When the Pilot Light Goes Out

by Daniel Stone

  I turned on the flashing lights and tried for a second time. It wasn’t that it was dark, but somehow with the path now illuminated a little so I at least had somewhere, a destination, albeit barely three feet in front of me, that I needed to head towards. ‘Follow the light,’ I repeated over and over again. The more momentum I gained, the steadier the bike became. Unfortunately this was counter-balanced by the ache in my arm and neck, trying to compensate for my useless side.

  I trundled along. All was quiet, and I hoped I looked like an art student rather than a murderous art thief, but no one was around on the canal to ask. On I wobbled under bridges on my way into town. I could hear the Sunday evening traffic. London was still alive; it was never totally dead.

  I came off the canal near Blomfield Road mooring. I stared up at the closed little cafe looking down on me, giving the strange impression of being in a foreign country. Perhaps I was. I’d been here before but it all felt different and alien. Tree-lined streets, big residential buildings. Everywhere looked clean; London was supposed to be dirty. Maybe I was in a parallel dimension. A car horn jolted my attention back and I struggled to control the bike as cars raced past. All of a sudden the world had pace and I felt like I was in a slow motion bubble. I stopped for a moment, one foot on the road, the other on the pavement. Looking around, I saw that nobody was walking close so, staring at the buildings, I decided it all looked a little like New York.

  I pushed off into the traffic and wiggled up the hill at St. John’s Wood Road. The big red houses gave way to smaller but still well-maintained terraces. A shift from red to brown with big white houses to my right. The air smelt heavily of money. I had no idea who owned or rented these buildings. Could one person own any of them? I wondered how many were foreign owned. Hamilton Close reminded me of a part of London time and development had left behind.

  I stopped for a second, pulling the portfolio strap over my shoulder. It slipped down, pulling the scarf over my wound. The pain was instant, but instead of the usual jolt or growing ache I gagged and spat a mouthful of sick onto the beautiful cobbled street. I would have felt guilty if I knew anyone that lived there. Who lived there? I wondered. I shouted out, ‘Who are you?’ but no one replied. I called myself a fucking idiot and got back on the bike. I had to try to keep my mouth shut and head down. I needed to stop stopping and pissing around. I had to keep a grip on what was going on. Right now I wasn’t far away from spending the rest of my life in a padded cell.

  As I trundled up St John’s Wood Road, muttering to myself, Lords, the home of cricket, appeared on my left. Two hundred years it had stood there watching all the comings and goings. What a different place London must have been two hundred years ago. No cars or bikes; that road would have been full of horse shit. It would have been a hell of a lot easier getting rid of a few body parts, though. But then I guess I’d have had Sherlock Holmes to deal with. Did they really play cricket and not football then?

  I pondered workers playing football two hundred years ago as I manoeuvred around the tricky roundabout. As I passed by the old St John’s Wood church, I looked at the cemetery. Perhaps I should stop off there and shove open an old grave and drop Mason off in there? It was a silly idea, so I rode on, undeterred, up Prince Albert Road. Even more massive, super-sized, terraced houses. I wasn’t entirely sure that they weren’t upmarket flats or offices. Who the fuck worked here or lived there? To the right random giant houses hid behind massive fences and guarded gated walls. It had to be homes for rich Arabs or crusty old politicians or lords or dodgy new money types. I really had no idea. Wouldn’t it be nice to do a census round here? No one I knew lived here for sure.

  I rode along. I was joined by Regent’s Canal and its surrounding trees on my right whilst the massive flats continued unrestrained on my left, like a massive cliff face. If I was an American who lived by Central Park this is where I’d choose to live if I emigrated to London and vice versa. Why did I keep thinking of New York? New York, New York, the city that doesn’t sleep. A bit like me. God I feel tired and I’m hurting so bad. Not long now to the zoo, I’ve got to keep going.

  I cut through the outer part of Regent’s Park on autopilot and daydreaming. I was following the bike. Squirrels everywhere with their little beady eyes boring, burning tiny holes in me. Perhaps they thought I was after their nuts. Chloe hated squirrels. They never used to bother me; in fact as a kid I used to love them. Now I hated them on principle because she did. They scared her. I felt a massive pang of bitter sadness as images of Chloe screaming and running away from scurrying squirrels whilst I laughed on a country walk years ago hounded my mind, and then my mum’s face filled my head, looking at me, concerned, asking, ‘What’s the matter?’, and then memories of my grandad’s last breaths flashed through my brain. Blurred, twisted, collaged memories. As tears rolled down my cheek I rode on in a determined daze.

  Gradually I picked up speed as I looked for a squirrel to run over. Circling the zoo, I couldn’t find the wolves, where had they gone? They were here for Withnail and I. What about me? This had been a bad idea and Mr Badger hadn’t done me any favours and now the squirrels looked like they might gang up to stop me nicking their nuts before they went to bed.

  Trying to feed Mason to the wolves was a nuts idea. I couldn’t even get that close to the railings, and even if I did manage to get a few limbs through, how on earth did I know the wolves would actually eat him? He was mostly bone for fuck’s sake. I was riding around one of London’s most famous parks with two stolen priceless pieces of art and one chopped-up body. I was in serious shit. I needed to get rid of the body bits and then back to the boat and get rid of the head and torso.

  The protected reed beds next to the canal kept striking me as my best option, perhaps my only option. No one could get in there logically. They were protected for fuck’s sake. I wonder if the RSPCB or nature programmes were allowed to film in there searching for bitterns or reed warblers. Last thing I needed was Bill Oddie sticking his beak in by stumbling across a dismembered body. No one would accidentally blunder across his body. It certainly couldn’t be dug up to prepare for a housing development. You couldn’t build on a protected area. Surely it would be left alone there?

  Either way, standing or riding around in the park at God knows what time with a portfolio, bike and taser wasn’t helping anything and I needed help.

  Why does nothing ever go smoothly or at least right, once, ever? Once, at least once in a while! Where are the fucking wolves?

  Part of me felt like throwing the bike on the floor, getting out the body parts and doing an impromptu and slightly morbid bring and buy sale, right there in the park, all the bits I had neatly laid out for people to browse over.

  ‘I think I’ll take the taser and the Van Gogh painting... Will you accept five pounds?’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ I replied in my head.

  Either that or I could just make a circle and sit in the middle of it and start rocking like a complete mentalist surrounded by macabre body parts. Just as I was about to start screaming ‘FUCK’ with all my might I noticed the warthog looking out of its enclosure right by the canal. I couldn’t believe I’d ridden away from the canal to check the outside of the park to see if I could get to the wolves, when, had I stayed on the boat on the canal, I could have possibly pulled up right next to the warthog and, to my delight, the hunting dogs living next door. That’ll do nicely, I thought.

  66 – Hunting dogs – 7.30pm

  I rode down to the canal path, crossing a bridge opposite the hunting dogs and the wild boar enclosure, feeling strangely euphoric. I unpacked the first satchel containing a hand and arm. I felt like I was going fishing and had just started tackling up. I thought it would be best to try a hand first rather than risk an arm. The hand was pretty black and charred. I was fairly certain it wouldn’t have been possible to get any prints from the fingers.

  I looked left and right to make doubly sure no one was coming. I was quite sure CCTV would be at least
watching the enclosure, but whether or not there’d be someone watching twenty-four hours was relatively unknown to me. The zoo had been shut for a good few hours to the general public, but would the dogs still be hungry? I’d need to be as quick as possible. If the dogs liked the hand I’d throw the rest in sharpish and be on my way. It wasn’t a massively difficult shot, but one-handed it was a different kettle of fish. My balance was screwed and I felt a little dizzy. The throw had to get over the width of the canal and be high enough to clear the fence; it was a fairly tricky shot. Normally I’d have backed myself to get ten out of ten, but I’d have to do it underarm now and really couldn’t afford any cock-ups.

  I stood, hand in hand, legs apart on the bank of the canal, steadying my breathing. I was shattered, paranoid and rapidly losing my confidence. What would I do if it fell in the canal or landed short on the other bank? Would it float? I looked up and down the other side. If I had to I could always swing my legs over the bridge and fall down the other side into the brambles covering the other bank. There was no path but if the worst came to the worst I could drop down or, I decided, if all else failed I could swim under the bridge. That would only be if I was really desperate, though.

  I did three practice swings and on the third let go and watched the hand arc up through the sky, slowly turning and waving goodbye to me. My heart felt like it was about to explode again. It wasn’t going to make it over. It’s not going to make it. I could hear my pulse banging in my brain. I’d been too weak! Time stood still. My heart, now in my mouth, was choking me. My eyes flicked between the hand and the top of the enclosure. At the last moment it passed millimetres over the fence, barely grazing the top like a final act of stubbornness.

  The dogs stood still for a moment, ears pricked and eyes wide open, locked on the new, strange, unexpected intrusion into their pen. They knew it wasn’t feeding time again and yet this was an unexpected treat. A toy or perhaps food… Then, whilst the pack stood with their heads in the air, sniffing the unusual fragrance, one of the younger pooches pounced. It bolted towards the hand and grabbed it, sparking a manic race around the enclosure which suddenly became a race track that all the dogs joined in tearing around. It was instant pandemonium. Dogs chattering, scampering and excitedly yelping. They were really hungry. Perhaps they were only fed every other day and I had been lucky.

  I picked up the arm, this time determined to give it some more welly and aim for the middle of the enclosure rather than giving myself another near heart attack. I set myself again on the edge of the canal with my feet fairly wide apart; as I swung the arm I caught a brief glimpse of my reflection in the brown canal water. I didn’t recognise the image and didn’t want to know who it was, but for a second I felt like rolling forward into the water. I shook my head clear and refocused.

  It was like throwing a heavy broken branch. The arm felt slightly rubbery and yet still solid, apart from the elbow, which felt like a break in an old wooden limb. As the arm plopped down amongst the dogs with a muffled thud again the dogs momentarily froze before embarking on an almighty tug of war. They made light work of both hands and arms, but still had the main course to come. Even the wart hog had made his way snuffling out of the enclosure, looking almost dejected – why were the dogs being fed and he was missing out? I wanted to throw him a foot but wasn’t sure whether he’d appreciate it.

  I took the first leg out of the satchel on the bike, unwrapping it from the plastic. It was clear straightaway that the legs weighed twice as much as the arms and there was little chance I’d be able to throw these larger limbs comfortably over the canal. I threw the feet in anger like a cricketer. My bad arm burned with the frustration. I felt I had no choice but to try to get the limbs into the enclosure from the other side of the bank.

  I desperately hoped I’d be able to drop down beside the bridge. It was fairly overgrown and acted like a natural barrier between the canal and the enclosure. I went round onto the bridge, looking down over the warthog pen and into the dogs. It was still too far from the bridge to attempt to throw the legs, and besides, there were large, over-hanging oak trees whose branches would act like goal-keepers, stopping me from reaching my objective. Oh fuck!

  I looked either side of the bridge. The side nearest to the dogs was about a ten-foot drop and with only one arm and thick brambles on a steep bank it wasn’t appealing in the slightest. Even feeling fit as a fiddle and fleeing for my life I wouldn’t have chosen it as an escape route. The opposite side was more maintained, less of a drop, but the only way around the bridge was under it and there wasn’t a path.

  I looked up and down the canal from the middle. As far as I could see there were no signs of life. It was miserable out. Cold and wet and getting late in the day, why would anyone want to be out? I couldn’t see any anyone. People would ruin everything now.

  I dropped the leg over the wrong side of the bridge and ran back to the bike. I took off my coat and shoes, socks and trousers, leaning against the fence to steady myself. Nothing was easy one-handed. I picked up the last leg and wedged it under my gammy arm and trotted back to the bridge. My feet were freezing and the sticks, leaves, gravel and grass took turns biting me. Once I was back on the bridge I looked down and dropped the second leg to be reunited with the first and then climbed up on the brick bridge, looked down and dropped over. Although this side was grassier every little stick and piece of bramble dashed my ankles and legs and knees as I rolled over a few times, unable to stop myself because of my useless arm. The pain screamed at me. I scrambled to my feet, pushing myself up one-handed. It took more effort than any push-up I’d ever done in my life. I was feeling exhausted and now my arm was hurting more than it had done up to that point. I dry-wretched; I had nothing in my stomach to sick up. I gingerly went down to the edge of the canal and sat with my bloodied feet and legs dangling into the brown soup-like water. Next to me sat the other two legs.

  I would have to go under the dark bridge in the water, carrying one leg at a time, before being able to get out the other side and go up the bank to get close enough to the enclosure to chuck the legs in and then be on my way. I plonked down into the freezing water. My bad arm instantly felt relieved, although my breath was taken away, and fighting to relax my breathing possibly meant I could no longer feel my arm. No matter how much I tried I couldn’t catch my breath and relax. I felt like giving up. I looked at the first leg on the bank and grabbed it and forced myself on. I had to push the leg on with one hand with my bad arm in the water and use my feet on the cold, wet, weedy wall underneath me in the darkness and slime. I wondered what fish were near my feet and then wondered about eels and my bum had a strange twitch and the thought made my toes curl. I dragged myself on bit by bit under the parapet. I could only move about half a foot at a time and each movement resulted in me needing to regain my balance again before pushing on. Each time I tried to go any faster I got a face full of canal water and didn’t want to drink any more than absolutely necessary and as far as I could tell I wasn’t thirsty. I managed to get my breath back but was now shivering uncontrollably. It was freezing, damp, dark and squalid under the bridge; there was no path or light either side of the canal. The only things supposed to pass underneath the bridge were boats. For some reason it smelt of piss. I could hear dripping, I guessed from the road above, but the piss, I decided it might come from bats.

  I dropped the first leg off and made my way back to retrieve the second. As I passed back under the bridge on my way back to the first leg I could just make out my bike on the far side of the canal with the portfolio. Someone was there. I froze and thought, Busted, it’s all over.

  All I saw was the florescent jacket and I immediately thought it was the police. But as my eyes adjusted and my initial panic subsided I could see it wasn’t a policeman. I blinked, trying to focus properly. Who was it and what did they want? I thought the best thing I could do was start shouting. Hopefully it would scare whoever it was off. But the last thing I wanted to do was cause alarm or draw
any attention to myself… any more than a bloke would while holding a discarded leg and wading half naked up to his neck in a canal in the freezing cold with a bloodied bullet wound in one arm. No, I really had to be careful but forceful. Fuck it; I didn’t have a clue what to say. As I edged under the bridge I noticed it was a lady runner. I shouted out, ‘It’s okay, the bike’s with me!’

  It was the first thing that came into my head. It didn’t occur to me that it didn’t really make much sense, but it got her attention as she looked round momentarily, startled. I could see she was unsure where my voice had come from and from her body language she looked uneasy and scared as she squinted into the darkness under the bridge. I presumed she saw the ripples in the water and thought I was with the zoo or canal or bridge inspection agency or something because she jogged on, possibly worried I was a murdering nutter in the canal with somebody’s body parts on a miserable Sunday night.

  I waited under the bridge for a moment. I was convinced she would turn around again as she ran off and I didn’t want her to see me wallowing in the canal holding a chargrilled human leg. That would look bad. I was frozen to the bone; my fingers had no sensation in them. But I held the leg and gripped the wet, slimy wall whilst my teeth did their best to make as much noise as possible by chattering away uncontrollably. As I expected, she turned round one more time before disappearing around the corner behind some hedges. I forced myself on until I got to the other leg on the bank. I hoped she hadn’t noticed the bags, although she would have no conceivable way of knowing at all what was hidden in the plastic.