When the Pilot Light Goes Out

by Daniel Stone

  ‘Go and see what they want,’ I said, half asleep.

  It was just another Friday night like many, many others: a few beers and then alcohol-induced slumber.

  ‘Seriously! Please wake up. There’s someone in the flat,’ Carol pleaded.

  I was wide awake now, the fear in her voice had smacked my senses alert and the noises sent shockwaves through my brain. This wasn’t any other Friday night. I could feel my heckles rising. My ears strained to listen, my eyes searched shadows, my heart pumped adrenaline. I heard the creaking floorboards, doors banging, no silence, uninvited guests were in my house, there would be no reprieve, no bad dream.

  I rolled forward and out of bed, picking up Excalibur, like Arthur with his sword only I had a baseball bat. I edged up to the bedroom door; with no time to think my hand reached out and lightly held the cold metal handle. I took one breath and turned the handle, pulling the door open, and started swinging with all my might. Crashing, doors banging, connections in the dark. Still I continued striking down with all my fear and fury, lashing out at shadows. I heard the lampshade smash and then footsteps stumbling in the night. I couldn’t stop swinging the bat; panic drove me on.

  I fumbled for the light in the hall; it still worked. The front door was hanging off its hinges, and I could still hear the intruders’ murmurs on the other side; there was more than one for sure. I put my back to the door that was just clinging to the hinges by the top set, like a wobbly tooth, and pinned myself in the door frame. Bat in hand, one leg against the other wall, a human barricade. I’ve got to keep them out, I thought.

  I grabbed the phone from the floor – the table it was sitting on was now in pieces – and phoned the police, sausage fingers and fuzzy head battling to remember simple functions. Nine, nine, nine…

  ‘Police,’ I said, not sure if I should keep my voice up or down. ‘I want to report a break in.’

  ‘Okay, sir, when did this happen?’ the police call officer asked.

  ‘It’s happening now,’ I replied.

  ‘The intruders are still in the building, sir?’

  ‘Errrr, yeah, they’re on the other side of this door,’ I said matter-of-factly.

  ‘We’re on our way, sir,’ the call desk person replied.

  ‘Good, good, quick as you can, please,’ I said.

  I hung up, listening to the continued banging around on the other side of the door. They were still here, very close. My pulse in my brain was almost as deafening in the quiet.

  ‘The police are on their way,’ I shouted, as much for the intruders’ benefit as Carol’s.

  She gingerly looked around the corner at me, terror on her face and still naked, hugging a towel for protection.

  ‘Could you please throw me some pants, please, thank you?’

  I tried to put them on whilst still holding the baseball bat in one hand and the phone in the other; the cable got all tangled through my legs, goolies and pants. Only when I realised I didn’t need to be holding the phone any more did I manage to untangle myself by putting the receiver back past my jacobs and through my pants.

  ‘Fuck!’ I could still hear them on the stairs outside the flat. My heart started pounding again as a fresh rush of adrenaline surged through my body. I braced myself again, unsure if they were coming back up the stairs or going down and leaving. My head was pounding like never before.

  ‘Check the fucking flat,’ I screamed at Carol; I couldn’t hold the door and check. She was reluctant to move, petrified with terror. Thankfully it was only use on the inside. I heard more doors banging; the intruders were hopefully fleeing. I had to check they were gone.

  I opened the front door, again swinging the bat into the gloom. I manoeuvred myself in a style reminiscent of American cops in the movies; that was the technique I had in my mind at least. Unfortunately I had a bat and would have definitely felt more comfortable holding a Glock 747 pump-action double-hard bastard gun. I edged tentatively down the dark flight of stairs; the flat next to mine had not been entered. I continued swinging at every corner.

  A light switch: this would tell me if anyone was there and tell anyone who was there that I was coming. I hit the light, switching it on. No one was there. I edged forward a little quicker in the light. Next door, on another corridor, the hinge was broken. I swung the door open into more darkness, deafening creaking metal on metal quietly protesting in the evil silence, again sweeping the bat as hard as possible into the murkiness before stepping into its slipstream. There was another fumble in the blackness for the light switch, the sound of my breath like the ocean breaking on a pebbly beach. The light switched on, revealing another empty corridor.

  There was more pace to my steps now, a determination to my stride. The next corridor was after the last of the three flats; the last flat looked undisturbed as well. It was sod’s law! Given the choice of three apartments they had chosen mine, and whilst I was in bed as well. I wasn’t sure who was more unlucky, me or them. The last door opened onto a T-junction, one way led to the right to an empty storage space behind a shop. This was a damp, gloomy, dark place at the best of times, without a light that I knew of as well. I pushed the door open, ignoring the darkened room, and headed straight for the front door exit. Part of me just wanted to run away up the road and into the night.

  Flicking the final hall light on, I was sure they must have left the building unless they were hiding in the store room in the dark at the end of the corridor. I swung the front door open and felt the cool night air envelop me. I was then standing in the middle of a fairly busy street not that long after closing time outside a twenty-four-hour Tesco’s holding a baseball bat and wearing nothing but boxer shorts. People didn’t seem to care too much: most looked like they were keen to ignore me; others seemed to think I wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I scanned both directions, looking for anyone who looked like a wounded intruder. Nothing. I had hoped to see someone slumped in a doorway, battered and bruised.

  I went back to the open front door, disappointed, and turned the light back on again; the damn thing had a thirty-second timer which always made me curse it. It was like it intentionally sped up whenever I needed more time. I waited for the thirty seconds to end and then I punched it again and ran into the space behind the shop. For a second I got paranoid and panicked, thinking they could have hidden in there and slipped back upstairs whilst I was outside in the street in my boxers. They could be upstairs now attacking Carol!

  ‘Are you alright up there?’ I called, trying to sound fine and in control, relieved that my voice still worked.

  It was all clear upstairs and in the corridors and when the police turned up they told me to put down the bat.

  32 – Down in Upper Street

  I was just staring at the self-service till. I couldn’t decide. Did I want cash back?

  ‘Are you alright, sir?’ the friendly M&S lady asked. She looked like a young, made-up Fatima Whitbread. I looked at her but couldn’t answer her question.

  ‘It’s my entire fault, you see. I somehow persuaded her, God knows how or why, but I did.’

  ‘Who did you persuade, sir? Is everything alright?’

  I didn’t know why I was speaking to her. All I’d come in for was a sandwich, a packet of crisps, a drink, a chocolate bar and some nuts. I clicked ‘No’ to the cash back and made my way out of the shop, still talking to the assistant, only this time in my head.

  She’d never even wanted children, or so she said, and yet there she was. She hadn’t really even begun to warm to the idea. I felt like she was doing it as the ultimate massive gift for me. I always complained I bought the best presents.

  All I could do was say I’d support her no matter what she decided. I felt like I’d been in a similar situation before, only this time I was supposedly getting what I wanted. At the beginning I was as open to all the options as I could be, but as time wore on both of us knew I utterly preferred the idea of having a kid rather than an abortion, and slowly I think she did as we
ll; she just hadn’t accepted it yet, although I wasn’t sure.

  How much did I want a kid, though? Did I want it more than going out, more than going to West Ham or however many holidays to wherever in the world as we’d promised each other when we first met? To live comfortably was all Chloe wanted. Truth be told, I never really considered any of it before. The realisation that life would be the same struggle for us as it was for any family ate away at me. As weeks became months and still no decision was made, things slid until time ran out and the decision was made for us. For better or worse, we were going for it.

  33 – Scars

  I had a scar on the bridge of my nose from a messy night in Greenwich. We were all a little too high and had drunk far too much. I lived on the Isle of Dogs at the time with my mates Tom and Hayden, and we were ambling home after enjoying the usual pissed-up high jinks. I had jumped on Hayden’s back, hoping for a lift home. He had decided to become a human hurricane instead and we’d both tumbled to the floor in different directions. I went face first into the curb and Hayden was flat out in the middle of the street.

  As I rolled over, sniggering under the East End stars, an old lady walked past and gasped at the sight of me. ‘Is he okay?’ she asked, and everyone said that I was fine. ‘Lawd help us,’ were her parting words as Hayden got back to his feet. I felt alright; my wrist felt slightly sore but I guessed this was from breaking my fall as I swan-dived towards the deck. I was sure it would be fine in the morning.

  Someone said if I had missed the floor I’d have discovered the art of flying but obviously I’d failed. I sat up, feeling a tickle on my top lip, like a fly or my nose was running. I pinched my nozzle, no snot, but I had blood on my fingers. The other lads, Bob, Ryan, Hayden and Tom, came over, laughing, and then stopped abruptly.

  ‘What the fuck have you done to your face?’ Bob asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, thinking, I can’t see it. ‘Why?’ I asked, already convinced by their faces that if I could see what they could see it wouldn’t look pretty.

  I’d split the top of my nose open and grazed my forehead and all down my cheek and even my chin.

  Bob decided the best thing to do was check me in the light before making any rash decisions. As I walked the half mile further to my house blood trickled down my lips, causing me to huff and puff and spray fine droplets all over my already-claret-covered shirt. We weren’t far from home but already I looked like I’d been shot in the head or had had my head run over. When we got in Bob took control of the situation and decided my hooter probably needed stitches. This was unanimously rejected as I’d spent the afternoon drinking and was also as high as a kite and no one at all fancied sitting in A&E with me tripping their socks off. So instead Bob went to work on my face armed with nothing but a few boxes of plasters.

  When I woke up the next day, about Sunday lunchtime or midday to normal, everyday people, my belly acted as my alarm with a grumbling protest. I sprawled in bed, trying to piece together the night before and remember how I’d got home and into bed. I wasn’t sure exactly but I knew something wasn’t quite right. I rolled back the covers and my wrist felt like it was on fire. I tried to flex it but it was swollen to almost twice its normal size and totally lame. Shit, that hurts, I thought. But that wasn’t all. I struggled out of bed and made my way to the mirror. My face felt unusually tight like someone had coved my face in glue overnight. I looked at my reflection and it was as bad as it could have looked without actually having lost an eye or an ear. I certainly looked like I’d been in a car crash and had gone straight through the window and then had the misfortune of the car driving back over my head before a herd of gazelles decided to trample me into the flora and fauna for good measure.

  ‘What the fuck!’ I shouted.

  Bob had used a whole pack of plasters on my face to push the top of my nose back together. I had two black eyes, a bright red graze that was going to scab up absolutely fucking bloody lovely running the length of my face, and to top it all off my wrist was twice the size it usually was.

  All of this wouldn’t have seemed like such a big deal – and perhaps I seem a little vain in my reaction – but only a few days earlier I had accepted a new job and a day later I was due in my new position having only briefly met my colleagues. I looked at myself and contemplated what they would be seeing.

  I turned up on the Monday morning with my arm in a sling, two black eyes and a face that looked like it had had a run in with a cheese grater. First impressions and all that!

  I also had a scar on my belly I gained as a kid in Majorca on a hot, sticky, Mediterranean evening whilst on a family holiday. Like most little lads I liked to run around and jump up and down reaching for unreachable heights, super-charged on Coca Cola and E numbers. I was drawn like a moth to the flashing lights of the juke box. It had a glass front and although I could hardly reach the direction arrows that allowed you to choose your song I found by bouncing up and down I could just about hit the selector. This was until I found the slight chip in the glass that managed to open a nice slice on my belly. After lots of uncontrollable screaming, thinking my innards were going to fall out, a señorita from the hotel took control, deeming nail varnish was the best way to stop my guts from falling out, and finally put my mind to rest.

  I had two scars on my left eyebrow, one going slightly uphill and the other going slightly downhill. The first came from rocking on a chair at my auntie’s house: I went eyebrow first straight into a dinky toy on the kitchen table. The second came some years later when I was an adolescent on one of my last family holidays.

  The thought of hedonistic parties, sleepovers, girls and getting drunk completely overpowered the interest in one- or two-week family holidays in sun or rain with Mum and Dad and sisters walking around boring touristy places in strange places like Wales or Sweden. On this occasion we were in Kos. I’d met a couple of younger Geordie lads who were keen on my middle little sister. They were nice lads and although they were a few years younger than me their parents deemed I was sensible enough and old enough to be allowed to take their little cherubs into town for a boy’s night out. Somewhere along the line we ended up in some sort of bluesy rock and roll bar, and whilst dancing like idiots I was whacked around the head with a guitar. It didn’t really hurt that much at the time, although my eyebrow was split open like a sliced tomato and I had the always pleasurable stare in the mirror and moment’s realisation whilst blood streamed down my mush.

  Then, as the sun rose and we made our way home, me with spilt eyebrow, one of the young Geordies with a massive love bite on his neck (unfortunately not from a girl either) and the other with a ripped-up shirt, we thought it would be a good idea to do a spot of skinny dippy. I dived into the swimming pool; that saved me needing to clean my face, clothes and war wounds.

  Another childhood injury was my chipped incisor tooth. This distinguishing feature was gained whilst trying to break the land speed record for four boys going downhill on a garage-made go cart. This toboggan powered beast was created out of three large planks of wood, with the two heavy front wheels on one piece of heavy wood creating the front axle. This was steered by a thick piece of rope like the type we climbed at school. It also had a heavy-duty bucket seat, possibly for mentalists in cars, and finally another two heavy wheel-barrow wheels on the fixed rear axis. The cart measured about six feet in length and weighed more than any one lad could have possibly managed to drag around or stop on their own: it was definitely built for a team. It was created by Jack, Joe and Tony’s dad. Being a complete nutter, he left off the brakes. The only way you could stop the beast was by jamming your feet on the floor, skidding until the soles of your feet burnt or, in times of extreme peril and desperate need, you could lock the front wheel into the central plank.

  I broke my tooth when Peter, Joe and Tony and I were going full pelt and gained far, far too much speed. We were charging down Corona Road and momentum meant we weren’t going to be stopping in a hurry or any time soon. At the
bottom of the road was my house and usually we would have aimed to have stopped moving long before we hit my driveway as it was bordered with a cobbled brick curb that even in the luxury of a proper car with suspension you still needed to approach with care, let alone when you were approaching at great speed on a hard plank of wood jet propelled by hyper midgets with no suspension at all. We had all felt the pain of bumping over the bricks and the thought of getting whacked up the arse and propelled into the air, daylight between your arse and the planks of wood or even the uncomfortable chair, was enough to understand the need to use the emergency brake using the wheel jam technique. We were running out of road fast and had no choice; we might have even crashed straight into my house if we didn’t stop soon. The soles of our feet didn’t stand a chance at that sort of speed. We were burning it up.

  Usually when utilising the front wheel jam technique you could expect quite a decent front wheel skid; however, this time somehow the wheel jammed against the cobbled stones, stopping us instantly, which resulted in us all doing a forward roll with the go kart pole vaulting from underneath us until the four of us lads lay face down in a heap on my drive and finally the vehicle landed on us. I was unlucky enough to have my face smashed into the street thanks to the massive wheel-barrow wheels, leaving me with the chipped tooth that you might have seen if I smiled.

  34 – Many Happy Returns

  It was my birthday. I was sitting with my grandad with tears flowing down my cheeks. I’d noticed his breathing change; I knew his six-week battle was coming to an end. He’d lost his ability to swallow when he’d had the stroke yet he still hadn’t given up. He carried on fighting, occasionally smiling, constantly fidgeting, sometimes fitting, bruised and often muttering garbled messages of barely audible numbers. He acted out a strange sign language like he was trying to tell me something about cutting wrists or my wrists which I didn’t understand. He didn’t seem at all happy about his pants or his gowns like they were uncomfortable, and he didn’t like getting injected or having his catheter or drips changed; I could see the angry humiliation in his eyes even if he couldn’t voice his disapproval.