Err, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, he stammered, pointing to the minuscule advert, I mean, that's quite not why...

Why, you're hurt, the old lady interrupted, grabbing Simon's scratched hand, Did Ernie scratch you? Ernie looked at him from his vantage point on top of the stairs. Simon could swear he was grinning. Bad puss! scolded the old lady, Never mind young man, come on inside and we'll get you sorted out in a jiffy!. She grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip, and dragged him inside with a strength that surprised him. After the day he had just had, Simon could no longer be bothered to resist.

***

Later that evening, Simon had a new place to stay, a bandage on his scratched hand and a bag full of pills on the bedside table to ward off whatever evil may have been lurking in the recesses of Ernie's putrid claws. He still wasn't quite sure how it had happened. Somehow the lady, Muriel, had refused to take no for an answer. It had all happened so quickly he hadn'ty had a chance to change. He was still wearing his work suit from the previous day.

He looked around his new room. It was small and sparse, empty except for a single bed, a wardrobe and the pot plant on a window ledge, basking gratefully in the lazy evening sunshine. Muriel had carefully placed a lace doily under it. Simon's other possessions were stacked in a few small cardboard boxes in the corner. Joyce had bought practically everything since they started dating, so she had kept most of it when he was dumped. He was bewildered by how little he actually owned in life. Still, at least it had made moving out easier. Antoine had even helped carry the boxes to the taxi. Which was nice.

Simon looked around his new room. It wasn't a terrible place to stay really, even though it smelled ever so faintly of wee. There was also an alarming number of cats in the house. Ernie seemed to be the alpha male and he had taken up residence on Simon's bed. He was lying asleep on his back and snoring loudly.

Infested with cats is may have been, but it was cheap, in a quiet neighbourhood and Muriel seemed nice, if a little...peculiar. She kept telling him about the wardrobe. How she had spent some of the best days of her youth in there. Simon had nodded politely when she told him, and made a mental note to start looking for somewhere else in the morning.

He lay down on the bed, stroked the wheezing Ernie and stared at the ceiling. It would take a miracle to sort his life out now. Fired, dumped and made homeless all in a few hours, he could at least console himself in knowing he now had a roof over his head that his savings could afford for the next few months. If yesterday had been rock bottom, at least he hadn't started to dig. This was, if nothing else, an improvement. First thing Monday he'd get up and hit the Jobcentre, to try and get something as quick as he could. It didn't matter what – he'd had every rubbish office job going in the last few years, and for all the downsides of being a human doormat, the plus side was that you were willing to put up with almost anything.

Ernie stirred under Simon's hand. He stood up, stretched his ancient feline muscles, jumped off the bed and poked curiously at the pile of boxes in the corner. Simon sighed. Well, he thought, I guess I had better move in. He kicked his legs over the edge of the bed, stood up and opened the first box. A tangled mess of crumpled clothes greeted him. He hadn't bothered to pack properly, keen to be out of his old house as soon as he could. He dragged out the mess, and fought to unwind a shirt, still attached to its coat hanger.

He threw open the wardrobe to hang up the shirt and felt Ernie burst past him, diving into the cupboard in an impressive display of acrobatic agility for such an ancient cat.

Oi, come here you little git, get out of there! muttered Simon. He poked his head into the dark recesses of the cupboard, but couldn't see the animal. Stupid thing. he said softly to himself. There was no way he was going to let that cat stay in there: Simon couldn't think of anything pleasant that he was likely to be doing in one of the dark corners. He turned around and dug into one of the boxes until he found a pair of tatty old gloves. He wasn't stupid enough to let that damned cat tear chunks out of him twice in one day. He reached into the cupboard gingerly, expecting the sudden shock of a feline frenzy to hit him at any second.

But the shock didn't come. There was no sign at all of the cat. Simon was puzzled – he'd seen the cat leap in there, and there was no way even a crafty old moggie like Ernie could have got out without him seeing. He knelt down, determined to locate his new-found nemesis. He leaned in deeper, gloved hands outstretched to lean on the bottom so he could feel his way into the dark corners at the back.

And promptly fell through the large and so far unnoticed hole in the bottom of the wardrobe, completely disappearing from view with a strange wet pop.

A few seconds later, Ernie leapt out of the cupboard, landing deftly in a heap on the pile of clothes Simon had left behind. He sauntered proudly to the half-open door, behind which Muriel waited, peering through the crack into the room. She smiled slyly.

Well done Ernie, good boy, she said, Lets go and get you a nice treat, shall we? Maybe a can of tuna, mmm?

She closed the door quietly, and wandered off downstairs to the kitchen, with Ernie sauntering behind her, tail proudly held high in the air and his little cat bum swinging from side to side.

Simon woke up with a terrible headache. I really need to stop drinking, he thought to himself, rolling over to bury his face in the pillow.

A moment later he realised it wasn't a pillow. Pillows, generally, aren't moist and almost never smell like a public toilet in need of a clean. He lifted his head to look at what it had been resting on. He stared, disgusted, at the large pile of what was almost certainly manure that he had, until very recently, been comfortably rubbing his face in.

Oh God! he yelped, sitting upright. How is this even possible? What the hell do you have to feed a cat to make it produce anything like this amount of excrement? He fought the urge to vomit, and lost.

As he did it dawned on him that this bed wasn't anywhere near as comfortable as it had been, and the room rather...roomier. He looked around, confirming his fears that he wasn't, in fact, inside the house after all.

He was sitting in a small, dark, dank alleyway that