When the Pilot Light Goes Out

by Daniel Stone

  ‘Yeah, right, okay.’ I grabbed at them, putting both back in my pocket, and walked hurriedly past him.

  ‘Have a good night,’ he said, almost mocking me.

  What the fuck would he do? What the fuck did he know? I guessed it was up to him now. He held all the cards. I was fucked if he wanted me to be. He knew exactly what I was up to. He could get on the phone right away and grass me up. I fumed all the way downstairs and next door into the pub where Georgee was waiting at the bar.

  ‘You took your time, what’s with the long face? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Georgee said.

  ‘I’ve just done myself up like a kipper, haven’t I!’ I replied, before explaining what had happened.

  ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ Georgee said, inviting my reply.

  ‘What?’ I asked on cue.

  ‘We kill him and chop him up!’ he said earnestly with a maniac’s grin.

  ‘Very funny,’ I conceded before agreeing there was no point crying over spilt milk. What was done was done and I shouldn’t lose any sleep over it. I had class As to thank for that. There was nothing I could do. I’d just have to deny everything if accused; it would be his word against mine.

  We ordered a few more drinks and a couple of Jaeger bombs and then left the pub to play some pool in The Pool Rooms. The Friday night crowd mixed with drugs, cheesy chart music, pool and beer goggles gobbled us up and spat us out at around two in the morning. We got a cab to Old Street and danced till about six o’clock in the 333 Club before again being regurgitated back into the world. We must have scored some pills as hours were drifting by. We wandered the East London streets around Brick Lane as high as kites, drinking out of a box of cheap red wine. I don’t know where it had come from; I certainly didn’t remember buying it. Some twenty-four-hour off-licence somewhere had either sold it to us or lost it to us.

  A Tibetan monk led us astray for a short time. He turned out to be a hairdresser but was kind enough to offer us a beer in his salon whilst his Oriental customers with Mohawks and undercuts silently scrutinised us from underneath asymmetric fringes. We left them to their lives and unusual hairstyles and continued with ours.

  We had become nice, slightly strange, venerable drunks. I felt like an albino afraid of the light. Darkness had given way to daylight in a blink of an eye. When had that happened? I had no idea. Georgee looked better suited to darkness as well. We were vampires cruising the street in broad daylight, looking for some darkness. My face felt sunburnt as well, possibly from all the booze. I was conscious of what was going on but rapidly losing the plot. One second I was play fighting with Georgee, horsing around like Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier, the next I was chatting with a skinny black crackhead fella, the next walking off with a slightly uglier looking hooker until Georgee rescued me.

  When his back was turned I jumped on a 205 bus, thinking I’d be heading in the right direction towards West Ham from the city. Georgee would no doubt run after the bus and get on and meet me at the next stop or something; he’d find me somewhere somehow, I was sure.

  I blinked my eyes and was no longer in East London...

  I was wandering along a busy crowded road; my best guess was somewhere in the West End, maybe Paddington. How on earth had I got there? It was a bright sunny day, beautiful even. I was walking straight into the sunlight. I couldn’t really see a thing. I didn’t even know how I came to be on the street. I walked along, staring at the shops, looking for landmarks, desperate to get my bearings. My head was pounding, and I was dehydrated and feeling very confused. I battled against the shoppers as I muddled along, spinning down the road, until I found an Underground station. I fumbled in my pockets for money. I couldn’t find my wallet. I checked the time. It was a quarter to three. That couldn’t be right. I was supposed to be at West Ham. I should be in the pub with all the lads. I should have been there hours ago. I was never late. Everyone would be asking where I was. Why hadn’t anyone phoned me? I checked my pockets for my phone. It was gone. I emptied my pockets. I had a fistful of change, my iPod, and no wallet, no phone and my fucking Prada sunglasses had gone as well.

  I punched the wall out of frustration and shouted, ‘Fuck!’ A foreign family of Spanish tourists protectively pulled their young boy and girl closer to them. I tried to apologise, but it was too late. I’d scared them and damaged England’s reputation some more. I purchased a Zones One and Two travelcard and ran, hustling myself as quickly as possible to the platform. I ran like a scruffy scarecrow. I jumped on the train and ascertained I was on the wrong end of the Hammersmith and City line but it would take me to Upton Park eventually. I grabbed a seat, put on my iPod, closed my eyes and shut out the rest of the commuters from my mind. Like an ostrich, I was avoiding any disapproving stares as I was utterly paranoid. Kings of Leon whisked me away into a semi-dreamland.

  What on earth had happened to me and where had I been? Had I been kidnapped? Had I been mugged? Where was all my stuff? Perhaps Georgee had it. I hadn’t gone off with a hooker, had I? I was sure I hadn’t. I was tempted to put my hand down my trousers and feel my cock just to check that hadn’t been stolen or left behind somewhere or still sticky with seedy aftermath. I opened my eyes briefly to check my watch. The game would have started by now. Would Georgee be at the game or still out somewhere looking for me?

  By the time I got to Upton Park it was coming up to half-time. I ran from the station to the Boleyn Ground faster than any away fan had ever managed during the hooliganic period. I went to the ticket office and explained I’d lost my wallet and season ticket and somehow was miraculously issued a replacement. Unfortunately it was in the wrong part of the ground and I had to make my way from the Dr Martens lower / Bobby Moore end right the way round to the Trevor Brooking lower stand near the away supporters’ end.

  My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak. My face felt like it was burnt and throbbing. I was feeling like I was about to suffer a nervous breakdown and I had about twenty thousand people between where I wanted to be and where I was at that moment. I heard the cheer go up for the start of the second half and made my way along the concourse as far as I could go, getting as near to my seat as possible. I shuffled past the Carling-sponsored larger sellers – that proved slightly tempting; if only I had enough money. I went past the chicken balti pies that were simply food of the gods on any other match day – I felt my stomach angrily protest, when was the last time I’d eaten? Friday lunchtime! That was over twenty-four hours ago! On I walked past the ropey hot dog sellers that guaranteed dodgy gut within a few hours; even on my last legs these didn’t appeal! I made my way into the stadium and looked out onto the pitch. I had a brief look at the score board: nil nil. I jumped over the divide that separated the two stands and quickly made my way behind all those standing in the row, saying excuse me and trying to be as polite as possible the whole time.

  I finally made it to my seat, hoping for a hero’ return. Unfortunately I could tell by Georgee’s glare that I was wrong. I thought he was going to kill me.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he scowled.

  The other blokes, Ryan, Thomas, Nick and the two Rich’s I went with, turned around and gave me a half-hearted, almost sympathetic smile.

  ‘Fucking chill out, I’m here now,’ I said.

  Georgee went to hit me but was stopped by Ryan, who was the fastest to react.

  ‘Calm down, what on earth is your problem?’ I said.

  ‘Tell me to calm down once more and I’ll knock you out, you prick,’ Georgee said, fuming.

  ‘Calm down, love, you can see he’s off his pickle,’ the fat bird that sat behind me every week chimed in. I looked at her, half smiling and half frowning. She was normally horrible to everyone. I wouldn’t ever risk getting into a fight with her either.

  ‘You can pipe down as well, love,’ Georgee said.

  ‘Charming,’ she said.

  ‘Why didn’t you phone any of us?’ he continued.

  ‘I thought you
had my phone!’ I replied.

  ‘Why would I have your phone?’ he said.

  ‘Because I thought, well, I hoped, I’d given it to you with my wallet and shades because I seem to have lost them all,’ I said.

  ‘You’re a prick!’ he said

  ‘Why did you jump on a bus and piss off all of a sudden?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said, feeling guilty and stupid instantaneously. ‘Listen, I’m really sorry, but if I don’t drink something soon I’m going to die. I feel like shit.’

  ‘You’re going to die when Chloe catches up with you. She isn’t feeling well and hoped you’d be home last night. She’s left messages with everyone. I didn’t want to speak to her today and say I still had no idea where you were. Christ, you were walking off with a prostitute not long before you disappeared on the bus this morning. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? Did you get mugged?’

  I had no answers. The second half had already started and it was only when an effort went inches wide that I was able to ignore Georgee’s interrogation for five seconds. The fat bird behind me patted me on the shoulder and passed me a bottle of half drunk diet coke. I was going to say I hate diet coke but instead I mouthed thank you and tried to blink the most sincere thank you I’d ever attempted before. I don’t know whether it looked like that or a lazy attempt at fluttering my eyelids because she looked at me like I’d farted. Ryan lent me his phone so I tried to call Chloe. There was no answer. I’d try again after the game. I was sure she was fine; she was probably just pissed off that I hadn’t phoned last night before staying out. She’d forgive me sooner or later.

  I watched the rest of the game through rolling eyes and wobbly knees. Occasionally my mind was dragged back to the game but for the majority of the time it was lost trying to fathom what had happened once I’d got on the bus. What had happened to my phone and wallet and glasses? Had I put them down or was I robbed? Over and over again I tried to think back, putting together the pieces; trying to ignore Georgee who was begrudgingly right to be angry at me.

  The match ended and whilst the others decided what pub to go to the fat bird behind me slipped me twenty quid and said, ‘Give us it back next game, eh, you piss head.’ I thanked her because I really didn’t have any more money. She said, ‘Piss off,’ and called me a ‘silly sod’.

  As the crowd left the stadium I followed Georgee, Thomas and Ryan at a slight distance, mostly because I couldn’t keep up. At any moment I could fall asleep: I was on my last legs; my head was in the clouds.

  Georgee and Thomas stopped at an off-licence and grabbed a few tinnies. Handing me one, Georgee gave me a half smile and put half an arm round me. ‘What we going to do now?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

  ‘We had a good night though, eh? Do you remember dancing with those girls in the club?’

  I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘I’ll stay for a beer but I really need to head home and make sure Chloe is okay,’ I said.

  ‘I make you right on that one. She’s going to be pissed off with you alright, and she tried phoning everyone to find out where you were.’

  I said I would try to call Chloe again once we got to the pub, which I did. She wasn’t answering for some reason, and I was struggling to finish my second pint. I kept falling asleep mid-conversation, and to make matters worse it was really hot and my head was pounding and I just wanted to curl up and go to sleep.

  Georgee said he’d get me to the train and that I had to make sure I stayed awake. I asked him to send Chloe a message letting her know I was on my way home and said I’d catch up with him during the week. I got a ticket and a can of coke and put my iPod on again. I was determined not to get too comfortable before getting on the Metropolitan line. Once on that I could relax just a little as I was going pretty much to the end of the line. I made my connections and choose a seat in the corner at the front of the carriage, and as soon as my face hit the cold glass window I was away with the fairies.

  I woke up again to find myself walking down an unfamiliar road in a strange neighbourhood all over again. Now I was really confused. Where the hell was I now? I must have fallen asleep and sleep-walked off at the wrong stop or something. I looked at a road sign – Latimer Road. It meant absolutely nothing to me. The houses, the roads, the signs – I could have been in Bulgaria for all the sense it made. I started walking again. There was bound to be a cab rank or a pub or someone somewhere who could help. Perhaps if I was lucky Chloe would be out looking for me and she would drive down the road any minute. I had to get home as soon as possible. I just wanted to say sorry to her and have a cuddle and then perhaps curl up on the settee together watching rubbish on TV.

  58 – Sabotage

  As Mason glared down at me, spitting profanities in my restricted direction, I wrestled to free my hands and arms. My neck was stuck under the first bar of the chair legs; my body was directly between the four feet and my legs were sticking out the other end. The more I struggled the more he laughed at me, knowing I was pinned under the chair and his weight. I couldn’t escape his menace. I couldn’t move as he poured more water on my face, choking me under intermittent deluges. In slow motion I watched the water spill down towards me out of the light blue Perspex jug. As I thrashed and spluttered and spat water back towards him I noticed his arms and legs and hands were wet and his trousers too. I had a glimmer of an idea. Next time he poured water on my face I’d take as bigger mouthful as possible without swallowing.

  As he poured I opened my mouth and filled my gullet until I nearly gagged. When he stopped and began his next verbal onslaught I spat the water back up at him like a fountain. Up it arced. I didn’t have the power to reach his face but it landed on his lap and splattered the arms of the chair and his hands. I stopped listening to him arguing and concentrated on doing it again and again. If I could get him as wet as possible he’d either move of his own accord or I would move him. He did it a couple more times before getting fed up with me spitting back at him, so he stamped on my face, hard this time.

  I tasted blood in my mouth from my busted lip. He’d missed my nose. Thank God.

  I wriggled my hands into my pockets and found what I was looking for. I turned the taser on and waited.

  I spat a mouthful of blooded sputum at him whilst wriggling, trying to get his wet hands to grab the metal. I imagined I’d only have one chance at this and had to make sure none of my body was in contact with the chair. He put down the jug and gripped the arms of the chair, staring down at me. He was going to stamp on my face again. Wet hands on metal. The plastic shoes on the chair should insulate it; only one way to find out. I fiddled with the taser in my pocket. He couldn’t see my hands directly under the chair. I couldn’t reach his leg but I could reach the wet chair legs. He wouldn’t have a clue.

  He lifted his foot to stamp on my face again and I touched the taser against the chair. As I fired I could hear the electric charge pump and crackle up through the metal. The snapping, cracking sounds seem to make Mason temporarily freeze and grip harder on the chair. As if confused by the sound, I watched as he grabbed harder on the chair and I saw his knuckles turn white like he was on a rollercoaster. I wasn’t sure if it was working or not. I couldn’t tell if it was the surprise or the strange sound that had made Mason grip tighter and lean forward in his chair, but the moment I stopped firing the taser he moved forward, as if to get away from the chair. I used his momentum and all my strength to push the chair with him. In the flash of an eye he was tumbling over me with the chair following suit, straight towards the kitchen cupboards, and I was scrambling up and grabbing the saucepan and hitting him and kicking him and punching him in an unleashed torrent of utter hatred.

  He was out cold, lying in a wet, bloodied, bruised mess on the kitchen floor. I took off his shoes, pulled out the laces and tied up his hands and feet. I dragged him to the cupboard under the stairs in the hallway and shoved him in. I bent down and retrieved my cap, which lay where it had
fallen.

  I really wanted to get a wriggle on now. This wasn’t going anywhere near as smoothly as I had hoped, although I had planned for the unexpected.

  Mason might very well grass me up when he woke up so I might not make it very far in the future. Perhaps I should kill him then and there. Perhaps I shouldn’t leave him in the cupboard. Maybe he’d use the opportunity to leg it himself, take a prize and start again somewhere different – either way it wasn’t my problem. Or was it?

  I wanted to get my picture and run. My lips felt swollen, I had a small egg on my forehead and my leg hurt from where the wolf was biting me or the chair leg was pinching. I felt pretty sick. But I had to do this, so I made myself go through the hall and into the lounge. I opened the door, slightly paranoid I was going to be on the receiving end of another flying saucepan. I’d been hit once with a pan and been stamped on; I already felt like I had the worse hangover I could remember. I doubted it would feel much better in the morning.

  I then worried about whether Mason had phoned anyone. I didn’t remember seeing a phone on him anywhere. He had been smashed up and soaked and zapped so hopefully he wasn’t likely to use his mobile phone in a hurry, but whether he had used it whilst I was out cold was still uncertain.

  59 – Shattered Dreams

  When I finally got back to the house it was getting late again. Chloe wasn’t in. I called out for her but she didn’t answer. I had given up hope that she was going to come and find me wandering the streets hours ago. Now it was my turn to start to worry.

  I found a note on the work surface. She said she was feeling really poorly and had gone to hospital. Her note said please come to find her as soon as I got home because she was scared. She said she hoped I had a good night and that she wasn’t mad at me.

  Her note didn’t say she was battling to stay alive and our baby was already gone.

  60 – The Call – 6.13pm

  As Mason came around in the darkness of the cupboard he struggled to release his hands. They had stupidly and hastily been tied in front of him and to his feet, so it didn’t take too much effort to free himself. He had no idea what had happened but felt battered and bruised and also livid, even angrier than he had ever been about anything in his whole life. Then he heard noises outside the cupboard and, blinking in the darkness, worked out where he was.