When the Pilot Light Goes Out

by Daniel Stone

  I’d rented space at places before like Big Yellow and other companies that offer you a protected lock-up. All services could be pre-paid and there at my disposal.

  I didn’t like the idea of getting buses anywhere; they were too bright and too slow and in your face. Everyone has seen the scary man on the bus before.

  27 – Lie Chester Square

  Patrick and I had been drinking in a few bars and clubs around Leicester Square. We had been involved in a minor altercation earlier in the evening with some pissed-up northerners which resulted in them bottling it. Although there were five of them and only two of us, it was Patrick’s effect not mine; he could have dealt with all five of them with little bother. I was nothing more than a lad who’d recently left art college and Pat was a self-confessed armed robber, coke and pill dealer and double-hard bastard. He had an Irish mum and West Indian dad and his missus was beautiful and he had a lovely baby daughter and some strange connection to the band Erasure that I never really understood; either way, he was my mate. I liked the way he liked everyone to a certain point and even if someone was as camp as Christmas he’d like them as long as ‘they didn’t try to bum me’.

  This would explain the reason we walked half the way through Soho as bold as brass chatting with a load of fully dressed up transvestites. Usually I’d be like everyone else, pointing and giggling and not saying boo to a goose or duck, but with Pat it was different. We laughed and chatted with everyone, even the trannies, like old friends.

  We went into a bustling pub on the edge of Covent Garden. The smell of piss filled your lungs as soon as you entered the building. The place was hundreds of years old. Bare fist fighting used to happen there, and we were enjoying the reminiscing when someone passing through asked if we’d like to buy some weed. I gave Pat some money and we left the pub. I was in a bit of a daze and not sure if we were following anyone in the busy late evening commuter chaos.

  We entered a club by going down some stairs, and we were now in deepest, darkest seedy Soho, back when you smoked in pubs. There were Irish fellas singing IRA songs and playing Rastas at pool. One Rasta made a cut throat sign at me. I checked behind me, hoping someone would be there. Fuck, I was just another art bum college boy wearing a black sheep-skin coat with brown fur lining with blue jeans and white trainers on. What the fuck had I done to upset him? Was it my Liam Gallagher style mop, still refusing to believe or submit to the inherited inevitable receding hairline? My pasty white face? What the fuck had I done? I wasn’t offensive to look at and I wasn’t racist: I didn’t dislike Rastas; I had a Bob Marley album and everything.

  The bloke who’d offered us the weed had disappeared. I looked around the room packed with Irish gangsters and Rastas with attitude; the place was full of whores and suited crooks, wall to wall slime and debauchery. This was not the sort of place a good lad like me should be at all. I ordered a JD and coke at the bar from a woman that looked like she could crush Brazil nuts with her gold-encrusted fingers. Her hoop earrings were so heavy you could see little slitty holes that appeared in her lobes. She might have been pretty once in an operatic type of fashion, but her mouth was as rough as her language and her teeth were yellow and grey.

  I scanned the room, the sort of scan that notices people but avoids eye contact at all costs. This was the sort of place you came to in bad movies and only when you were The Terminator. Wall to wall scum. I noticed Pat near the toilets having a proper heated discussion with the bloke who’d said he’d sort us out some weed. Things didn’t look too smart at all; hands were being raised and Pat was looking aggressive to say the least. Occasionally I could hear raised voices as well; they were obviously exchanging anything but pleasantries.

  Fuck: again the Rasta I’d hoped to avoid made eye contact with me and again gave the cut throat action. ‘Blood clot,’ he mouthed in my direction.

  My bottle was well and truly going from vintage claret to white wine spritzer. I wanted to down my drink and bale out when Pat appeared and said, ‘We’re off, job done, sorted.’ I necked my drink and made for the exit, relieved. I still made a show of walking to the exit in my best ‘hard man with places to go’ strut.

  As we left the shit hole I asked Patrick, ‘What was that all about and what’s going on now?’ Trying not to seem overly concerned or bothered, I added, ‘Did you get the weed?’

  As I spoke I noticed, a little way in front, the lad who’d led us into the den of ill repute in the first place. As we followed him I asked Pat again, ‘What the fuck is going on?’ He wasn’t exactly being forthcoming and I wondered if he was still stewing from the row in the club; the conversation, though, was becoming a bit like a bad dream, a one-way conversation.

  The more we walked around Soho’s back streets, the more apparent it became that we were being joined by people connected to the weed man. The more corners we turned, the more clingers-on we seemed to be gathering. I knew Patrick was hard but at this stage there were about eight people following us. ‘Seriously, Pat, what the fuck is going on and where the fuck are we going?’

  ‘I’m going to get us our weed!’ Pat snapped.

  I guess I knew Patrick wasn’t likely to be the type of bloke who would get skanked easily. I was well and truly far and beyond ready to call it a night and put it down to a lesson learnt and another experience had, but Patrick wasn’t and one thing I’d never do is leave someone mid-flow like this. Someone once said these colours never run. Not my nan, though; she would have said kick them in the shins and walk away.

  On we walked, single file into a dodgy, stinking multi-storey car park in the middle of Soho on the outskirts of the red light district. It was dark, very late and stank of piss. Yet on we went, Patrick and I following the weed dealer flanked by about eight of his mates. Shitting myself doesn’t really do justice to the emotion. Accepting inevitability is more apt. Why the fuck was I there?

  There was a hue of fuzzy orange light, soft buzzing and the sound of stale, stagnant water dripping. Did I fancy Pat and I fighting our way out of that situation? No. Over to you, God! I could only foresee my broken body left in tatters at the bottom of some crumby concrete stairwell. Autopilot was initiated: my brain had nothing left to give, and I was all out of ideas. If the moment arose and I could run, fuck would I run; if I had to fight, I’d fight to get myself clear and then run. In the meantime whilst I searched for better ideas I went back to God. ‘You decide,’ I muttered under my breath. Whatever happened I knew my mum wouldn’t approve.

  I decided the blokes looked like skinny tramps. Down we went to the basement of the squalid, damp, continuously dripping and piss-smelling car park in finest London Town. Sinatra never sang about this. The leader of the tramps we’d been following stopped by an air shaft; he reached above the vent and pulled out a concealed stash of smoking devices. The relief was instantaneous; I thought he was going to pull out a weapon. This fucker and his mates had come down here to smoke bongs. I thought it was a trifle extreme but hey, at least I wasn’t going to die. This would be easy; I’d dealt with this sort of shit before, loads of times in fact. I’d almost happily indulge in a couple of toots and then get the fuck out of there; fuck the weed, they could keep it. At least it wasn’t needles or glue.

  Chief tramp boy’s mates were clambering all over the show like fucked-up people-spiders all bringing out devices of their own and foil and shit. I decided in my head these guys were Soho’s version of the cool kids who liked a smoke. Rather than sitting in cars down a country lane or round someone’s house like I was used to they used the car parks. I supposed perhaps they might smoke more or less; I knew I’d soon find out.

  The circle formed and the skinny fellows set to work preparing their tools for immediate use. I wasn’t familiar with the foil joints but was ready for one and pass. They weren’t finished; they obviously liked to pre-roll everything they had. All the while alert: occasionally a head would pop up like a mongoose listening to any noise. They certainly were a jumpy bunch.

 
‘Pat, we get the weed and fuck off, yeah?’

  No answer. He must still have been working on it, I supposed.

  The first lad lit up and then the second and then everyone joined in. Christ, this was going to be a full on session of one and pass. A grey chemical cloud slowly engulfed our concave. The lad next to me passed me a joint. His mouth didn’t look too skanky; some looked like they’d been having blow backs off car exhausts. His fingers were yellow and his hand shook momentarily as I took the joint.

  Just as I took my first puff Patrick said, ‘It ain’t weed.’

  I looked at him, holding his stare, and took a couple of tentative pulls. All seemed well; it certainly didn’t smell or taste like skunk. For a fleeting moment I was worried and then as more came my way I started feeling pretty cool and quickly decided the skinnys weren’t so bad either. I caught a few eyes and they almost seemed welcoming, like they were saying, ‘Hello, mate, welcome to the group.’

  ‘What the fuck is it, Pat?’

  But Patrick had gone off on one and was preaching about how crack fucks you up and how long it took for him to get off it. The group seemed a little freaked out as he held court in the middle of their circle. He wasn’t keeping his voice down and was clearly breaking all their rules. I could see his plan and it was working: they weren’t in a fit state to bother him now he was playing with their heads and minds and they already wanted us to leave.

  I didn’t sleep for twenty-four hours and the urge to try to get some more lasted about the same time. Even the weed that Patrick had somehow managed to get at some point wouldn’t put me to sleep. I decided then that crack wasn’t for me.

  28 – I could

  My brain felt like it was leaking out of my ears so I slipped out of work at lunchtime to go to the gym across the road. It was either going to be that or throwing my computer and myself out of my third floor window. Why did it always seem to crash or start acting mental when I needed to use it the most? Then there was boring Glen who sat opposite me continuously on the phone just saying, ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, err, yes, yes, yes, you know, err, yes, yes, yes, you know, err, err, yes, right, right, okey dokey, right, yes, yes, yes.’ He wound me up with his selfish, whatever-you-have-done-I-have-done attitude. I felt like, rather than breathing calmly at my desk, I was panting like a dog.

  I got to the gym and got ready. I put my iPod on and warmed up with a couple of rounds of skipping and now I was ready for a nice angry tune to punch the hell out of the heavy bag, imagining boring Glen and my bosses and the sultan and the doctors and everyone else who was in my head.

  I could usually get hold of pretty much anything not normally available in chemists and hardware stores from Millwall Mike: Viagra, Class As through to tasers and possibly guns. Not that I’d necessarily wanted to, it’s just nice to know sometimes you can get hold of anything should you really need it. Mike’s extensive network of hoodlums and ragamuffins included mates of mates including Tommy the Van and Warren Peace. Chances were if Mike couldn’t get something he knew someone who could, no questions asked.

  I knew I’d have to be careful, though. If I ordered a piece of heavy-duty merchandise like a gun and didn’t have a logical reason for wanting it they could and most likely would get twitchy. They were possibly too close as friends and contacts and if anything went tits up it wouldn’t take Inspector Gadget very long to follow the crumbs. Not that I didn’t trust them. No, I trusted them more than most of my best mates. But I’d still need to be discreet and if possible lie about my intentions as best I could to avoid raising any suspicions.

  I’d also have the option of going further afield. I could always use mates of mates oop north; they wouldn’t ask too many questions and the links would be far more stretched. It would probably mean bigger balls and another mission, but no doubt a week of chatting shit would have me in possession of any bits and bobs that I would need should I really need specifics,. Ex-football hooligans were good for that sort of thing.

  29 – Boys from Bros

  ‘What you doing? You fucking prick, fuck off!’

  I was simply running across the road. I was with the other lads from Moss Bros, the clothes shop where I worked, my first full-time job since leaving college. The pay was shit but it was a job. We’d had several beers after work in Charring Cross and were crossing the road towards Trafalgar Square en route to another pub in Covent Garden. No sooner had I put one foot on the curb, having jogged across the road because of the oncoming vehicles, than this bloke blatantly barred my path, pushing me back towards the traffic. I could have been hit by a car.

  He pushed me again, probably, I thought, due to my language; more likely, in retrospect, because he was just looking for trouble.

  Without further provocation I threw a perfect windmill style left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right combination. No punches seemed to connect with his face; he seemed to block or parry every punch I threw.

  My momentum, however, had pushed him a little further away from me and afforded me a few seconds’ respite. We stood facing each other like two dualists. My adrenalin hadn’t even started pumping; all I felt was bemused and slightly bedraggled and out of breath. I straightened my jacket and tie; if nothing else I hoped I’d look good and my actions would serve as a warning not to be an arsehole in the future. Unfortunately he hadn’t learnt his lesson at all. Worse still, he was just warming up, literally. He performed a mantra or whatever they call it in karate when someone does a series of rehearsed moves.

  The bloke didn’t look like the Karate Kid either; he was more or less the same age as me, much scruffier, though, and he had the slight look of a pikey about him with his old, worn Reebok tracksuit bottoms, longish greasy hair and pale complexion, and he was quite a bit taller than me, but most blokes are.

  I looked round to find the lads I was with from work, and took a quick glimpse at them. I didn’t want them to help me fight this bloke, I just wanted to be reassured they were witnessing the same thing as me. Their faces showed they felt as I did: a mixture of complete amusement and wonderment and a smidgen of utter bafflement. If I’d have been Indiana Jones or James Bond I would have simply shot him, but being me I just started to laugh. This pissed him off and Bruce Lee shuffled towards me. I had no choice but to remember the Queensbury rules and raise my guard in defence. I had a feeling he was going to kick me and I was feeling flat-footed compared to Mr-Bouncy-I-Know-Kung-Fu-Mother-Fucker. I decided if he tried to kick me I’d grab his leg and, and fuck…

  WOO WOOO, flashing blue lights. The police arrived, skidding up next to us. Karate Kid legged it. I walked slowly into the road as the Old Bill clambered out of the car, demanding, ‘Oi, you, what’s going on here?’

  I bent down, picking up my bag and walkman that had been half chucked loose into the road in the melee, and replied, ‘He tried to nick my bag, Officer.’ I pointed at the Karate Kid as he weaved through the crowd.

  ‘Wait here!’ they shouted and I said ‘Okay’, lying, as they ran off in hot pursuit of Mr Choppy.

  I walked up to my colleagues and said, ‘How about that beer then?’

  30 – They say

  I was sitting staring at all the cramped passengers on the Metropolitan line battling to get to work. I was lucky I got on earlier so I got a seat. I searched the carriage, ready to give my seat up to any pregnant ladies. I watched them all rocking and swaying in time with the train. Armpits in faces, everyone was standing in each other’s space, all angrily rubbing themselves on each other, using free publications as a papery barrier or books, digital and paper versions, to hide their faces behind. One Asian looking girl had her music on so loud I tapped my feet along to her tunes. It seemed to annoy the old lady with a pointy nose and slithery lips who was doing her best to ruffle her paper and tut in the younger girl’s general direction in the faint hope that her dagger looks would somehow result in her turning her music down. That wasn’t going to happen; she was blocking the world out and I totally understood. I g
ave up reading about the latest nutter to go on a gun-shooting rampage through middle Britain. Why did they always go nuts in the rural suburbs? Why hadn’t anyone gone on the rampage through London?

  They say it’s the quiet ones that you have to watch out for. I said that’s bollocks. It’s the ones that have taken the most shit that flip. It’s not rocket science: leave a pot of water boiling on a hob and see what happens. Everyone has a limit; some people delay hitting it by seeking help from the bottle or diving head first into drugs or sex or gambling or violence. You have to really go for it to have a nervous breakdown unaided and without questionable vices. A nervous breakdown is your own natural, built-in fuse breaker, which physically hurts no one but yourself.

  It’s selfish people who say breakdowns affect the whole family and friends and everyone else as well as the person suffering the breakdown. I thought those people should try looking in the mirror. More than likely one of the family or friends or the whole fucking family or all the so-called friends caused the problem in the first place. Breakdowns are selfish? Surely that’s the whole fucking point.

  If a saucepan of water is boiling over, only the person who put the pan on the heat can be blamed – you can’t blame the water or the pan.

  No one can’t be broken; the strongest, hardest men on earth regularly prove it. Just look at the amount of boxers that are mentally wrecked, tortured by their own invincibility.

  Generally a succession of events causes the volcano to erupt. Just how many people that get affected by the earthquakes and dust cloud’s fallout remains to be decided by the grace of the gods!

  31 – Intruders

  ‘There’s someone in the flat,’ she whispered, entering my dreams.