The hungry cat eyed the fat pigeon wobbling around the rubbish heaped in the alley, trying to guage the right distance to spring. The wound on her right thigh wasn't helping. It was a bad one, the crusted scar still weeping blood, and she knew she wouldn't last long in this condition, especially without the ability to hunt.

But she had to try. If not for herself, then for the kittens. They wouldn't last long either ...

Noise, suddenly. A fearsome trumpeting, bellowing sound. From nowhere a tall blue box with a flashing light on top appeared in the alley, blowing paper and trash around. The cat shrank back, watching with resigned dismay as the pigeon took fright and hurtled into a wall and dropped to the ground, dazed. The perfect chance, were it not for the man who came out of the box. He saw the pigeon as well and bent over it.

"Oh dear, what have I done now?"

The man reached down, but the pigeon hopped away, wings fluttering feebly. The man started to chase after it up the alley towards the street. The cat settled back, feeling weaker by the minute, hope fading fast ...

***

"Look Janice, I'm not the one being unreasonable here. Listen to me - no, just you listen a minute! What - look, no, I don't! Janice, just listen! Janice! Oh, the hell with you!"

PC Paul Fisher slammed the handset back into its cradle and glared at the grubby front of the pay phone, seething with rage. Why wouldn't she ever listen to him? He was getting pretty sick and tired of it. He turned on his heel and flung open the phone box door, nearly striking a passer-by. The old man in the tatty flat cap gaped at the red-faced young constable. Paul's temper snapped.

"What the hell are you looking at? Go on, get on out of it!"

The old man's face widened with fright and he dropped his gaze, scuttling off towards the High street. Paul watched him go and felt a sharp pang of shame. He gritted his teeth and grunted with exasperation. Bloody hell, what a way to start the day!

He stalked down the High street, the only black cloud in an otherwise perfect Spring morning. Paul looked up at the bright sun glowing in a pure blue sky and swore. Why was it so damn hot? His heavy uniform was already starting to prickle him, and he could feel patches of sweat seeping through his shirt. Of all the mornings to find you've run out of deodorant ... he shook his head. This was turning into a right wonderful bloody day.

There was a squeal of brakes and a car horn blarred angrily. Someone shouted. Paul winced. That's all he needed, a bloody car pile-up. He loathed point-duty. Especially in weather like this. With great reluctance, Paul quickened his pace to see what was going on.

He couldn't believe it. Weaving around the fast-moving traffic in the centre of the road was a man who appeared to be, of all things, chasing a pigeon along the tarmac, almost oblivious to the cars speeding around him. Paul watched with mounting horror as a wing-mirror nearly clipped the man's backside. Any second now and he really would be hit ...

"Oi! You! Get out of there!"

Paul ran across the road, arms aloft to hold up the traffic. A BMW screeched to a halt, the driver's angry gesticulations muted when he saw it was a copper doing the holding up. Paul reached the man just as he scooped up the pigeon and he grabbed his elbow and steered him none too gently back to the pavement. The BMW roared ahead, horn lingering in the dusty air.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Paul looked the man up and down - a nutter, by the looks. You could always tell by the eyes, and his were certainly strange, deep blue, almost glowing. He was tall, mid thirties, with an unruly mop of dark brown hair. Weird clothes - long velvety jacket and baggy tan trousers, almost like some kind of fancy dress costume. He seemed fidgety, almost hyperactive. Maybe he was wired as well. Heavy medication, or something worse. Paul groaned inwardly. That's all he needed.

The man was grinning happily, holding the pigeon up for Paul to see. "I got him!"

"Yeah, and I got you. Come on, down the station. Then we'll see which hospital it is you're supposed to be in."

"Hospital? No no no! Been there, done that. I'm as fit as fiddle now, see!"

To demonstrate, the man started jogging on the spot at a frightening pace.

"Knock that off! You're in enough trouble as it is." Paul reached up for his radio to call the wagon. He didn't fancy dragging him all the way back to the station. The man stopped his jog and held up a hand.

"Officer, wait a minute! There's no need for this. Allow me to explain? Maybe then it'll save us both a lot of bother. Please?"

Paul hesitated, swayed by the look of appeal in the man's eyes. "Go on then, but I warn you, any monkey business ..."

"Absolutely not! Look, see this?" He held up the pigeon. It cooed, beady eyes darting this way and that for a chance to escape.

"A pigeon. What about it?"

The man leaned closer, almost conspiratorially. "It's special. Very important!"

Realisation started to dawn in Paul's mind. "Oh, right, I see ... racing bird, is it? Champion or something?"

The man frowned. "No, no, it's no racing pigeon. Plain, ordinary, common-or-garden city pigeon."

"But you said it was special."

"It is. But not for that reason. Tell me, do you know of the chaos theory?"

"Yeah, butterflies causing hurricanes in Japan or something, isn't it?"

"That's it! Well, almost. Anyway, this little fellow is going to have a profound effect on the future of mankind. Not a hurricane in Japan. Something worse ..."

"Future of mankind ... right ..." Paul spoke very slowly, humouring the man, and slid his hand up to his radio again. This was pointless ...

The man suddenly reached up with his free hand and seized Paul's. He leaned closer, speaking urgently.

"If I allow this pigeon to die here, in this road, something very bad will happen. Very, very bad. And it's my fault. I have the chance to undo what I've done."

"I bet." Paul struggled to free his hand but couldn't. He reached down with his other hand to the baton on his belt.

"Tyrone Ellis Peacock."

"What?"

The man shook his head. "No, no, you wouldn't have heard of him, yet." He pointed down the street with the pigeon. "He lives about a mile or so from here. He's a seven year-old boy at the moment. A very unhappy little boy. Not surprising given the fact that both his parents are drug addicts, crack cocaine. Tyrone has stayed clean, but it's only a matter of time." He pointed down towards an alley. "Tyrone uses that as a short cut from school. In a couple of days time he'll discover a kitten in that alley. He'll take it home with him, hide it from his parents, because he's afraid of what they'll do to it if they find out. Of course they do find out after a while, but not before it's become the most important thing in Tyrone's life. Finally something to care for! Tyrone runs away from home with it. A taxi driver finds him a few days later, starving hungry, cold and frightened. The taxi driver is a good man, large family, but not so large that he can't take in one more. Tyrone forgets about his real parents, they forget about him. Tyrone studies hard, sails through school, college, university. Gets a law degree. Starts to make a name for himself fighting for the rights of the oppressed and downtrodden. He becomes a popular man to some, not so popular to those who do the oppressing and the treading on. He runs for political office, gets it, carries on the fight to the top of the tree. Some battles he loses, but mainly he wins. He improves the lives of a lot of people. But ..."

The man went quiet, staring in space. Paul blinked, almost hypnotised by the man's tone. Radio and baton were forgotten.

"But?"

The man looked at Paul, and his eyes were sad and bleak. "But, if the pigeon dies, Tyrone won't get his kitten. Down in that alley, there's a starving alley cat with a diminishing litter of kittens. Catching that pigeon gives the mother and its kittens a little more life. Without it, they die. Tyrone goes back to his wretched home life. He gets nothing to care for. He has nothing to care for. Life becomes meaningless to him." The man's voice dropped to a whisper. "Tyrone starts dealing at 12. But he's smarter than dad, he knows not to touch the stuff. At 13, he gets his first arrest. At 15, he makes his first kill. Rival dealer, not far from where we're standing now. At 17, he's a lieutenant in one of the biggest drug gangs in the district. By 21, he's running the gang. At 25, he's ready to expand. Countrywide, then Europe, then the rest of the world. He becomes a big name, most wanted across several countries. I won't even begin to list the variety of his crimes. Then he finances this new wonder-drug, a heroin-Ecstasy hybrid called Blast. Kills thousands in Britain alone. Social order takes another downwards step. Mankind's development is stunted. Who needs to explore and conquer outer space when you can do it all by swallowing a little orange pill?"

The man fell silent. Paul blinked, uncertain. It all sounded ridiculous and yet the man sounded so genuine, so positive in what he was saying. He shook his head. No, it had to be cobblers, didn't it?

"Come off it, you can't tell all that from a flaming pigeon!"

"I do, I can, kinda. It's ..." The man frowned, looking slightly bewildered and frustrated with himself. "I don't really know how to explain it. I can just see the possibilities. Likely outcomes. Consequences." He looked at Paul, suddenly pale and a little frightened. "I'm not sure I really want to. You know?" He looked sadly at the pigeon in his hand. "Which ever way you look at it, it's not good for our feathered friend here. Is it?" He held the pigeon up and started cooing to it. "Not sure I can allow that ... but what can I do? It's fate - isn't it?" He looked at Paul questioningly.

Paul had had enough. "I can foresee your future as well."

The man gaped at Paul in surprise. "You can?"

"Oh yeah. I foresee a stay in a nice warm cell followed by a visit from a local shrink!" Paul reached for his radio again when the man stopped him dead with a sentence.

"I'd make up with Janice if I were you."

"What? What the hell do you mean? Is this a wind-up? Did one of the lads put you up to this?"

"No one put me up to it. I mean what I say. Make up with Janice. Don't end up like your father."

Blood drained from Paul's face, the sweat on his back and under his arms turning icy cold. His father had been a copper before him, and his dad before him. It was becoming a family tradition. Dad had worked hard to reach the rank of Detective Sergeant. A pity he didn't work hard enough to keep his family together or cut back on the booze and cholesterol that destroyed his heart at the age of 52. Mum would have kept him on the straight and narrow, but there were too many arguments, too many late nights overtime and boozing with the lads, and she'd left him to it.

Which was why he and Janice were arguing.

Paul grabbed the man's lapels, pulling him close. "What about my father? How do you know - "

Paul was interrupted by another sudden squeal of brakes and the heavy thud of metal impacting on metal. Someone screamed. Paul whipped his head round to look, mind snapping back into focus of things around him. Someone had driven into the back of someone else on the road. Nothing serious, a common or garden fender-bender. Both drivers pointing and shouting at each other. A situation in need of defusing.

Paul turned to look at the man again - and he'd gone, slipped away as if by magic. He scanned the street around him but he couldn't see him anywhere. Something fluttered at his feet and he looked down. A single pigeon feather was pinned briefly by the breeze to the side of his shoe, then it was released and tumbled slowly across the pavement, before Paul lost sight of it among the throng of shoppers. He shivered inexplicably, baking heat of the morning sun all but forgotten.

***

The cat was awoken from its feverish nap by the sound of the noisy box disappearing. Man, and worse, pigeon, had vanished as well. She blinked wearily and limped stiffly from its hiding place to continue foraging. Some appetising scent suddenly made its nose twitch. She froze, amazed at the sight before it. She couldn't believe her eyes.

Sitting in the middle of the alley was a whole roast chicken.

It had to be a dream, a cruel fantasy. She sniffed it. It smelt real. Touched and sniffed it. It felt real. Licked it. It tasted real.

She snatched up and ran as fast as she could back to her litter.

***

A coin was pressed into a slot and across town a phone rang.

"Hello, Janice? It's me, Paul ... listen love, I'm sorry I blew up at you earlier. Something really weird just happened to me, and it's got me thinking ..."

***

On a green hill deep in the English countryside, a pigeon fluttered to freedom into a deep blue sky, and a man standing in front of a tall blue box on top of that hill watched its passage with a look of immense satisfaction.

"Just a small ripple in the course of time ... but nothing it can't handle, eh old girl?"

The man affectionately patted the warm side of the blue box, smiled and went back inside to continue his adventures.