When the Pilot Light Goes Out

by Daniel Stone

  Occasionally my wanderings as a lad became infectious and as a group my friends and I would set off on our bikes. We called it scrambling. Some days we were the BMX Bandits, others the Red Hang Gang if everyone had something red on. If anyone wanted to be the A-Team I always wanted to be Face, but put up with being Murdock. Minesh was always BA.

  Every day was an adventure. We soon knew hundreds of routes all around the woods that backed onto my house. Some routes climbed steadily uphill past the conker tree lookout post until they came out at the Crown pub, sitting proudly at the top of the hill looking out over the bad lands of Bas Vegas, past Langdon Hills and Laindon, all the way to the other side of the world. Another route passed Frog Alley, where we’d seen the giant frog, alongside the two ponds, and would come out on the far side of my school. Another route brought you out near the ‘rec’ (short for recreational ground, or swings and slides). No land was left unchartered, no empty, abandoned house (due for demolition) left unsearched for forgotten treasure. The empty houses were being knocked down for the new housing developments or more roads that were eating away at the little pockets of countryside I knew around the area called home.

  On one scrambling mission to the pits (which were old bomb craters in the woods where the German Nazis had dropped their bombs before heading home), I learnt the importance of proper bike maintenance. Something about being a lad meant everything, no matter how much I treasured it, needed testing to the limit – and in most cases, destruction – even my favourite belongings. This time it was my trusty steed, my bicycle; it was by far my most valued item in the world. Everything, I knew, was possible on my bike, and although it wasn’t a mongoose or diamond-back like all the spoilt, rich kids craved, it was a proper BMX and it did have bright yellow plastic mags spokes and equally sunny matching mushroom handlebar grips. It was in fact a bright yellow and red beast, armed with a padded front handlebar for your head and padded nut bar to protect your balls should you fall off your seat. That was, at least, until I burst the rear tyre after doing multiple skids. To make it even better Dad replaced the old rear tyre with a blue one, mental. I had a yellow, red and blue bike and it was well wicked.

  I was mega wicked at pretty much all the tricks: endos, bunny hops, no handers. All unfortunately and sometimes painfully learnt by trial and error, meaning that although my bike was sturdy it had certainly been put through the mill. One problem arose from my over-eager skidding practice... On this particular scrambling mission my front brake had already given up the ghost and I had to tie the loose cable around the frame of the bike. I didn’t have the Cubs badge for knots, although I was quite capable of producing sufficient fishing and reef variations and several styles of shoelace bows. It wasn’t much of a problem as in most of my scrambling missions tearing down woody hills, jumping roots and doing skids required little front brake action due to not wanting to perform front wheel skids or any impromptu, unnecessary flights over the handlebars. But as I hurtled down the wooded tracks, arms vibrating like a worker on a pneumatic drill, my back brake snapped, leaving me with no brakes at all. My only options were to try to sit down and use my feet (not an option at that speed), or try to stay on as long as possible like a bucking bronco, or dive off the bike entirely.

  I tore down the hill past my friends, leaving them amazed at my sudden, all-out, no-fear approach. They tried to keep up, peddling like crazy. The path went one way and I went another down the side of a hill. Like a Ewok on a speeda bike I flew past trees. They became bigger and closer. I struggled to avoid more and more bushes and shrubbery as the thicket became denser and denser. My face was getting scratched by brambles.

  Finally my bike was enveloped by a thick bush and I was flung through the air, deep into the foliage. I lay still, battered and bruised, until my mates hacked their way into the vegetation to find me in my winded, wounded state. Once sitting up, I sneaked a quick look at my willy; the handlebars had twisted and on impact caught me straight on the dude, and amazingly I had a bruise to prove it. I let the other lads wheel my bashed-up bike back to my house as they each relayed stories of how ‘well wicked’ my stack was; it was the stuff of legends and I was a hero. I wouldn’t show them my bruise, though; just talking about it made them grab their nuts and roll around the floor in sympathetic agony.

  10 – It Started

  It started in a similar fashion to when I’d felt like I was losing everything before – an escalation in situations that if they had occurred at a single time would have been easy to cope with, but unfortunately these things happened like dominoes, one after another, all of them piling pressure on an already maxed-out hard drive: my head.

  It was gone ten at night and I was still at work, tired, just sitting staring at the computer screen. I couldn’t be bothered to start the trek home in the cold. I was hungry but couldn’t be bothered to eat. I had to finish my invoicing, depressing as it was. I’d put it off almost all month in the hope that a large job might come in to rescue another shitty month. What was the point in getting commission if you couldn’t even beat your targets? I guessed lions didn’t have targets to meet: one antelope and that was food for the pride for a few days. I supposed a drought was like a recession. Where was my pride?

  Emotion is one sense the brain seems to struggle to control. Allegedly, it is what separates us from the animals: the more highly tuned we have become, so our caring capabilities have become stronger or weaker. I wasn’t sure any more. Nearly all animals care for their young to some extent, whether protecting or setting up a nice house or laying down their lives shielding their offspring. Some care for others’ young as well, making crèches. It’s even been known occasionally for animals to adopt other breeds of animals like lions and gazelles or elephants and dogs or owls and pussy cats, and in some cases some animals become friends.

  Humans, however, are judged in an almost opposite, different fashion. It’s more about how kind you are; this somehow reflects the more human you are. The less emotion you show, the less human you seem. We are intrigued by animals that do the things we like humans to do; somehow it makes them seem more human, kind even. So it seems an insult to animals to describe a bad person as an animal.

  11 – Our Soul Train

  On our way into school we would push ourselves up against the windows on the single carriage trains to make it seem like the compartment was full. Normally there would be me, James, Roy, Liam, Greeney and Mason and maybe a few others. Sometimes we’d swing the heavy wooden doors open just as we were entering the station so anyone standing too close to the edge of the platform would need to dive back to avoid being knocked to kingdom come. We stopped doing this around the time our teacher actually got hit by a door and spent some time in hospital with multiple broken bones; he looked like he’d been beaten up by Mike Tyson.

  On one journey we removed the light bulbs and threw them on the M25 as the train passed overhead. We created a dust storm Egypt would have been proud of by bashing the seats until everyone found breathing difficult; all our clothes, hair and hands covered in dust or, as we called it, ‘dead man’s skin’. We then removed the seats to check for money and climbed up and sat on the baggage rails; not that it was more comfortable or anything, it was just different to sitting on the seats like normal humans.

  For some reason Mason decided a little prematurely to open the train door, thinking we were coming into Shenfield. Sometimes we would slide open the window and lean out, getting ‘Chinese eyes’; it was like putting your face in an industrial-strength blower. We didn’t do it much after hearing stories of a boy’s head coming off after being hit by another train. The old style trains had a stiff sliding latch I dreaded for years as a kid; the thought of not being able to open the door and being stuck on the train – God only knows where I’d end up, I presumed Scotland. Whatever happened I’d probably die if I didn’t get off the train.

  Mason, the ginger kid who could get into a fight in an empty room, pushed open the door with no trouble at all. He got it far t
oo early, though. I reckoned because we had no lights and the compartment was so dusty he figured we were nearer than we really were; either that or he needed some fresh air. The door was open and he stepped down onto the standing board step. It was only then that I noticed him properly, as he balanced precariously. I remember him looking round at us; although not a best friend, still that look of a fellow traveller and conspirator was etched onto his face. The face of a fellow train wrecker.

  Then he slipped, falling through the air. We lurched forward collectively, trying to grab him before he fell, but we were too late. We saw him fall. Terror in his pale, freckled face. His ginger head hit the floor first and his scalp was ripped away. Blood spurted everywhere as his eye was snatched clean out of his head. Arms and legs snapped on impact, and as the momentum carried him along bits of his body were torn clean off, leaving only his torso encased in his tattered school blazer with the school badge sitting proud.

  All of us knew the cops would think we’d killed him and our parents would probably ground us. That was not good as we had the Saint Helen’s school disco coming up and Mandy Parker and her mates were likely to be there and some of them were well sexy and would let you touch them up and everything.

  That didn’t happen. The moment the door opened and we realised we were nowhere near the platform and the group of us instinctively knew this could be dangerous, as Mason slipped we all lurched forward to grab him. Greeney caught his arm first. This caused some concern as Greeney as Mason had never been that friendly and had only recently been squabbling with him to the point of fisticuffs. Mason was leaning back like a limbo dancer, bag dangling precariously, getting buffeted by the train’s movements and the wind from the cool, damp, dark night. His outstretched arm was held by Greeney who in turn was sliding through the door being held by Liam; Liam who in turn wasn’t that keen on either Mason or Greeney. James and I grabbed Liam and for a few moments everyone considered Greeney considering whether to let go. Thankfully we all pulled each other back into the carriage as we arrived at Shenfield station platform. It was mentioned that Greeney had saved Mason’s life, a fact neither of them seemed too happy about. I was just relieved that I wasn’t going to get grounded and still had a chance of a snog with Mandy at the Saint Helen’s disco.

  12 – James

  I’d told James before it wasn’t really in our plans, but he was adamant that I should keep the pressure on Chloe and that babies were the way forward and I’d be a great dad.

  We were catching up over a few beers and something to eat. We were in one of those modern country pubs that could be a chain; it had a warm, stuffy, stifling ambiance, no music, no air and people who talked too loudly about nothing and James talked louder still until I couldn’t take it any more, fidgeting in my seat, trying to stop my eyes rolling and my brain switching off. I was gasping for some air. I wanted to change the subject. My eyes were dry and I couldn’t help yawning. I looked around, searching for an escape route.

  His Catholic family upbringing had sent his parental ethos into overdrive, and if it transpired that he and everyone else had messed up their lives by having kids then so should I. Why did I always start arguments in my head as a way of distracting myself from the actual topic? Why didn’t I just tell James to back off? Perhaps he was right and I was scared of the truth. Life was a struggle for sure, but he seemed happy enough. He loved his boy unquestionably. Everybody I knew who had kids loved them unequivocally. What if Chloe and I were different? What if we had kids we didn’t love? Would our friends and family still support us, or would they say it was our fault, our decision to have kids, our responsibility… could we turn around and say ‘You said we should have kids, that we would be good parents, but you’re wrong, we’re bad parents, I hate my child’?

  All of what he said sounded great, although a bit sound-bitey. I’d heard it all a thousand times before. Everyone kept saying: meet a girl, fall in love, get married, settle down, have kids. It was all so easy, so premeditated. I had no idea if I’d be a good dad. I certainly liked the idea, although it also frightened me, and although it had always been Chloe who was more against the idea than me, I sort of felt like I didn’t deserve it either. I wanted to be with Chloe and wanted to be with her no matter what, even if that meant no kids.

  At the turn of the millennium I had been deep in a messy relationship. Although we had been together for several years there were always trust issues anyway. Somehow we’d had the opportunity to have a child, but the decision had been taken away from me. My girlfriend at the time had discovered she was pregnant. She was unsure of what to do, and although my family offered support to the point of actually saying they’d support me and the child if it came to it, the decision was taken away by the girlfriend’s parents who booked her in to have an abortion before my girlfriend’s feet had touched the ground and we had had a proper chance to weigh up the situation. I was treated like a naughty schoolchild and cut out of the loop. I didn’t have a great job but I was working. I could have coped, but in the end it wasn’t to be and any chance of finding out was snatched away.

  So I bitterly said to James, ‘Look, mate, I’ve had my chance, it was taken away, you know when, and besides, it might not have even been my child and I still can’t get that out of my head. Fuck it, Chloe and I are too selfish. She wants lots of holidays and money and freedom. She has a good job even if I’m struggling with mine. If I want to share these things with her I can’t afford babies!’

  James conceded and backed down, I think for the first time in our lives.

  13 – Redden Court

  I had missed the last coach from school to Harold Wood. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant walk; in actual fact for a young lad it was a little daunting – a few miles taking in the wonders of Havering and Essex’s finest alongside the A127. I knew some back alleys and shortcuts, but for a short twelve-year-old with a rucksack full of text books and rugby kit and one hand carrying a clarinet box, I must have resembled a bully’s textbook victim: a tortoise with a musical instrument. Plus, rumours were rife about fights with the school next door, Redden Court. They didn’t like the Campion Gay boys, as we were known, and the red badge acted like a target on my blazer from at least one hundred metres.

  I walked as fast as my legs would get me to the station. Unfortunately, though, I wasn’t nearly fast enough. The first broken brick landed not far to the right of me in a puff of exploding concrete, the second just behind me, sending shivers down my spine. I glanced back to see big lads running fast, hurdling bushes, scrambling around the corner towards me. Leg it, I thought, as the adrenalin breathed life into my temporarily terrified, frozen body. I stopped myself wanting to curl up into a ball like a hedgehog. All too quickly I could hear heavy feet rapidly gaining on me with every step I made.

  The first youth sped up to me. ‘Run, for fuck’s sake,’ he said.

  I was running, I couldn’t run much faster. I could hear shouting and jeering.

  ‘Come on then, you fucking wankers.’

  More footsteps catching me up just as quickly then whoosh, in a running blur my clarinet box was snatched from my hand as a big kid raced past. More flying rubble, more shouting and goading, even louder and faster footsteps closing in behind me.

  ‘Oi, give me back my flipping clarinet,’ I shouted at the big kid who’d run on in front of me. But it was no good; he wasn’t stopping. More big kids ran past me then wallop, my rucksack was pulled off my shoulder, spinning me round. What the hell was going on? One more lad was coming up behind me, the biggest of the lot, so big he almost blocked out the world as he bore down on me. At the last moment when I expected him to crush me like a steam roller I could see behind him the source of the flying rocks and abuse: it was Redden Court! I turned to start running again, trying to catch up with my bag and clarinet.

  ‘Run, you idiot,’ the big lad said.

  ‘I am running!’ I shouted back. I was one of the fastest in my year in long distance, but I was rubbish at sprinting:
my arms were pumping like Daley Thompson but my legs were going in slow motion.

  ‘Don’t make me carry you!’ the big lad said.

  ‘I don’t wanna be carried,’ I shouted back.

  The chasing mob was getting closer and closer but he wasn’t leaving me behind. We legged it all the way to the station, two roads under continual bombardment. As we ran up the hill to the station we could see a train was approaching. The rocks and shouting kept coming, my legs and heart and lungs were burning. We ran into the station and were chased down the stairs. We sprinted down to the end of the platform and crossed the tracks in front of the oncoming train. We ran back up the track on the opposite side, so we now had a train and a platform between us. The other big lads from my school were waiting at the doors of the train to pull us on and stop any of the pursuers. I was finally reunited with my clarinet and rucksack.

  I had no excuse not to do my homework now, but at least I had some big new mates who all appreciated my crisps and taught me how to smoke.

  14 – The Office

  ‘Upstairs in the boardroom, five minutes, gloves off.’

  The director’s phone call was blunt. I knew I was due a bollocking over my shrinking sales figures, but the recession had hit everyone and this wasn’t the way the financial director would deal with that situation; nope, that was still on the cards. This was about something else – what else had I done that could have pissed him off more than normal? I hadn’t used my phone any more than usual, and I hadn’t been looking at the internet more than usual either. Perhaps someone had got caught doing drugs and had blamed me? Not likely. I hadn’t nicked anything, and I hadn’t printed any KDs lately (‘keep darks’, as in keep them out of view of whoever you don’t want to know you’ve printed something); well, I hadn’t printed anything excessive bar perhaps my wedding stationery, photos and thank-you cards and both my sister and my brother-in-law’s new business stationery – but apart from that, nothing major recently.