When the Pilot Light Goes Out

by Daniel Stone

  There was no handle on the door and if he busted out he was sure to be heard so he had to sit tight and wait. He checked his pockets, looking for his phone. If nothing else he might actually be able to use its light to undo his feet. The phone was wet. He wiped it dry and switched it on. The screen was cracked and barely lit; it was impossible to read. He fumbled with a few buttons, trying to get a call to work, but nothing was happening. He was getting frustrated and desperate when suddenly it started ring someone’s number.

  James’s sister had two strange calls that evening. She posted on Facebook about a weirdo who had whispered down the phone to her, interrupting her favourite reality TV show. Her mates gave her several suggestions as to what to do if he tried again. Several ‘liked’ the idea of blowing a whistle down the phone.

  The number he had found was old friend James’. He had long since left the family home but his sister still lived there. Only when she answered the phone she didn’t hear an old friend of her brother looking for help; she heard a weirdo. She hung up and he somehow managed to call again, but she hung up again and he wasn’t able to get through any more. Mason was dismissed as a weirdo once again.

  61 – Decisions Decisions

  I stood in the lounge. Two pictures stood out amongst many on the walls in front of me. Behind a big, old, wooden desk littered with family photos and cars and horses was what looked very much like the Picasso portrait I had recently read about being purchased for thirty-two million pounds. I’d loved my anniversary trip to Barcelona with my wife and seeing the picture brought back a flood of happy memories. It was indeed the last really happy memory I had of before everything had gone wrong. My mind drifted whilst I stared aimlessly at the portrait. It was like watching a TV programme about our life. It took me away to another time. I felt joy and sadness together until a cold shiver broke the spell.

  I looked around the room. There were plenty of other pictures I recognised. A Giacometti and a bronze statue stood proud in the corner as if about to go off on a long walk on a windy day. This room was more like I had expected, a little like Aladdin’s cave full of treasure. I half expected Sinbad to come in with some more loot. The wooden table was swamped in gold and Oriental style wonders whilst everything looked expensive and yet cluttered. I felt like an extra in the old Laurence of Arabia movie or something, and could have been in a tent in the middle of the dessert with a harem busy smoking hookah and lounging on thick Persian rugs eating Turkish delight. That’s when my attention was pulled back to the stolen Van Gogh. It had been taken from an exhibition in Egypt. It must have found its way onto the black market where it had then been purchased by the grateful sultan via some shady agent.

  It could have been fake, but what were the odds? It had only recently been stolen and the picture it had replaced had only recently been left on the floor awaiting its next allotted place.

  I chuckled to myself. Should I take both? How could I leave a stolen picture? It wasn’t even his in the first place. Perhaps I should replace the picture on the floor with the stolen picture? About eighty million pounds’ worth of paintings was a little more than I had hoped for. Fuck it; what did I have to lose?

  One painting evoked warm memories of my wife. I grabbed this one and the stolen Van Gogh off the wall. They fitted nicely under my arms, although the frames were a little bulky; but I had always liked big, old-fashioned frames almost as much as the pictures themselves.

  I made my way back through the house, through the hall and past the cupboard. Mason might wake up soon, I thought. Still, the door was closed and he hadn’t broken out and hit me in the face with a saucepan, so I hustled on. I stepped over the pan on the kitchen floor and felt my head wince subconsciously; I kicked the chair out of the way, noticing the mark on the cupboard door where Mason’s head had made a greasy imprint. I gently put the first picture through the hole in the window and then stacked the second against it before climbing through myself. I then started running like a bird with two wooden wings.

  62 – Mason’s fuming – 6.28pm

  Mason managed to kick open the downstairs cupboard door. He looked around the hall and went straight to the lounge. If he was angry before, when he noticed the two missing pictures he was positively seething. He had failed his job. He ran to the big wooden desk and fumbled for the key in his chest pocket. Ramming the key in the lock and pulling on the drawer, he nearly dragged the whole compartment clean out. He grabbed the blackish cloth shoe-bag and emptied it on the table. The Glock handgun fell out. It was already loaded with bullets. He switched off the safety and was ready to kill.

  He raced through the house, gun held out in front of him, leading his way. Through the kitchen window he noticed his target running like the wind down the garden. He was hunting but his pride was battered. He had nothing but venom pumping in his veins, coursing through his mind. He had to stop this fucking liberty. He had to kill. He wanted to kill. Then he would be happy again. Nothing else mattered.

  63 – Keep on Running

  I’ve got to fucking stop him, Mason thought.

  Nothing can stop me now, I thought.

  Mason ran through the garden, setting his sights on me. But he couldn’t stop me, I was running free. Full strides, giant leaps on air, like the wind; I could run for miles like this. I was eating the path up in front of me. I was breathing in pace. My heart was pumping and the adrenaline was flowing. My hands and wooden wings helped scoop the air around me. I was the opposite of a bad dream: I was poetry in motion.

  Along the garden I bounded. Not long now, I reassured myself. I’ll soon be away from London and its crowded, dirty streets. I could almost taste home. There’d be no need to hide, no more eyes, no tears, everything would be sorted, and everything would be okay.

  This is for you, my love. These gifts are for you.

  64 – You Should’ve Seen the Other Guy

  Bang… bang, bang.

  As I heard the third bang I was stung by a million bees. I went down like a toppled windmill; the pictures flew away from me like beautiful bin lids. Face first, I went down, sprawled in the grass, tasting its green in my mouth. I stayed still for a moment. Absolutely terrified. Oh God, I thought, has Mason really just shot me?

  Frozen, I was concentrating on not moving. I wasn’t sure if I’d been hit. In my head I checked my toes, feet, ankles up my legs past my knees, back and belly, my neck and head, fingers, wrists and finally settled on my left arm. It hurt like hell. I stopped self-analysing and steadied my breathing. My heart was pounding. I could hear it louder than ever, thumping in my brain. Each beat was echoed by a throb in my arm that burnt me to the core. I concentrated on the sounds of the water lapping on the edge of the canal. I could hear it kissing the boat. I had been so near. I was still so near.

  I could hear feet running getting closer. It would be Mason coming to finish me off. Should I try to run again? No, I decided. I would freeze. I had to think quickly and one step at a time. If I got up to run that’s what he’d be expecting. I didn’t want to make anything any easier than it had to be. I didn’t want to die having been shot in the back running away. I remembered the joke about the randy rooster waiting for the buzzards and decided to fuck the fucker. My good hand snaked under my body tentatively, feeling its way to my pocket under my groin. I felt inside: wrong pocket, empty. Fuck. I tried to move my other arm but someone had stuck a red hot poker in it. I sucked on my lip so hard I felt it burst and my mouth was filled with the taste of the iron in my blood.

  The footsteps were getting closer now. Mason was slowing down. I guessed he wasn’t sure if he had hit me or killed me properly after all. I could hear him shouting; he sounded pissed off and scared and very upset all at once. I wasn’t sure as I could also hear a loud ringing in my ears. I let the blood dribble out of my mouth but concentrated on not moving a muscle. I tried to stop breathing. If he wanted to be sure I was alive or dead he was going to have to shoot me point blank or check my pulse. I hoped more than anything he wouldn’
t have the bottle to do either. Although a part of me didn’t care. I decided shooting me in the back from a distance without any warning was more his style. It would take someone with bigger bollocks than him to shoot someone up close. Cold and ruthless. God, I hoped I was right.

  He was right on top of me, circling me, looking at his handiwork, checking where the pictures had fallen. If he shot me again I was definitely finished. I lay dead still. Still trying to hold my breath. I hoped he didn’t look at the arm wound too closely and decide to add a body or head shot. Although it hurt like hell I was sure it alone wasn’t going to be the end of me. He kicked my leg. It hurt but I didn’t move. No reaction at all. I could feel the gun pointing at me and was determined to ignore the usual reaction to pain. I couldn’t move: it was life or death. All I could hear now was his voice, mocking and triumphant.

  ‘See, this is what you get,’ he was saying.

  He rolled me over and I let my good arm fall free by my side. I stared, fixed, unblinking. The blood dribbled from my mouth added to the dead effect I had created. I still didn’t move. I was seeing but not looking. My eyes turned to glass. I didn’t move but felt the rage boil up inside me now, coursing through my veins, forcing more blood from my wounds. If I could have I’d have drowned him in my blood. A drum roll beat inside my head, starting to slowly gather pace. I held my breath as the shouting Mason leant closer still. His breath leapt like a ghost’s from his mouth, dancing briefly before me before disappearing into the atmosphere.

  Unbeknownst to him, turning me over had freed my pocket and my good hand had been inching its way into my pocket millimetre by millimetre until now it had reached its final destination and was embracing the taser like a long-lost lover. I flicked the switch, turning it on, and waited for the climax. Whilst Mason perched next to me, gloating and staring at me with his gun tracing around my body, I waited for him to drop it by his side.

  I didn’t have to wait long. The moment his hand dropped I went for him like a cobra. The beats in my head lost all rhythm and instead of percussion all I could hear was a noise like a steam train. The taser flashed up in my good arm, propelled with all the strength and speed I could muster. I smashed it into his cheek, keeping my finger on the pulse button, firing a steady charge into him. It was his turn now to go down again. The rolling break beat returned to my head. I used my good arm to get to my feet, rolling over and pushing myself up. I zapped him again for good measure. He let out a gurgle and a moan as the volts temporally paralysed him like an epileptic. I then set about kicking him in the face and stamping on him, over and over again, breaking ribs, until I felt like a kid walking on snow. I then concentrated on shattering his shoulders and hips. When they were smashed, I threw his gun into the canal. I put my belt around his ankles.

  As I was about to pull Mason to the boat I remembered my arm. I had almost forgotten about it in the excitement. I raised my good right hand to my left arm and it felt disgusting, sticky, burnt and raw. I couldn’t do anything about it now, so I picked up my belt and Mason’s ankles and slowly but surely started dragging him one-handed to the boat. When I got there I jumped on the little vessel and pulled out some plastic sheets and the portfolio. I took them off the boat and laid them on the bank and him on the plastic. I ran back up the garden and grabbed the pictures; bringing them back to the boat one by one, I cut out the canvases and popped them in the large portfolio. But I couldn’t leave those beautiful frames, so I put them back on the boat in place of the portfolio. As I passed Mason I momentarily caught a glimpse of his face. He looked just like the twelve-year-old I’d gone to school with.

  I got back on the boat and pulled out a family-sized disposable barbeque and lit it. I returned to the boat again and grabbed the branch cutters. I then took off my jacket, wincing as the dried blood and burnt skin was separated from the fabric of my coat for the first time. I was tempted to jump back off the boat and give Mason another kick in the face because of the pain; it didn’t seem right, though, to kick a man whilst he was down. Instead I just gave him a dirty look as he lay dead on the grass.

  I checked the far bank. I wondered if the gun shots had been heard by anyone. I guessed it could have been a back-firing car or fireworks. I couldn’t see anyone on the other side of the canal and they wouldn’t be able to see Mason’s body from there. The garden was obscured from view by the walls, rows of miniature conifers and landscaped features. I wrapped an old blue scarf around my arm and tied it as tight as I could manage with my mouth and one working hand. I felt sick and almost faint, like when I was younger and had pierced my ear. My wounded arm was feeling numb, and all the way down to my hand and beyond my fingers burnt with a pain I had never felt before. I looked at my blood-stained hand and tried to clench my fist; instead I was absorbed looking at the blood – some was still wet and I didn’t even know if it was mine.

  The barbeque was burning away fine even if it was quite a cold, damp evening not really ideal barbie weather. I took the branch cutter over to where Mason lay, spread-eagle on the plastic, and looking down at him. I placed the cutter over his right hand near the wrist and cut it off, and then on his arm near where the shoulder used to be and cut off his arm. I took him his hand and placed it on the barbeque, fingers up. Sausages on the barbie. I then did this to his upper arm, placing it in the flames to seal the meat. I heard his blood, fat and skin pop and spit in the flame. Hog roast. I did the same with his other arm, hand and both his legs and feet. Finally, once his limbs were all done I pulled his torso to the barbeque and sealed his arm and leg sockets.

  I took his arms and legs, hands and feet and put them in the satchel compartments on my fold-up bike that was still on the boat. Lastly I took off his head and cooked his neck, leaving him smouldering away on the disposable barbeque.

  I cleaned myself up as best as I could using wet wipes and rinsed the branch cutters and plastic sheets in the canal. I stuck the plastic sheets back in a bag on the boat and placed the torso in a heavy-duty black bin-bag. Finally I kicked his head off the barbeque and wrapped him in another heavy-duty plastic bag and chucked him on board the boat. I poured the used coals into the canal, hearing the satisfying hiss and pop as the heat hit the cold. I smelt the mist rising. Molecules of Mason embedded in my nose. I put the disposable tray with the other rubbish on the boat. I’d be able to drop that off in a bin later, I hoped.

  Once everything was on the boat I considered going back to the house. It was empty, the pictures were missing, Mason was missing, there would be water on the floor in the kitchen, drawers open, would anything else tell a story? I had no idea. Perhaps it would look like Mason had staged a burglary, I really couldn’t think.

  I powered up the boat and pulled away from the sultan’s house. Part of me just wanted to head home then. So what that I had someone’s body chopped up on the boat; perhaps I could feed him to the fishes on the way home? It was a stupid idea. I had to do it right. I didn’t have a clue what to do. I pulled the boat over and moored up again on the other side of the canal. How long did I have before someone turned up at the sultan’s? Would anyone think to look right under their noses? I was panicking, not sure what to do with the torso and head. I took the bike off the boat. I wondered whether Mason would like to go to London Zoo to feed the wolves.

  I heard a rustling in the bushes and froze. I couldn’t believe it: I was busted. I looked towards the noise in the undergrowth and my adrenalin started pumping again. Flee or fight? A badger shuffled out, presumably attracted by the fragrance of the cooked meat wafting on the air. He edged a little closer and started talking.

  ‘You going to feed him to the wolves?’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ I responded.

  ‘You’ll never get his head and torso through the bars,’ the badger said. I decided he sounded like Bob Hoskins. He then waddled back into the hedgerow as I muttered my thanks.

  He still hadn’t given me a plan for sorting out the head and body. I decided to leave them behind. In double-packed p
lastic bags I put them in a big rucksack and using plastic binding straps attached them to the anchor. I then dropped them overboard. My hand and arm felt utterly useless. Everything was taking twice as long as usual and everything hurt. To top it all off my head was feeling fuzzy and I was suddenly afraid. I wasn’t sure what was scaring me, but felt sure eyes were on me, and I couldn’t be sure they belonged to the talking badger.

  65 – Bicycle

  I left Mason’s head and torso overboard firmly attached to the anchor. I stored away the branch cutters, picked up the heavy portfolio and put it on the bank next to the fold-up bike with laden satchels on the front and back wheels. In my pocket I checked the bunch of keys. Two for cars, two for houses, one for the boat and one for the storage space place.

  Pulling the portfolio over my shoulder sent shockwaves down my arm. I needed more drugs and wouldn’t be able to do this without something. I was feeling weak, tired and paranoid but couldn’t see any other option. I managed to pull a little wrap of coke from my pocket and clumsily tear it open. I dabbed one finger in the white powder and rubbed it round my mouth. I dabbed again and tentatively touched my finger tip to the wound on my arm hoping the drug might have some medical benefit. It felt crispy and raw and came back red and repulsive.

  My first attempt at riding left me face first in a bush lying in a crumpled heap, having crashed almost immediately. I had no strength in my arm and as the bike wobbled I’d got nervous and crashed into the hedge. I tentatively picked myself up and reorganised through the pain. My mistake was not appreciating the uselessness of my arm; I had to try to stop making stupid decisions and make allowances for my disability. I had to calm down. I couldn’t use my brakes as that put pressure on both my arms; I’d have to use my feet as much as possible.