The Wind Up Bird Problem

 

After the loss of Mr Tibbles, Alun became uncharacteristically bad-tempered. For example, he would suddenly fly into a rage at me for playing the banjulele, which is why I took to practising the instrument at the bottom of the deep, dark well that Coldplay had installed on the island.

 

I found the atmosphere at the bottom of the well strangely serene and peaceful, and I loved releasing my mind and just strumming the banjulele for hours on end.

 

However, as I climbed down there one day I became aware of the distant sound of a Theremin.

 

“It must be Mr Tibbles,” I thought to myself. 

 

I searched the well, but there was no sign of any cat. I searched the walls of the well for a secret door or some such, but there was no exit, the walls were made of thick, solid brick. Wherever Mr Tibbles was it was nowhere within reach. Maybe a neighbouring well, I thought, but there was no neighbouring well.  A mystery.

 

However, even though it was seemingly impossible, every day I went down the well I could distinctly make out the sound of the Theremin being played, very much in Mr Tibbles’ style.

 

In fact, I noticed, the sound of the Theremin became louder as I became more and more engrossed in my banjulele, as if the walls of the well became thinner as I played.  I started to amend my music to the tune of the Theremin, and as I did it became louder and louder, as if the walls of the well had become as thin as paper.

 

Then, when I opened my eyes, I found I was no longer at the bottom of a deep, dark well, I was in a hotel room. It was a four-star hotel, not the sort I could usually afford, you could tell by the condition of the bed sheets. The room was ill-lit by the red-illumination of an advertising hoarding opposite. I turned on a lamp, closed the blinds and took in my surroundings. A standard hotel room, a phone, no sign of any inhabitant.

 

There was no cat. No Theremin.

 

I decided to explore. Taking note of the room number, I stepped into the corridor. The sound of the Theremin was loud and clear. I followed the sound down.

 

The corridor had bland, blank, beige walls, though the floor was bedecked with a thick ruby pile carpet, which betrayed a high class hotel. ‘How could Alun’s cat afford to stay in a place like this?’ I wondered.

 

Five doors down I came upon the room. I could hear the Theremin through the door. I knocked and tried the handle. It was locked. I tried calling, but there was nobody in there, just the cat, and even if Mr Tibbles had been able to open locked doors, he was clearly too engrossed in the Theremin to answer.

 

How had he got here? I wondered, into a locked room in a hotel, hidden behind the walls of a deep, dark well, clearly somewhere deep within my own subconscious mind.

 

A stupid question really. Cats are renowned for their ability to get lost in impossible to reach places, he must have been crawling around in the subconscious realm looking for mice, or a warm spot to sleep, and somehow become trapped in room 99 of this hotel. The bottom of the well, which had been built by Coldplay specifically for meditation, must have created a channel into the same subconscious realm that the cat had entered. If I could only find a key to the door I could bring the cat back to the well with me and return it to Alun. If I only had a key.

 

A key. I felt in my rear trouser pocket, of course I did have a key, the key to the geep shed. I tried it in the door, but it didn’t fit. Then I remembered a had a key to the really special mint tin in my front trouser pocket, but that didn’t fit either. Of course, I kept the key to Montserrat Lombard’s secret toothpick collection in the hidden inside pocket above my left sock. I retrieved it, but that didn’t fit either. I searched my other pockets, did I have any other keys on me? Yes, the key to the billiard room in the empty house, though that didn’t fit. The key to the bar billiard room didn’t fit either, nor did the key to the bar and billiard room. The key to the bra and billiard room was entirely the wrong kind, as was the key to the no bra and no billiards room (a room whose exact purpose I will gloss over here).

 

I had run out of keys and out of ideas. From inside the room, which I noted was number 99 (like the flake), I could still hear the cat merrily playing on the Theremin, but I was no longer alone, I could hear the faint rumble of approaching voices. Without being able to articulate why, I knew that I shouldn’t be found here, prowling outside the cat’s Theremin hideaway. I swiftly turned and retraced my steps along the plush ruby carpet, along the blank, bland, beige corridor to my room (the number of which I am unable to divulge). I shut the door with a quiet click. Picking up my banjulele I closed my eyes and slowly plucked the strings, and as I did so I found myself back at the bottom of the well. 

 

Now at least I knew where the missing cat was, in a hotel, somewhere deep in my unconscious that I could only access by climbing to the bottom of a deep, dark well and playing the banjulele. All I had to do was find a key that would fit the door of room 99, rescue the cat and return him to the bottom of the well.  Alun would be delighted. With luck, his temper might improve somewhat and I’d no longer have to climb into a well to play the banjulele.

 

I climbed out of the well, ran up the path to my home, and gathered up every key in the house: the key to the Tibetan anus flute cabinet, the key to the not very special mint tin, the key to the halibut tank and the key to the key cupboard. Of course, the key cupboard. I filled my pockets with keys of every description, many of them had no known use, I’d just kept them because they were keys and you should always keep keys, just in case, that’s what you do with keys.

 

Climbing back down the well with my new collection of keys I started to strum the banjulele until I became distracted. As before, the sound of the Theremin became louder the more I lost myself in the sound, and I found myself strumming along to whatever tune the cat was playing. I could sense the very walls of the well growing thinner, the sound of the Theremin growing louder. I closed my eyes.

 

I found myself in the same hotel room, but it was daylight, the blinds were wide open, the sun was blazing into every corner. The bed had been slept in and there was a well-thumbed paperback on the bedside table, though no other sign of any inhabitant. As before, I could hear the distant sound of the Theremin.

 

I stepped into the corridor, it was very much as before, though the sunlight made the walls look fresher, more alive. The room number was unchanged, as was the direction of the Theremin sound. I walked down the corridor and tried the news sets of keys, but as before none of them fitted. I felt like a lonely prince holding a mis-sized shoe in a cinderellaless universe.

 

I heard voices again, from the same distant wing of the hotel, getting nearer. As before, I turned on my heels and returned to my room, picked up the banjulele, closed my eyes and found myself back at the bottom of the well.

 

I had run out of keys. There was only one thing left to do. I would have to ask the Boatman.

 

Like any isolated island, the daily boat from the mainland is our main link to civilisation and our lifeline to the wider world. The boatman provides us with goods of every description, and an even wider choice of gossip and tittle-tattle.

 

“You want a key,” he said. “One that will open any door. A magic key.”

 

“Well, it doesn’t have to be magical, just one that’ll open any door in the universe, including one in a hotel room in my subconscious mind.”

 

“Well I do have this. I can’t give it to you to keep, mind, it’s my own, it’s just a loan. It’s the Magic Key that Opens Every Lock.”

 

“It sounds perfect,” I said.

 

“Don’t be fooled by the title, it doesn’t actually open EVERY lock. In fact there is one lock in the universe that this key doesn’t fit.”

 

“Don’t tell me,” I said, “the key to room 99 of a hotel in my subconscious mind which I access through Coldplay’s well, in which sits Alun’s lost cat playing the Theremin.”

 

“No, not that lock, I’m referring to the lock of Montserrat Lombard’s secret toothpick collection. There’s only one key in the universe that will open that lock.”

 

“Oh, I’ve got that,” I said.

 

“Have you. I’ll let her know, she’s been looking everywhere. She hasn’t been able to access her secret toothpicks all week.”

 

“I’ll bring your key back as soon as I’ve rescued the cat,” I said.  “And Montserrat’s toothpick key, tell her I’m sorry for hanging onto it for so long.”

 

“That’ll be grand. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

 

With the Magic Key that Opens Every Lock safely hidden away in my left side upper thigh pocket, I rushed back to my house, grabbed the banjulele, rushed to the well, climbed down, and started strumming.

 

Once more I found myself in the hotel room. It was night again, but the lamp was on, so I could see clearly. The room was a mess, clothes thrown everywhere. I was alone, however, whoever had created the mess had left, assumedly to create more mess elsewhere.

 

Leaving my banjulele safely on the bed, I crept down the corridor to room 99. As before I could hear the cat playing the Theremin. I placed the key in the lock. This was the ultimate test, was this really the Magic Key that Opens Every Lock, or would the lock of room 99 prove to be another Montserrat’s toothpick.

 

The locked clicked. I opened the door. There, sure enough, sat a pure white cat, lounging gracefully on the bed playing the Theremin. I picked up the cat and his Theremin and carried them to the door. I was only just in time, I could hear voices behind me in the corridor. “Don’t stop playing,” I told the cat, but it was too late. Distracted by his unexpected travels, Mr Tibbles had ceased playing the Theremin.

 

The voices behind me stopped, briefly, as if in shock that the music had ceased. When they restarted I could hear them suddenly becoming urgent. There was another sound, which I recognised as the sound of feet running on soft, ruby pile carpet. They were running after me. I ran towards the door of my room, but I was burdened with both uncooperative cat and a Theremin, so I was slow. The feet were catching me up. I chanced a glance over my shoulder and could see two men, who resembled Japanese gangsters of exactly the type you might expect in a hotel somewhere in your subconscious accessed from the bottom of Coldplay’s deep, dark well.

 

They were both brandishing guns, but luckily it was a high-class hotel, and they didn’t shoot. Four star hotels make every effort not to shoot their guests, not like the cheaper hotels Alun and I are occasionally forced to stay in.

 

I made it to my room, and slammed the door behind me, thinking quickly enough to turn the key in the lock. I could hear them outside, frantically jangling keys. “We could try this,” I heard one say to the other, “It’s the key to the executive pickle jar, it looks like it might fit.”

 

Placing the cat and the Theremin on my lap I began to strum my banjulele. When I opened my eyes we were safely at the bottom of the well.

 

If you’ve ever tried to carry a cat and a Theremin up a 300 foot rope ladder you’ll realise that my escape still wasn’t entirely straightforward. I tried leaving the Theremin and taking the cat first, but this just made him angry. Eventually I managed it, leaving my banjulele behind to collect later.

 

Though it seemed I had only been in the well a few hours, it was night when I reached the top of the well. Strange. Still, I didn’t hesitate, I carried Mr Tibbles and his Theremin straight to Alun’s door. “Can you imagine how delighted he’ll be?” I asked Mr Tibbles. He didn’t comment.

 

I rang the bell several times, before I finally heard the angry thumping and banging that indicated Alun was getting dressed. “What the hell do you want, Jed, waking me this hour of the night,” he said (I told you he’d become bad-tempered).

 

“It’s your cat,” I said. “Mr Tibbles. I found it in a mysterious hotel at the bottom of a well.”

 

“That’s not my cat, Jed” he said contemptuously. “Mr Tibbles is black.”

 

He was right. I’d completely forgotten, I’d been fooled by the seemingly-identical Theremin proficiency, I’d rescued entirely the wrong cat.

 

“Don’t you want it anyway?” I asked. “It plays the Theremin.”

 

“I don’t care, I don’t want any cat that’s not Mr Tibbles. Take it back to where you found it.”

 

Easier said than done. I thought about the gun-wielding Japanese gangsters waiting for me in the hotel. I decided I’d keep the cat for myself. After all, I quite like the sound of the Theremin.