When the Pilot Light Goes Out

by Daniel Stone

I felt faint for a second, like I needed to lie down. What the fuck was I doing? I wanted to lie down just for a minute to catch my breath and re-evaluate what I was doing. I knew what I was doing: I was losing my bottle. I was in someone else’s house uninvited. I was looking at someone else’s belongings, deciding what I was going to take to become mine. I was breaking a commandment.

  I edged forward, away from the window. The kitchen didn’t look or smell how I had imagined it. I expected to see lots of gold-garnished taps and the heavy odour of spicy cooking lingering in the air with bongs and pipes and Persian carpets and woks and cauldrons bubbling. Instead I was in a clinical blue kitchen with stainless steel punctuated by chrome. It reminded me of a chemist lab where puppies are experimented on by companies selling expensive skin cream. It was modern and minimalist, designer and boring, and in my opinion not homely but cold and sterile.

  I decided he was a puppy killer and edged towards the door that would lead through the hall and into the lounge. I couldn’t be sure but I felt like I had been in the kitchen for about twenty minutes and what was meant to have been a quick smash and grab had already taken too long. What was wrong with me? Why wasn’t I hurrying? I had to get a wriggle on.

  I was moving as surreptitiously as I’d ever done.

  The kitchen had a bar area used, I guessed, to serve meals. It had high metal stalls like you get at McDonalds. I noticed one seemed to have been left out of kilter, and also a pan drawer was half open.

  49 – The return of pond life

  When I was ten I was given a pair of budgies. Sunny and Snowy were their names, on account of one being bright green and yellow like the sun and the other white and blue and grey like the snow. Snowy was always my favourite; he was by far the friendly of the two. Sunny was the more skittish but by far the better flyer. It was at times impossible to get her back in the cage unless Snowy called her back. Snowy was quite fat. When we went on a family holiday Nan and Grandad looked after them for me. They put the cage out in the garden on a nice summer’s day and a cat attacked the cage. Nan maintained Sunny got away but Snowy, being fat, stayed in the cage. I always had my suspicions that the cat got Sunny.

  When Snowy finally died I was twenty-five. I had no idea as a ten-year-old how long budgies live. I went through puberty and several relationships, two schools, two colleges and several jobs. I spent more time with my budgie than most of my family, all my girlfriends and most of my mates! Snowy wasn’t quite as obedient as a dog or as needy for cuddles and attention as a cat, but still his little whistles and chirps whenever I walked into the room were like a rock to me during the most testing period of my life. Truth be told, when he died I was devastated.

  I never wanted to or would keep a bird in a cage again. I had, however, got some fish in a small tank that I hoped would keep Snowy company during the days before he went to the big feathery heaven in the sky. Years after Snowy had passed away and my fish and I had witnessed several upgrades in living quarters I finally managed to fulfil a promise and set my little finned friends free. Old One-eye, Jimmy the Eel, Sucker, Big Silver and Goldie and all the other little dudes.

  After buying my first house with a decent sized garden I set about digging a hole. It wasn’t a well-thought-out hole placed discreetly to one side of the garden or out of the way in a secluded spot shaded at the back under the old elderberry tree. Nope, it was slap bang in the middle. I wasn’t content with a little hole either. This would be deep enough to bury an elephant. When it reached my knees I dug out, creating a platform, and then continued tunnelling down through London’s finest discarded masonry, clay and mud. The second level was as deep as my waist and the last perfectly deep enough to bury a body or two. That was what the neighbours must have thought. A nutter had moved in next door and was burying something or somebody. When I was finally happy with my pit I carefully patted down the sides trying to flatten out any uneven, jagged edges and then I lined the pond with the black butylene lining. I installed a pump and filter, purchased water lilies and plants, filled the pond and set my fishes free. None of them would ever die floating at the top of a fish tank without seeing the sunrise and the moon appearing at the end of the day.

  Their only worries now were lack of food (I wouldn’t be chucking in any more half-eaten chicken wings for them to polish off), droughts and cats, and even those I wasn’t entirely convinced were day-to-day worries a fish in a pond suffers from. It was truly a liberating experience watching the little dudes swim away freely and something I imagined biologists and naturalists savour about setting free a nearly extinct species reared from a foetus in a crazy breeding program in Timbuktu!

  I could have spent hours sitting by the pond watching the fish getting on with their routine business. I guess that was why I liked fishing so much as well. It wasn’t necessarily the catching the fish I loved, it was the sitting, almost at peace with the world. My favourite time was in the summer on a warm yet rainy day, under my umbrella.

  I had been watching the pond and enjoying the sun on a barmy English summer’s day whilst lying in a hammock next to the water’s edge. It was quite a large hammock: Chloe’s parents had given it to me and it was plenty big enough for us to be able to cuddle up and spend lazy summer afternoons relaxing there.

  I had made myself as comfortable as possible by bringing down a few tinnies and a packet of balti mix, cigarettes and my telephone. I had no reason to move for the foreseeable future. I drank myself to sleep and the hot sun knocked me out and whisked me away.

  I woke up with a start. What time was it? Where the hell was I? Had I missed the football? What was going on? All the usual questions my confused head tried to answer before letting me progress with my life.

  I tried to lift my leg out of the hammock but it didn’t want to let me go. The frame came alive and catapulted me straight into the pond before tipping over and covering me and the water’s surface with its material. For a moment I was completely submerged with One-eye, Jimmy the Eel and all the others. I had entered their watery world. I watched as balti mix sank around me and the fish went into a feeding frenzy, oblivious to their new, massive visitor. If you put balti mix in a pond its every fish for himself. It’s a fish eat fish world. Empty beer cans and a pack of cigarettes floated past and then my phone, which sparked me into life. I tried to stand up but everything was slimy and slippery. I tried to pull the fabric away from my head as I couldn’t see the water’s edge. I was being murdered by my pond and the hammock was in cahoots. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

  With all my might and a massive roar I thrust myself free from the pond; thrashing and frantic, I managed to drag myself free as a worried looking neighbour clambered over my fence to lend a hand. When she was finally able to control herself again before breaking out into another fit of hysterics, she said it was the funniest thing she had ever seen.

  I also decided then I’d never keep fish in tanks again, as well as birds in cages.

  50 – Mason – 4.20pm

  Mason had been sitting in the kitchen when he noticed me running up the garden. At first he panicked. He grabbed a saucepan from the kitchen cupboard and crept to the hallway as he watched the figure creeping around the side of the house. In fear, he snuck away from the kitchen. Not sure of his options, he considered hiding in the cupboard under the stairs. In the end he waited in the hallway, only remembering the gun in the lounge cupboard drawer at the last moment.

  51 – Chloe

  Chloe and I became good friends at work. My colleagues knew I harboured stronger feelings and aspirations than merely being working associates; they even went so far as to say I had no chance with her at all. I thought this was a little strong. She was in a long-term relationship and although she had never indicated she wasn’t happy I remained undeterred. At work we were like a pair of budgerigars chirping away to each other. Sometimes I didn’t even know what we were talking about until we were halfway through a discussion. We chatted shit endlessly and effortlessly, and as far as I could
tell this was a necessary ingredient in having a decent, long-lasting relationship. My mum always said, ‘Faint heart never won fair lady’, and I figured I’d lost enough girlfriends to others in the past so it was about time I got involved in the act of stealing another bloke’s loved one.

  My optimism was given a further boost at a drunken office work party that went on all night and resulted in a group of us ending up crashed out in a hotel room near Old Street where our offices were based. Chloe was receiving some unwanted attention from a sleazy head hunter. I had decided the guy was a grade A dickhead earlier in the evening, and the opinion was reinforced when he was so consumed by catching his prey that he’d seen his Porsche get towed away rather than be prised away from his target. Even his pretty female sidekick seemed to be assisting his mission. I was convinced he was so determined to get with Chloe he didn’t care about his car or anyone or anything else. I was sure if he couldn’t win her over sober he’d get her drunk and then try. I did everything I could to ensure she didn’t fall into his spider’s web. If I couldn’t have her, neither could he. He tried his luck one last time at the hotel but his advances were lost in translation. A phone message relaying his room number should she be interested would never be passed on, the operator decided.

  Once the flames went out of the party, the coke ran out, the alcohol wore off and the curry went cold in its aluminium containers we all crashed out and Chloe and I curled up in bed together. Nothing happened; we just held each other doing spoons. That was enough: I couldn’t sleep a wink. It was the second happiest moment of my life; having Chloe next to me asleep, together.

  The next few days at work I was on fire, I was walking on clouds. I believed she really did like me, I had a chance. She had chosen to sleep with me rather than the sleaze or Asif or Dermott. She might just have felt safe with me I supposed, but who cared? It was all about me. My detractors were wrong; surely they could see now they were wrong as well? I didn’t bother asking for an updated evaluation of my chances. I knew I was right. I was in love with her.

  Then, just when I felt like my life was getting better and I was really beginning to get close to Chloe, she handed in her notice at work. I was utterly gutted.

  It was my youngest sister’s twenty-first birthday and there was to be a fancy dress party. I wasn’t really in the mood, but Chloe insisted on dragging me to the costume hire shop at Old Street right next to our work. She seemed determined to be as nice to me as possible up until she left the company. I just wanted her to fuck off. I felt betrayed, let down and angry at her. I was acting like a spoilt kid who wasn’t getting his own way. I couldn’t help it. It didn’t occur to me that perhaps she was leaving because perhaps I was getting a little too close to her and it wasn’t fair on her long-term partner.

  I went to the party dressed, inspired by Chloe, as a seventies-style pimp. I looked really cool, man. I guess I looked a little too good as I pulled one of my sister’s friends and the next day she moved into my flat in Finsbury Park where she stayed for the next month. By the time we had split up Chloe had left my company. The memory of her hearing me describe my conquest the week after the party stuck with me. I thought I saw a little hurt in her eyes when I bragged about my sexual endeavours whilst being egged on by my other male colleagues. Perhaps I was being bitchy on purpose and had gone too far; it was her fault, though. Maybe I couldn’t see it was a final act by my detractors to manipulate me and to further derail our relationship. They didn’t want to see me prove them wrong and saw another opportunity to ruin our chemistry.

  Things would never be the same again.

  Before she left I helped her set up a hotmail account in the slight hope we would stay in touch. I also carried out her boxes of personal belongings to her car on her tearful last day. We didn’t have a leaving party, as she usually organised those sorts of things, and although she looked sad to be changing companies I also thought she seemed a little jealous of me, almost resentful that I had moved into another relationship and was glad to be seeing the back of me. I was angry that I wouldn’t ever know what she was thinking and that every girlfriend I ever had from that moment on I’d forever compare to her.

  52 – Boom – 4.33pm

  As I pushed through the kitchen door, determined to get a move on, I saw a brief shadow flash like a blur before me. It was one of those slow motion moments, a delayed reaction, a sneeze that had pronounced itself on the scene moments earlier, the nanoseconds that accompany the falling glass that was knocked by your hand, the inevitable crash and shattering of splinters. In this case it was the saucepan. I saw the shadow and my natural instinct was to flee, duck, hide, protect, then the flinch, the defensive duck, but I was too slow. Instead all I felt was a ping ringing in my eardrums, falling, dust, light shadows dancing like ghostly images all around me possessing my body, forcing me down, burning my lungs

  I blinked, my eyes working like a camera. My brain was unable to process all the information. Bleeding, pain, confusion reigned. My fingers sought splinters, shards of light piercing me, searching for a reaction, clawing, scratching nails, a feeling, ringing in my ears meeting a crescendo. Sight fading, dust everywhere, light and dark all at once. What the fuck is happening? My brain was banging. I wanted to run but couldn’t move; I was in a hole. Can I cough? My eyes were burning, tears of grit. My teeth were jagged, sharp. My tongue felt massive. It had a mind of its own. Go free, tongue, live your life, my time here is over. Fucking ringing ears. Swallow, I’ve got a pineapple in my throat. Move fingers, blink, move wrists, two blinks, and a swallow, throat is on fire, move arms and shoulders. Nothing seems fine and not broken. I’m all smashed up. Move toes, feet, ankles. Nothing is fine. Move legs, they don’t feel too bright either. A stab of pain as a wolf chews on my leg. All sensory perception was now focused on my leg. My teeth no longer felt jagged, my eyes no longer burned. My ears stopped ringing. Now my heart was beating, anticipating my hand as it reached down to the wolf chewing at my limb. I couldn’t move but the brain focused on the sticky, bloody-faced, viscous creature biting and clawing at my wet, stinging leg. The fumbling touches from my fingers sent electric shock waves to my brain. All other emotions and feelings and thought were eradicated momentarily as my consciousness tried to compute this new anomaly.

  ‘Fuck, I’m fucking fucked.’

  I couldn’t help but think it was all over, and yet I understood this might well be the first signs of panic, so in reality only the beginning, only I wasn’t panicking. I drew on my inner strength, my steely determination, my sheer stubborn-mindedness. I must look at the wolf. I must move. I must try to get up. I must succeed. I must follow the plan. I must try to flee. But first I must kill the wolf.

  When I came around I felt sick and had a feeling of utter confusion. Had I been dreaming all along? I wasn’t sure what I was waking to find; like in the past when I had woken up to find a massive scar on my face or a swollen wrist. I struggled to make sense of the ceiling and felt suddenly lost. I wasn’t at home and in bed. I wasn’t in familiar surroundings. Water was dripping on my forehead but I couldn’t get up or move in any direction. My arms were stuck by my side and I couldn’t move out of the way of the dripping. As I blinked my blurred eyes clear a face came into my vision. Smiling, triumphant and yet twisted with a nasty glare. It was a face I recognised although it was different, distorted and bloated with age. He spat again and it landed on my head.

  ‘Mason! Let me up, get off of me, please!’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be daft, you broke in here. It’s my job to hand you over to the police or my boss. Either way, you ain’t going nowhere!’

  ‘Come on, you idiot, we went to school together, we were mates. Don’t do this, let me go and I’ll just fuck off and leave you to it. Let me explain – I only wanted a look around. Surely we can work something out, right?’

  He poured a bottle over me but no matter how much I struggled I couldn’t get out of the way of the water. I felt like I was drowning. My brain was banging and I was
stuck.

  Mason was laughing. He poured some more water from a jug into a plastic bottle.

  ‘What you going to do now?’ I asked, hoping to at least get out of this position.

  ‘I’m going to play with you; at least until I hear what my boss wants to do with you. He might want me to keep you here so he can play with you as well.’

  Any doubt in my mind that Mason might have changed didn’t last long; he was a grade A cunt when we were kids and it was quite clear not much had changed in the years in between.

  53 – Ring My Bell

  I had a phone call a year later out of the blue from Chloe. My heart stood still and I momentarily forgot how to speak.

  She had left my life and I had tried to move on and now she was back.

  ‘Hey, stranger, how are you? Do you want to meet up for a drink tonight? Are you free, that is? It would be good to catch up,’ Chloe said.

  I just stood by my desk looking around the office, searching for words, excuses and inspiration to help me speak.

  ‘Errr, well, yeah, I should be around, erm, that would be great, I should be able to make it.’ I was not cool and subtle but quite desperate and overly excited. I tried to persuade myself I hadn’t really sounded all those things; it was no good, but I didn’t really care. I was all those things. That’s how she made me feel.

  As it gradually sank in she wanted to meet up I decided it could have been West Ham vs Millwall in the FA Cup Final; it didn’t matter – I would be there no matter what. We met at the Bricklayers’ Arms pub on Rivington Street; she was with her friend Alison. They had regularly met up for girls’ nights out on Wednesdays when Chloe had worked with me and tonight I was one of the girls. Tonight they had invited me. When the two of them got together they really did go for it. Alison lived right in the middle of Hoxton in an amazing warehouse conversion – she had been there since before it became cool – and every bar and club in East London was on her doorstep. We drank until we were battered. Alison was playfully flirting with me and she and Chloe took turns speaking in different West Indian, Irish and Scottish accents, gradually getting louder and courser. We laughed until our cheeks hurt.