Sam Tomcat was hit by a car while chasing another cat. He wakes up in 1973. Has he really gone back in time or is this a dream while he is lying on the vet's operating table having his jaw wired and his leg pinned?

"So, is it headfirst in the welly for this one?" said a mean looking ginger alley cat, puffing on a catnip roll-up.

"Looks like he's been done, guv. Neat job of it, must've been a sharp penknife," said a scruffy tabby, " …aah, back in the land of the living are we sunshine?"

"Where am I?" asked Sam.

"'Ere, have a slug of this, put fur on your chest it will," said the ginger, proffering a hip-flask. "No? You don't mind if I have some do you?"

"Must've been some knock you took," said the tabby, "Knocked you clear into next week."

Sam Tomcat looked around him. The buildings were vaguely familiar, but everything smelled wrong. It was too dirty and sooty. He stood up and started to wash himself.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," he said, "But I could murder a bowl of Pearl Ocean Delicacies."

"Oooh," said the ginger, affecting a limp paw, "Pearl Ocean Delicacies. We don't have any of that here. Got some Whiskas Beef and Kidney back at the yard though. We only opened the tin this morning."

"No chance of some Sheba Terrine, I suppose," said Sam hopefully.

"Ooh, Sheba Terrine," laughed the tabby, mincing in an affected manner, "You been overseas? Just out of quarantine? We might have some boiled coley at the back of the fridge, but that's as posh as it gets."

"I don't need quarantine," said Sam, "I've had all my vaccinations, I'm microchipped and I've got a Pet Passport. Last year I went to the South of France."

"Get you and your vaksee-nay-shuns," chortled the ginger, "And what the blummin' 'eck's a microchip when it's at home? Some fancy bleedin' stuff to go with your Sheba Terrine? Come on, can't waste time when there's things to stick our noses into. You coming back to the yard Sam or do we have to drag you by the scruff of the neck."

"How d'you know my name?" asked Sam, perplexed.

"Cos you were transferred to our yard and we were told to keep an eye for you. 'A habit of getting into trouble' said the transfer report. I'm Ginge Hunt, your new guv'nor. So look lively – that's an order!"

Later, Sam pondered his predicament. He was in a world where no-one seemed aware of the dangers of FeLV or FIV and where his only food choices seemed to be Whiskas Supermeat, Kattomeat or Kit-E-Kat – all requiring the application of an antique can-opener – and primitive dried foods called Go-Cat and Munchies, supposedly linked to urinary blockage. Kittens were so routinely drowned they didn't even warrant further investigations and neutering rates were a disgrace. Even Sally, the sympathetic tortoiseshell, had been forced to have one litter (whose paternity and fate were unknown) "for her own good" before being spayed. Sam was appalled to learn that Ginge had knocked off every unspayed female in the district, some of whom were rumoured to be his own daughters.

What sort of place have I ended up in? Sam asked himself that night as he bedded down on a spare blanket at the yard. What sort of nightmare did cats endure in 1973?

"… breathing normal …"

"… he'll have to lose a few teeth, but the jaw aligns nicely …"

" … heartbeat good …"

"… all going well we can save the leg …."

Next week, local tabbies have been going missing en masse; a horrified Sam discovers the state of feline healthcare in 1973 and Sam tries to explain to his insensitive colleagues that short-legged cats should be referred to as Munchkins, not spazzes.

Sam Tomcat was hit by a car while chasing another cat. He wakes up in 1973. Has he really gone back in time or is this a dream while he is lying on the vet's operating table having his jaw wired and his leg pinned?

Sam snoozed in the old caravan Ginge Hunt had found him for lodgings. It was midday and everyone at the yard was having a short nap. A black-and-white TV was playing in the corner. Sam, with his colour vision, had found black and white disturbing. There was also a distinct lack of cat-oriented programming apart from a white cat called Arthur dipping his paw into a can of Kattomeat. Sam knew that some time between monochrome 1973 and full colour 2007, the product would be named Arthurs.

"Wake up, Sam," the voice insinuated its way into his subconscious, "You're dying."

"Nnnrgh?" yawned Sam, scratching one ear as he woke.

The white cat was sitting on his bedside table, scooping pawfuls of food from an open can.

"You're dying, Sam, your heart's failing ...."

Suddenly the caravan door banged open and Sam woke with a jolt. The white cat and the open can had gone.

"Rise and shine wonder-cat," said Ginge Hunt, There's been a murder on our patch."

Down near the newspaper shop, Sam looked at the dead kittens while Ginge comforted their distraught mother, Siamese Suzy. With Ginge it was hard to distinguish between "comforting" and "chatting up" thought Sam.

"Looks like an open and shut case," said Ray the shabby tabby cat, "Suzy saw Rex over there nosing about among the crates and when she got here, he'd already killed the kittens."

"Better haul him in for questioning," said Ginge, swaggering over to them. "Boy, she's hot for me," he told the pair, "hardly lost one litter and she's talking about having anothe one as soon as possible to replace them. Females, eh?"

To Sam's experienced eye, Rex didn't look like a killer. He was a rather simple-minded Alsatian (he'd given up trying to get Ginge to call the dog a German Shepherd) who insisted he'd smelled blood and gone to investigate. The kittens were already dead when he found them.

"Come on sunshine, you think we were born yesterday?" Ginge said, swiping Rex across the nose with his claws out.

"It's true," said Rex, "They was already dead. And there was this smell ..."

"Oh yeah, so they were killed by a smell?" Ginge said, admiring his bloody handiwork on Rex's nose.

"Like you," said the simple-minded Alsatian.

Sam leaned forward, "He smelled like Detective Hunt?"

"Yerr," affirmed Rex, "same sort of aftershave."

"Well it wasn't me," Ginge said.

"What aftershave d'you use, guv?" asked Sam.

"I don't. I'm eau-de-tomcat, pure and natural," growled Ginge, "You're going down for this, Rex, you know what they do with killers these days? The lethal chamber ... Phyllis, put Selwyn Doggitt here into a cell, will you? And fetch me a cup of catnip tea while you're at it."

"The pathologist's report's through, guv," said Ray, as Sam and Ginge made their way back to their desks, "Single bite to the neck, each of them."

"You sure?" asked Sam.

"So he bit them to death," said Ginge, "What's the difference? They're still dead, their poor mother is desperate to try for another litter and we've got the killer banged up already."

"It's not Rex's style, guv," insisted Sam, "A big dog like him would shake a kitten to death. Rex's big fangs couldn't have made a precise bite. And frankly, he doesn't fit the profile of a kitten-killer."

"Well, maybe Selwyn Doggitt here tried to play with them? Big thick mutt like him, doesn't know his own strength," Ginge said.

"But he mentioned the smell of eau-de-tomcat," Sam said.

"So what you're saying ..."

"Is the killer had to have been a tomcat. Now think about this. Suzy already has a litter of kittens. She won't be in oestrus again for at least another 5 or 6 weeks."

"What's Easter got to do with it?" asked Ginge.

"Not Easter, oestrus. On heat," Sam said, "The killer didn't want to wait that long. He probably wouldn't be in the area in 5 or 6 weeks time so he wanted Suzy on heat in the next few days. So he killed her kittens. With no kittens nursing, Suzy would come back on heat within a few days and our killer gets to console her," Sam said, "... mate with her," he added, seeing Ginge's eyes glaze over.

"Ray!" yelled Ginge, "Have we had any itinerant tomcats round here of late?"

"There's Bernie Blackfoot, guv," Ray answered, "comes round here every few months knocking up every female he can find."

"Bring him in, I think wonder-cat here is onto something."

That evening, Sam felt a weight off his mind. Rex had been released and Bernie Blackfoot had admitted to the killings. Just as Sam had suspected, he'd wanted Suzy back on heat. Ginge had gone over to give Suzy the news. Bernie had been sentenced to neutering at a local cat shelter and would probably spend several months in rehab. Sam knew that Bernie would be a changed character when he got out. He fell asleep, satisfied.

"Very good Sam," said the white cat, scooping another morsel from his Kattomeat can, "You've proved you've got heart."

"What do you want with me?" asked Sam.

"They're coming to get you ...." the white cat said.

Sam blinked. The white cat had gone.

"... heartbeat back to normal ..."

"... he had me worried there ..."

"... gums are a good colour ...."

"... he's safe to sleep it off now ..."

"... it's all right Sam, your owners are coming to get you...."

"... they're coming to get you ..."

"Right lads," said Ginge Hunt, swaggering across the room, "We're going to be getting a Chinky on the team."

Sam groaned. Ginge's insensitivity to other breeds was legendary. Shortlegged cats were "spazzes" and there was no persuading him that one day the preferred term would be "Munchkin". All white cats, regardless of eye colour, were "deaf-aid" even if they had perfect hearing. With Ginge's hazy knowledge of countries of origin, a Chinky could mean any of the oriental breeds.

"Why's that then?" asked Chris, a young black male whose aspirations of becoming the local lothario had been ended by a visit to the vet after he'd been caught in flagrante with next door's rabbit. Or as Chris called it, in Alicante with a bunny-girl.

"Some sort of community relation thing," said Ginge, scratching his ear, "There's been a spot of bother with the local Siamese community and my guvnor thought we should have one of them on the team to help sort it out. Can't see it myself, but who am I to ask questions?"

"Does that mean we get Chinky grub in the canteen?" asked Ray, "Only last time they did that was just after all those greyhounds went missing and Phyllis swears she found an ID tag in her sweet and sour."

Everyone except tortie Annie and Sam guffawed.

"The dogs were being shot when they stopped winning races," said Annie, mainly for Sam's benefit, "The bodies were buried."

"All totally legal," said Ginge, "and so it should be, we don't want the place infested with greyhounds do we?!"

"So where's this Chinky, then?" asked Ray.

"Yeah, wossis name? Wun Hung Lo?" sniggered Chris.

Sam cringed at the juvenile humour.

"Hiya," said a voice from the door, "I'm Plum Blossom." An elegant, but muscular, seal-point Siamese neuter walked gracefully in.

"Cor, it's Jason off Blue Peter!" said Annie admiringly.

"Sorry luv," said Plum Blossom, "I know we all look alike, but according to my pedigree I only share a great-grandfather with Jason."

"Get everyone you lot," sniggered Ray and even Annie joined the laughter.

Ginge shouted for quiet. "Plum Blossom, this is Chris the resident wag. Annie over there has been spayed, so don't get any funny ideas, though Phyllis probably wouldn't say no, she hasn't had a nibble of interest for years. That's Sam, Ray and I'm Ginge Hunt. The reason you're here is cos there's a lot of your kind round here up in arms because some lass has walked out on an arranged marriage and taken up with a local low-life."

"Would that be Siamese Suzy and yourself guv?" asked Sam innocently.

"No Sam, it wouldn't. You'll have to excuse Sam, he thinks he's funny," Ginge said.

"Little miss Serene Cherry Grove, chocolate point Siamese, was supposed to marry mister Beauty of Bangkok Palace, but when the big day came she'd scarpered through an open window. Since then, she's been seen in the very unsuitable company of Foggy Flatnose whose only claim to bloodline is his granny getting knocked up by a blue Persian. Naturally, Cherry's family aren't too pleased."

"Is there a dowry involved?" asked Sam.

"A dairy? No, it doesn't say anything here about milk products," Ginge retorted, "Why should there be a bleedin' dairy involved?"

"Not a dairy, guv, a dowry. Money paid by the bride's family to the the groom's family."

"What for gettin' her of their hands?" asked Ginge.

"Round here it's the blokes what pay the women," sniggered Ray.

"If Cherry's family paid a dowry , but Cherry's done a runner, and Beauty's family won't pay it back you've got a difficult situation," Sam explained.

"You're not wrong," said Plum Blossom, "Cherry's family paid Beauty's family for Beauty's services."

"So it's a temporary marriage?" Sam asked.

"Indeed," assented the graceful seal-point, "Beauty's family will have the pick of the litter when they're born."

"This is making my head spin," said Ginge, ploughing on regardless, "And meanwhile, Cherry's getting herself knocked up by Foggy and will be ruined for life."

"That's a myth, guv," said Sam.

"What's a myth, wonder-cat?"

"That she'll be ruined for life. That every litter she has from now on will somehow resemble Foggy. The genetics disprove it."

"Well in my view they're ruined if someone got there before me," said Ginge, "We need to find Cherry, preferably before she gets in the family way, and get her back to her rightful suitor. Slanty-eyes here is supposed to make things easier as he's one of them and he knows how this arranged marriage malarky works. Everyone clear?"

Sam and Plum Blossom were sent to speak to the families.

"So why d'you join, Plum Blossom?" asked Sam.

"My family thought it would set a good example," the Siamese replied.

"There's a big future in it, you know. Community liaison, that sort of thing. You're intelligent, you'll do well."

"There doesn't seem much future in intelligence. From what I've seen, it's mostly about beating people up and shouting."

"Things are changing. Gathering intelligence is the future. We can't keep beating false confessions out of innocent suspects. It's intelligence that gets the real culprits."

"Can I say something, Sam?"

"Yeah, don't worry, I won't grass to Ginge."

"Cherry's my cousin. Personally, I think she's better off with Foggy. Beauty's a looker all right, but Foggy's steady. He may not have much to his name, but he'll stick by her."

"So what you're saying, is we get the families to agree over the money and accept that Cherry's made her own choices?"

That weekend, Sam reflected that Plum Blossom's solution would never have worked. A Siamese cat on the streets was an easy target for kidnap and ransom, or maybe forced to have litter after litter until she was worn out. Ray and Chris had picked them up before the Siamese community could get to Foggy. Cherry had been sent home in disgrace. Beauty's family wanted nothing more to do with her. Foggy's only concern was for his unborn children. He didn't want them to end up at the bottom of a canal.

Two days later, Foggy Flatnose was found floating face down in the canal.

"... he's on an antibiotic drip and painkillers ..."

"... he'll be out of it for while ..."

"... you'll have to feed him by gastric tube for the next two weeks ..."

"... probably a permanent limp, but otherwise ..."

"You'll be left deformed, Sam," taunted the white cat, "They won't want you home. They'll put something in the drip and you won't wake up, Sam."

Sam hissed angrily at the white cat. It calmly scooped some more food into its mouth.

"You can't eat, Sam, your mouth's stitched shut."

Sam's belly growled with sudden hunger, but the can of food was out of reach.

"They'll forget to use the feeding tube ..." it taunted.

"No they won't!" Sam yelled at it, "They won't." His stomach already felt full.

The door banged open, letting in a stream of early morning sunlight.

"Nightmares, wonder-cat?" shouted Ginge, "C'mon, you got a job to do."

"So, smartass," said Ginge Hunt, pacing around, "What do your fur-end-sicks tell you this time?"

"Forensic, guv," said Sam, crouching to look at the pawprints.

"Furensics, then," said Ginge, "It still sounds like some sort of hairball medication."

"For a start, whoever did this was a polydactyl."

"A polly wotsit? What's one of them when they're at home?" Ginge exploded.

"We 'ad one of them, guv," said Chris, "but the wheel fell off."

"My mum displayed ours on the mantelpiece," shabby tabby Ray added.

"A polydactyl - a cat with extra toes. Look - the culprit left pawprints after walking through some engine oil. Clearly shows extra toes on the front paws."

"A mitten cat then," said tortie Annie, "Why didn't you just say he was mitten cat?"

"Might not be a he," said Sam, "unless he's been neutered."

"No smell of tomcat pee," Annie added. She was catching on fast.

"So no chance of it being Whisky and Sandy then," said Ginge, "That scuppers our chances of putting the terrible two-some away for a while."

Sam straightened up, "Guv, do I take it you wanted Whisky and Sandy framed for this cat burglary?"

"Seeing as they're responsible for most of the raids round here, I don't see that one more would make any difference," huffed Ginge, "Supplying catnip, raids on catnip patches, theft of catnip mice .... a period of cold turkey would do them good."

"So they've got catnip habits?" Sam asked.

"I can't smell any catnip," Chris said.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" asked Ginge in a long-suffering voice.

Chris looked blank.

"Not all cats react to catnip," Sam said, "About half of us can't - including me."

"So how d'you know there's been catnip involved?" asked Annie, perplexed.

"For a start, Ray is drooling and rubbing his head on the ground where - at a guess - some catnip was spilt. Typical catnip reaction," Sam explained. Seeing Annie's concerned look, he added, "Oh don't worry - he'll be okay in about ten minutes."

"We weren't worried," Ginge said brusquely, "Ray often drools."

Everyone but Sam and the intoxicated Ray burst out laughing.

A little later, Sam outlined the profile of the suspect. He would have to be over 6 months old in order to react to catnip. He had mitten paws. He probably had links to kitten p*rn - not the cutesy pin-up calendar stuff of fluffy kitties that Ginge, Ray and Chris drooled over, but hardcore stuff of provocative barely-pubescent cats rolling about or crouching in the lordosis position, flaunting their tail ends.

"So, you're saying we pull in every mitten-footed catnip user this side of town?" Ginge said, "Especially if he has a collection of dodgy pussy pics?"

"Scrappy Thornton fits the profle," saggy Phyllis said, "Habitual catnipper - been picked up from other cat's homes numerous times and flattened Fluffy Patterson's catnip patch so often she had to grow it a locked cold frame."

"Pick him up and paw-print him," said Ginge, "If his prints match we're onto something."

"What about Lucky Jenkins? She's got extra toes," suggested Annie.

"A female? What would a female be doing looking at kitty-p*rn?"

"It's not unknown," said Sam, "Many lasses are very admiring of a well-toned male."

Annie blushed. Spayed or not, she had a huge crush on Blue Peter's hunky Siamese Jason and would happily have invited him to share her blanket-lined cardboard box in the kitchen. Ginge strutted, well aware of the admiring glances he got from on unspayed females. Ray and Chris sniggered; as neuters they might get a few glances, but they weren't up to doing the biz like Ginge.

"Lucky's only got three legs though," said Annie, "That's how she got her name. The prints at the scene definitely showed four paws."

Sam glowed with pride. Of all his colleagues in 1973, Annie had the most aptitude for modern methods. "We'll interview her anyway. Polydactyly runs in families. She might know someone."

"She's got a brother," Annie said, "She sometimes talks about him when we go out on the prowl of an evening. Says she's worried he's fallen in with a bad crowd - a feral colony that lives in the railway yard."

"Ray, Chris, you can deal with Scrappy Thornton," said Ginge, "Sam - you and Annie get down the railway yard and see if you can find Lucky's brother."

"What about you guv?" asked Sam.

Ginge preened, "I'm going to pay Lucky Jenkins and her freaky feet a visit."

"It won't do him any good," said Annie to Sam when they were out of earshot, "Lucky's been spayed."

Sam and Annie found Lucky's brother down near the railway sheds. He was a moth-eaten tabby-and-white whose tail had been broken and set crooked and who was missing several teeth. His name, as far as he had one, was Fleabag. He'd walked out of home one night and never returned.

"Lost 'em in a fight with a Cortina," Fleabag said proudly, "Same time I broke me tail."

Several hard looking ferals, including some disreputable-looking females who were clearly pregnant, loitered around the yard, warily eyeing Sam and Annie. Sam had great sympathy for them. In his day they'd be trapped, neutered and returned to live out their lives, no longer driven to fight and breed. In 1973, they were more likely to be given poisoned cat food by the land owner.

"Ever thought of going back home, Fleabag?" asked Sam, "Your sister misses you."

"Nah, she's the reason I left. Territorial. Always beating me up. I left soon as I could."

"Fleabag, we know you broke into the pet shop, on Saturday night. Your prints are all over the place," Sam persisted.

"Yeah, well I needed me fix, di'n't I?" Fleabag retorted, " 's getting harder to get 'nip, what with lockable cat-flaps an' stuff. Anyway, I'm movin' out soon."

"Why's that, Fleabag?" asked Annie gently.

"They're flattenin' this place. Closin' the yard. I heard the stationmaster's rodent officer telling his lads about it. More an' more freight's going by road and they don't need the goods yard or the canals n'more. They're being laid off. Nothing for us casual mousers either. Callin' the exterminators in an' not just to do the rats. Lot o' prejudice against us wildies, the sterminators'll kill us soon as look at us."

"Where are you going to go?" asked Sam, "You can't just move from yard to yard, rubbish dump one month and back of Wallis supermarket the next."

" 's what we've always done," said Fleabag, "Gotta go before me girls have their litters though. Tonight or tomorrow. One of the lads has found a place at the back of the Wimpy. It'll do till we find somewhere permanent."

The Wimpy was on the other side of town, outside of Ginge's patch.

"What are we going to do, Sam?" asked Annie, "If the guv have this lot picked up, they'll just be put down. I couldn't face Lucky again if I was responsible for having her brother put to sleep." Her loyalties were clearly divided.

"We could tell the guv we came down here and the wildies had already moved on," Sam said, "It won't solve Fleabag's problem, but he's chosen to go feral and that's no reason he should be put to sleep. Where I'm from we had better ways of dealing with the feral problem."

"Such as?"

"We round them up. Have them neutered and spayed. Find homes for the tame ones and the kittens and let the others go back where they came from."

"What if there's nowhere for them to go back to? What if they're bulldozing it?"

"Try to find them somewhere else to live," Sam said. He didn't mention the scourges of FIV or FeLV.

"Sounds like paradise," said Annie.

"Compared to this, I suppose it is," Sam agreed.

Back at the yard, Ginge exploded in anger.

"You couldn't find Lucky's brother and his mangy mob?" he yelled at Sam.

No guv," said Sam.

"Sorry guv," said Annie.

"If I want anything done round here, I have to do it myself," Ginge ranted.

The next morning, when Ginge got to the railway yard, Fleabag and his feral colony had already gone. For once, Sam's sleep was not interrupted by nightmares.