When the Pilot Light Goes Out

by Daniel Stone

  19 – Fiesta Siesta

  ‘The real thing’ was blaring out of the stereo. Sarah and Neil and I all sang along as loudly as we could. We had just entered the roundabout at Blackmore. I was driving the love wagon. Just another teenage turbo GT Nutter bastard. The motor did zero to sixty in about fourteen seconds. On paper it was just another blue Fiesta. Distinguishing features: it had one black door and a stereo with serious treble action. When I had Josh Wink’s ‘Higher state of consciousness’ playing, humming birds in Madagascar thought a forest fire was approaching from the north. On the official documents it boasted a 950cc engine, but when I hit a tonne the speedo bounced. I was convinced it was at least a 1300cc; either that or the old fella I’d bought it off had been an old racing driver and had tuned the beast up. When I put the pedal to the metal daisies on the side of the road took a mild buffering.

  As I exited the roundabout, heading for Sarah’s house, Neil said, ‘I think I just saw a cop car.’

  Shit, I thought, best step on the gas and lose them.

  It was one long, straight road, they had a car capable of zero to sixty in less than seven seconds, I had a couple of hundred metres head start and, with a good wind and a freak lightning strike, a fair to no chance at all of outrunning them. Undeterred, I engaged warp factor nothing and watched the speedo creep surreptitiously towards forty-five miles per hour. I was fairly certain the back roads around that area had sixty-miles-per-hour speed limits; if we had caught the fuzz’s attention it was most likely due to us singing loudly rather than my erratic or erotic driving. There was no doubt the pigs were on my tail; I was nearly up to fifty-five miles per hour and running out of road. They probably hadn’t anticipated my knowledge of the local roads; shit, they could have mistaken me for an old lady up until that point.

  The road ended at a T-junction. It was a forty-five-degree right-hand turn and then straight away a left-hand turn, bearing into Sarah’s road, another country lane, and a hundred or so metres further along was my fail safe, get-out-of-jail-free card… my pièce de résistance would come into play: the conifer-lined driveway to her house. If judged correctly I could turn off my lights and pull into the driveway, leaving the Ice Poles completely flummoxed and in the dark as to where I had disappeared to.

  That was the plan. I didn’t really have time to run it past Sarah and Neil; they would just have to be accessories. I hadn’t really given it much thought myself. I just went for it.

  The first right went okay. It was dark and I could see that no headlights were coming in either direction. It would have been deemed bad driving to everyone but any seventeen-year-old anywhere in the world or a trainee getaway driver. They at least would have admired the cornering capabilities of yours truly in my Fiesta 1.3 meat injection.

  Unfortunately the plod weren’t impressed or easily shaken. I took the right and left turnings, barely touching the brake and using the full amount of road. Neil nearly spilt his Tango. I motored up to the conifers that led to Sarah’s house and hit the lights just as I’d planned in my head only seconds earlier. Just as my lights went out the blue flashing lights came on. Busted. Game over.

  Neil and Sarah went silent in the car; they expected me to do bird on their account. I wasn’t going down like that, though; they weren’t going to lock me up and throw away the key. I stopped the car and waited for the five o’s to get out. I thought about flooring it again like they do in the movies just as the rozzers get out. I decided I’d been caught and would take my punishment like a man.

  ‘Fuck me, he’s huge.’

  The tallest policeman I’d ever seen walked up to the car. He nearly had to kneel down to look through the window. When he did he looked straight at Sarah, fleetingly; a look of recognition. He tapped the window and asked me to step out of the vehicle.

  ‘Why were you in such a rush, eh?’ he said.

  ‘I wanted to get her home,’ I said, looking at Sarah in the car.

  ‘You should be more careful with a lovely young lady like that in your car,’ he said. Oh no, he fancies Sarah, I thought.

  ‘I thought you might be the bummers,’ I said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he said.

  ‘You know, those dodgy blokes dressed up like police who’ve been carrying out those heinous crimes against innocent members of the community, Officer. You can’t trust anyone, and Neil in the car is always having strange blokes look at him in a suggestive manner, Officer.’

  Neil just sat and stared aimlessly out the window.

  ‘I see,’ the policeman said, looking at Neil, almost momentarily sensing his vulnerability.

  ‘How’s the car going?’ he asked, throwing me off track suddenly.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, thinking, It corners like it’s on rails actually, mate, you were lucky you could keep up with me. If I didn’t have these two weighing me down I’d be out of here.

  ‘Only I helped do it up!’

  ‘You what’?

  ‘You purchased it from Old Mick who lives opposite me. I helped tune it up and get it on the road, and you got a good motor there.’

  ‘Blimey,’ I said, thinking, Should I ask what size engine it really had? ‘You must be Big Ron’s dad. I know your son: he’s a friend of mine, and we go to college together.’

  He said, ‘I know Sarah’s family as well, and you should take more care driving young ladies around.’ He didn’t seem to care too much about Neil any more. ‘Let this be a warning to you. Have a good night, and be more careful in future, young man,’ he said, getting back in the cop car.

  You be careful, I thought, there are dangerous bummers out there.

  20 – Diminishing

  I was sitting on my own in the pub at Marylebone station, just staring at my half-full pint of Guinness. Two packets of peanuts, one dry roasted, the other salty, were going to be my dinner for tonight. A red-haired couple sat canoodling in the corner, both sporting similar pierced faces and big woolly cardigans; all wrapped up warm in thick scarves and heavy boots, all snugly and loved up. I felt jealous of their tenderness and affection.

  Were diminishing responsibilities enough reason to commit crime? Did life’s negative experiences warrant sudden bad behaviour? Was it greed or anger or hurt that suddenly made you a bad person? When did a good person become bad? Could taking drugs at some point in your life lead to you to become someone who committed a premeditated action? Would that be an excuse? Could doing drugs once or twice damage your brain to the extent that you became a bad person? Would losing loved ones or job pressures or moving house create enough stress that a certain person might react by doing certain drastic actions? What would be the point of stealing or causing pain? What would the benefit be to me? Would my life be better? Would the fear or reality of losing everything be enough of an incentive to go out and cause mayhem? How far would most people go? Would spreading myself too thin and losing my job and perhaps everything else I hold dear to me be enough of a reason to take action? Would that be the catalyst: a new house, a lovely wife, a family? All gone, how should I cope? I coped before; I could cope again couldn’t I? It was different now; I didn’t want to cope any more.

  Could it just be in my nature? As an innocent kid I’d got up to mischief; perhaps now as an adult my horizons had broadened and so had my levels of mayhem. Perhaps some people never grew up; I was quite sure as an adult I’d been told I needed to. I remembered my Mum used to say, ‘Only the innocent get caught.’ Perhaps I’d got away with too much or perhaps I just did what I did because I could and wanted to.

  Did this make me a bad person, or was I simply one of life’s opportunists?

  21 – The Cross and Blackwall

  We’d organised a party bus to take our group of mates from Essex to The Cross in King’s Cross and back home again in the morning. Martin and I had taken charge of the party prescriptions. Unbeknownst to us, it was the same day as Gay Pride.

  I’d recently split up with Sarah but neither of us had any intention of missing the night out. We all
had on our best dancing clobber and were ready and waiting for a proper shindig. The coach journey on the way up to London was collectively exciting, almost hopeful. I found myself seeking out Sarah’s eye, hoping to make contact. Despite the butterflies in my stomach part of me hoped the night might end with us making up; stranger things had happened and I missed her for sure.

  When we left the coach and made our way to the queue, Martin and I became nervous over the security on the door and the full-on shoe-removal-style body searches being carried out on the clubbers in front of us. We noticed the eagle-eyed doorman noticing us noticing his security measures at the same moment. We’d never make it through, so we switched to Plan C. We left the rapidly shortening line and went for a wander around the block.

  ‘Shit, that was close. What are we going to do, man?’ Martin looked at me, hoping I had a plan.

  ‘We should have sold it earlier,’ I said, not helping matters. ‘How about we stick the stuff down our pants?’ I suggested, knowing I had dodgy boxers on and thinking that would mean Martin would have to take the stuff.

  No good, he was going commando.

  ‘Shit.’

  We had no idea how to hide the pink champagne, and neither of us could see a secure enough place to try stashing it either.

  ‘Fuck it, let’s just do it all,’ I said.

  ‘All of it? Won’t we overdose, dude?’ Martin replied.

  ‘Can you overdose on speed?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s the most anyone’s ever done in one go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Fuck it, let’s do it.’

  The two of us went for it, tearing open the little paper wraps, joining one per cent of the world’s population, living and dead – hard-core caners, rockers and ravers and speed queens. Certainly not many had lived to tell the tale, not that we knew of anyway. Three and a half grams each gone in a matter of seconds. Fingers rapidly rubbing powder into our gums.

  Never before had I wanted a drink so badly. Semi-gagging, convulsing, smoking! Doing absolutely anything at all to take away the foul taste. All I wanted was an orange squash or a scouring brush for my tongue. Battery acid would have tasted great right then. I wanted so badly to stop swallowing.

  ‘How’re you feeling, Martin?’

  ‘Fine. You?’ he said, lying.

  ‘Yeah, great thanks,’ I replied.

  ‘Another ciggy?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Yeah, why the hell not?’ I said, bravado overflowing.

  Now, I should have told the truth, but that was hardly going to help the situation – admitting anything was bad could cause a spiralling negative effect and right now we needed to be positive. So we were both lying to each other. P.M.A. Positive Mental Attitude. Negative could come later; we needed to get into the club first. We weren’t ready for the comedown yet; hells bells, we weren’t even ready for the take-off. Jesus wept, Christ on a bike, we weren’t even at the launch pad yet either. We had to get a wriggle on.

  We got back to the club in no time at all; we were almost panting, having jogged most the way. The overly observant security bloke called us over to be searched.

  ‘You alright?’ he asked semi-suspiciously.

  ‘Yeah, you?’ I replied, staring him hard in the eyes, concentrating on controlling my gag reflex, desperate to not start gulping or looking nervous or saying anything stupid.

  ‘Where’d you run off to?’ he asked.

  ‘I needed some cash, mate,’ I said, patting my wallet as if to emphasise my point, illustrating that it was now bulging with crisp new notes still warm and straight from the machine.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he said, beckoning for my wallet. ‘Also take off your shoes and lift your arms, please, mate.’ He checked my wallet; it contained my last twenty pounds in cash in the world, four virgin five pound notes, and no drugs. He checked my fags, chewing gum packet, shoes and socks, and thoroughly patted me down as well.

  ‘Bend down, please, mate.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Nahhhh, only joking with ya, mate.’

  Had his reply taken one second longer I’d have been well on my way to exposing my rusty sheriff’s badge without a moment’s thought.

  ‘Are you with those girls that were in the queue earlier in front of you like, you know, the pretty little blonde ones with the lovely jugs, little sort, blonde hair, right?’ the bald-headed, spade-handed, gold-tooth-sporting, double-hard, funny-man, eagle-eyed, chatter-box new-best-mate with a serious steroid problem asked with a wiggle of the eyebrows and a filthy look of mischievousness that suggested nothing but menace.

  ‘Erm yeah, why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason, have fun.’

  What the fuck does that mean? I thought.

  Martin got through the intense grilling as well and we made our way into the club. I drank a beer then some water like a seriously thirsty camel. Like a camel that was so thirsty from eating nothing but sand and crackers for months on end that all its humps and shit had withered to sacks of skin like old sacks used at school for sack races.

  I didn’t feel like talking, I felt like dancing. I was jittering like a baby gazelle on a roasting tray covered in rosemary and baked in the oven at two hundred degrees and served with meaty, hot, red wine gravy; just how Mrs Lion and all her family like it. Mmmm.

  Once the thirst was partially quenched, the music, which incidentally was the most banging house music I’d ever heard and could only be resisted by the completely deaf and dumb or people absolutely devoid of any musical appreciation... Oh my God, I just have to dance! With a bottle of water in my hand, the stage beckoned. I was sucked towards the centre; everywhere it seemed people were dancing in slow motion. I had time to move to each and every individual beat. Every change in melody and rhythm I could reflect with a flick of the wrist or waggle of the finger. I was the lord of dance. I was the greatest dancer. I had hours and lifetimes between beats, every bassy burping sound setting me off on more manic fluid movements. That’s when it passed me: the seven foot condom, enjoying Gay Pride no doubt. Still, no time to jibber jabber, especially not with a huge prophylactic. I just got to dance. I would have tiggled his ribs but didn’t fancy getting mud under my nails. I powered on, oblivious to anyone or anything. I wasn’t moving from my stage and everyone in the club knew that was my space now. I was conducting the orchestra; I had a bottle of water. I had no need for anything else in the world apart from a continuous stream of cigarettes. The music was so perfect. ‘Let’s have it!’ I screamed whilst whooping like a Red Indian, focusing on nothing but the dancing and the tunes.

  Then it was over. ‘What do you mean we’re leaving? We’ve only just got here.’

  I couldn’t believe I’d been dancing nonstop for seven hours and the bus had returned to take us home: next stop Essex, but not before stopping by Comedown city en route.

  We clambered aboard the mentalist bus; I was a certified window licker for sure. I could hear Sarah chatting and laughing at the rear of the bus. I had hardly seen her all night; I guessed she had been avoiding me – perhaps she had been with the bouncer who’d seemed so interested. They would have made a lovely couple and have had lots of amazing sex.

  I put my head against the damp, cold glass window and the condensation gathered on my squalid skin. The engine and road vibrations massaged my throbbing brain, my clothes were wet through with sweat and I was cold now, wide awake yet utterly shattered. All I could hear was Sarah laughing and having fun with her girlfriends. It was dawn and my heart was beating like a metronome attached to an amp. What had happened to the night? Who had sped up the clocks and stolen my time? I felt like I’d only been in the club for half an hour, and why the hell was Sarah having so much fun? I’d definitely been cheated. I looked around the bus for Martin, sticking my head up out of my trench like a meercat momentarily. He too looked like he had been dealt a rough hand in a deal with the devil, like a solider battle-scarred and under siege, like some beaten, scr
ewed-up rouge trader, like a beaten chess player, like a fucked-up, disco-dancing druggy!

  22 – Gate Crasher

  James and I were making the most of having a night off from the wives. James’ sister was in the music business; she was married to a manager also in the business. James’ brother Neil was also in a band. I had been in it for a while as well, at least many years ago, when he was first starting out. I was the bongo player and driver and occasional backing singer. We sang songs by groups like Boys to Men and Extreme; not really my thing at all. We recorded a few tracks we’d written but they were fairly crap, apart from the bongo section at least.

  We had gone to see James’ brother’s band play and now we were at an after-show party hosted by his sister’s record company. It was a family affair. It turned out to be a right old mish mash of who’s who in the celebrity world and a blend of the current cool crowd. Apparently Kate Moss, Russell Brand and Kate Perry, Paulo Nutini and Noel Gallagher from Oasis were there, but I didn’t see any of them. I did see the orange face of Dale Winton, though. Perhaps I missed the ‘A-listers’ because I was too busy staggering from the free bar to the dance floor and the toilet and back.

  We were in a dark wooden bar with flashes of blue neon. Scantily clad women and younger girls trying to look older and acting miserable to seem sophisticated were two a penny. I got the impression there was a heavy security presence although the door was your usual bouncer affair. Strange suited blokes wearing shades and discreet earpieces stood in dark corners, not dealing just looking. James pointed out some sultan of somewhere or other; word had it that his hired entourage of ladies were adorned in rented, priceless jewels, usually saved for red carpet dos, but here in the club tonight they were just reflecting his money and the blue neon and bling. I guessed the security was his, or the jewels’. He looked like he’d need protecting more than the girls with the jewels. I wouldn’t have fancied taking on one of the mini-skirted golems in an attempt to part her from her precious diamond ring.