When the Pilot Light Goes Out

by Daniel Stone

  I walked without any nervous anticipation; I wasn’t worried at all. It was fate and I had to do this. I passed the yellow building, looking at the pictures of Maori patterns and tribal decorations and other inspirational bits of artwork.

  I pushed open the door and entered. A large punk was sitting in a dentist’s chair. I could hear the electric drill as well. The punk didn’t turn around, which I thought was strange and a little rude, but from behind his massive, spiky, tattooed head had the air of ‘fuck off’ and ‘I don’t give a fuck’ written all over it, so I thought I’d best be polite and patient.

  ‘Be with you in a minute, mate,’ I heard a voice say that appeared to resonate from the punk, so I said, ‘No worries, mate.’

  I couldn’t hear much over the compressors and the dentist drill noises, and as I could only see the punk I figured it was him I was conversing with. That’s when the punk swivelled slightly and revealed the tattoo artist between his legs. As the massive old punk stood up and pulled on his camouflage army trousers I was temporally unsure whether the tattoo artist was plying his trade by administering some sort of oral pleasures. I wasn’t sure what made me feel more uneasy: the thought of the two of them sharing a sexual moment or the punk having his groin area tattooed. ‘Clean needles, please!’

  Aladdin gestured for me to take a seat whilst he dealt with the spiky haired fella and put away his drawing tools. I sat in a hungover daze with my scrap of paper with my hastily drawn tag, staring at an aquarium full of deformed goldfish. Shubumbkins or something; one was trying to suck another one’s eye off. I was lost for a moment in their battle, gripped, worried sick about the little fella’s eye. Swim away, little fella, don’t let him suck off your eye! I wondered what the fish made of the outside world that they saw. Probably not much, I decided.

  One fish would say, ‘Look at that big fella getting a tattoo. Whoa, he’s getting his groin tattooed!’

  And another one would say, ‘What did you say, Goldie?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Oh, you know, not much. Bit of swimming. You?’

  ‘Not much, the same really, swimming, shitting and eating food that tastes like flies. Have you seen that big fella over there? What’s he doing?’

  ‘Looks like he’s getting his... Whoa! Oh my God, did you see that?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Err, I don’t know.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘What you been up to?’

  ‘Oh you know… this and that...’

  ‘Excuse me, mate, wakey wakey. Can I ’av your artwork, please, sunshine?’

  I was snapped out of my fishy drama and passed the tattoo artist my drawing.

  ‘Is it a Chinese symbol?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it fucking isn’t,’ I replied a little more testily than needed, thinking, It’s a sign of life’s dramas paradoxically symbolised in the battle between good and bad; it’s a reflection of all that’s wrong in the world; it’s a hyper junction leading to a port hole where everything makes sense; it’s an ancient saying reflecting good overcoming bad; it’s, it’s... ‘Well, actually, it’s my name, but it does look quite like a Chinese symbol I suppose,’

  42 – Journey begins – Saturday, 11am to Sunday 2am

  I’d followed the normal football Saturday routine: woken up as usual with a stinking hangover and made my way to London listening to my iPod, avoiding people everywhere at every junction, determined to become just another person looking and smelling a bit rough on the train, subtly blending into the background. I met the lads at The Black Lion in Plaistow; it was the same old eventful game against Bolton, a grey sodden day both mild and drizzly, just like the football. I drank through my hangover only to have another one kick in by half-time. West Ham weren’t going to be lifting my spirits today. After a few more drinks following the game I said my goodbyes and made my way back to the West End alone.

  I stopped off at a club called Movida near Oxford Street. I’d been there with Chloe a few years earlier. I’d gone that Saturday after West Ham as well and was drunk, but because I with her they let me in; they didn’t let me in this time, though. I looked like a pissed-up, underdressed football wrongun, and they had some high class rollers pulling up… one of whom I recognised: it was the sultan of wherever with his harem. I milled about for a bit but, feeling angry and with nobody to phone to say I’d be home at whatever time, I got the fast train from Euston to get home as quickly as possible. Again I drifted off, lost in my iPod. I listened to ‘The Rat’ by The Walkmen several times, feeling anger burn away inside me. Just when I was ready to hit something or cry I switched to ‘Sabotage’ by the Beastie Boys and felt instantly alive again.

  When I got home I picked up the car keys and drove over to Chloe’s parents. They were away in Sarasota, America as they needed a break. I didn’t blame them. I had a set of keys just in case I fancied doing some fishing on the canal behind their house. I turned off the burglar alarm and took some bits out of the car and put them on the boat out the back. I put the keys in the boat and locked the house up and was ready to go.

  43 – V

  ‘Give me the fucking money, give me the fucking money,’ the bog-eyed mong was shouting at me. ‘Where’s my money? I want my fucking money!’

  I wasn’t going to give him any money. I was sure to hell I hadn’t taken his money either; that didn’t mean James hadn’t, though. I wondered if he had hoovered up his coke or disappeared with his fancy women; perhaps he wanted reimbursing for them. Either way his strange accent and highly strung nature was vexing my spirit, which didn’t take much effort considering the lack of sleep and quantity and quality of narcotics and alcohol I’d consumed.

  ‘Give me the fucking money, you cunt.’

  It was like he was shouting at me with a strange Chinese–cockney or Pakistani–Glaswegian highbred accent. The face didn’t fit the voice. His thick, curly, black haired, white-faced, bog-eyed, middle-class, private-school-boy-wannabe-gangster, hard-man voice just didn’t work, and I didn’t like the cut of his jib. I was intrigued and yet disgusted. I should have walked away yet I was temporarily frozen to the spot. I was cornered yet in a wide open space.

  And where the hell was James? Most probably watching somewhere with this bloke’s money, bitches, coke and a big spliff on the go; terrific, he’d be pissing himself watching me dealing with this utter bell-endimous.

  The bloke came towards me with some sort of exotic vodka bottle. He tried to smash it to threaten me – not an easy thing to do on grass, he soon learnt; still, I didn’t want to be hit by it, so I raised my arms in defence.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate. I’ve not got anything of yours,’ I said, slowly backing away. I noticed the festival security making a hurried beeline in my direction through the crowds, flashing torch lights; they were the fake cops.

  ‘What’s going on here then?’ The quickest of them asked. Nice bomber jackets – they look the part, I thought.

  ‘He’s some sort of nutter,’ I said, nodding at the vodka bottle, innocence written all over my face. They performed a quick double take, trying to access the truth, and he was bundled into the back of their van, spitting profanities, out of pocket and out of his mind probably. I certainly was.

  What the fuck had happened to James?

  I meandered back into the crowd searching for one man in one hundred thousand.

  44 – First light – Sunday – 4am

  I set off a little before first light. By the time I’d filled the boat, reset the alarm and got myself ready I could see my breath on the air in front of me. It was still too early to appreciate the mist rising over the canal, although I knew the swans had already set about their early morning munch and the coots were already busy dragging branches and toot wherever it is they drag their shit – I supposed it was for home improvements but couldn’t be sure; all I knew was they hated the ducks and if there was such a thing as racist birds
then the coots were the worst of the lot.

  I loosened the last holding rope and got ready to start the engine. As the little boat drifted with the current I felt a cool chill lick my face and so zipped my jacket up a little more to cover my neck. I turned the steering wheel full lock, turned the ignition, powered up the engine – it bit first time – swung round a full one hundred and eighty degrees and I was away.

  I knew the journey would take the best part of a day; I had done the journey a few times before by bicycle when Chloe and I went for bike rides. I knew there was no difference in going as fast as possible and in taking it easy. The canal only had one speed; I suppose it a bit like me. Blink and you might miss something, wait around long enough and sooner or later you’d be rewarded or at least get what you wanted or where you wanted to be. A bit like a bird feeder: you hardly get to see which birds are eating the nuts but at the end of the day something must be because you always need to refill them.

  I had all the gear: the taser, the tools and the refreshments. Speaking of which, it was possibly time for another snifter. I got out my supply and racked up two lines in the shelter of the cabin. After polishing off the lines my face was hit with the fresh air blowing over the boat. Tears ran down my cheeks; I wasn’t feeling emotional but felt an almost childlike sigh wash over me as I patted at my face.

  It was a fairly straightforward journey bar a few locks where I may have to communicate with other people, but I’d hoped and planned to have been up early and had enough of a start to have reached the twenty-mile stretch of the Grand Union that had no locks, and therefore eliminate most of the chances of meeting too many people before the masses were ‘up and at ’em’. Then, hopefully, all I’d need to do is a few nods of acknowledgement from under the protection of my cap to other passing boats or occasional fisherman or overly energetic joggers or overweight power walkers or even speeding cyclists. Quite why the passersby would greet me always puzzled me; when I was younger people used to say hello when walking up and down the street, but not so in the cities. People seemed caught in a time warp on the canals; everyone said hello as if all were sharing an adventure and you might be the last friendly face before they disappeared into the wild. Not everyone was that friendly, though. I had noticed a few Eastern Europeans who were possibly searching for their next meal, maybe a swan or carp or even a pike; they were all on the menu today. They would skulk around in little groups, guzzling cheap extra-strong cans of larger any time of the day. It seemed we could turn a blind eye to the British water boat people tucking into the native wildlife, but Eastern Europeans were frowned upon.

  As I navigated onwards I decided locks were a little like car washes. As a kid it all seemed so exciting and complicated and mechanical, and yet once you’ve done it a few times you just seem to go through the motions of hopping on and off the boat. You pull up, close gates, open gates, close gates and away.

  A heron kept a beady eye on my progress before a careless water rat made the mistake of popping its head out of cover within striking distance. The heron had its breakfast menu sorted as well, impaling the rodent on its giant, sharp beak before flipping it up into the air and then swallowing it all in one; not much escapes the heron’s appetite, and I wondered if the Eastern Europeans had considered eating them.

  As I cruised on I watched an old Labrador squeeze out its morning turd as its owner talked loudly on his mobile phone. I couldn’t see the point of using the phone: I could hear him for miles. When his voice was out of earshot and all I could hear was the chug of the engine I also saw two foxes jump into a hedgerow where they bickered in the undergrowth.

  45 – Fabric

  I suppose it could have been interpreted as an act of almost Judas-like proportions.

  ‘Do you know him?’ the bouncer asked James.

  He looked me in the eyes and with nonchalant disdain replied, ‘I know not this man.’

  My hands were clamped behind my back: a typical security method of restraining people. I was marched to the manager’s office. Behind me were two girls I’d hoped would be helping my evening, not pivotal towards probably ruining it. They were causing a commotion. People were staring.

  We had been chatting in the club, James and I, hoping to get merry, as always on the lookout for whatever might come our way. Same old, same old: eyes searching dark corners of the rooms looking for shady deals, money changing hands, people popping pills. I guess we could have looked like undercover police as much as drunken druggies.

  Then we were off.

  ‘Pills, pills, pills?’

  ‘I’ll take six,’ I said.

  The two girls took the money and handed me the pills. Transaction completed, but within seconds the bouncers pounced and had me and the girls by the hands whilst James looked on vacantly. I was rumbled, and the girls tried to escape and ditch their stuff. I let the Judas thing go, self-preservation and all that. Seemed like a good idea, but right now I had six pills in my pocket and a bouncer holding both my hands and I was caught with the two girls who’d sold the stuff, but not James.

  Whilst they were causing a scene and I was being escorted towards the rear of the club, I decided against trying to escape and being the bad boy being led away: no resistance, there was no swagger, no lip, no Charlie big potatoes, no gangster-wanna-be, just thinking, How am I going to get out of this?

  I was frogmarched into the manager’s office where the bouncers explained that I along with some girls had been caught dealing. At that moment another security bloke came in with a bag of pills in his hand, waving them like the FA Cup and pronouncing, ‘Look what we found.’

  The manager asked if they were my pills.

  ‘They aren’t mine,’ I replied.

  The manager, a mini Gestapo officer, said, ‘The police are on their way. We do not tolerate this sort of business in our establishment.’

  I thought, You’re kidding; you don’t tolerate others dealing, you mean!

  ‘How do you know the girls?’ Herr Flick asked. He looked the same age as me, but a weekly user of hard drugs and loud music; I recognised his stretched-out nerves and snappy, yappy attitude. He was probably quite quiet but then loud when he had a bottle of champagne at the bar, coke up his nose and fit girls at his beck and call, which I reckoned was most days if not weeks.

  ‘I don’t know the girls. I only met them tonight and was just chatting with them when you lot grabbed me. I don’t know what any of this is about!’ I said.

  The girls were led into the room, looking flustered and pissed off, still resisting. The bouncer said he’d found the pills they’d tried to lose

  The manager said, ‘The police are on their way, won’t be long now,’ as if to reinforce his point to them and me. He looked around the room as if to add some importance to his words, seeking out the bouncers’ knuckled-headed eyes as well for back-up before continuing.

  ‘Do you know this guy?’ he said, looking at me but speaking to the girls.

  ‘No,’ they said in unison like a couple of naughty school kids. They were actually pretty hot.

  ‘We’ll search you first then,’ said the manager, indicating to bouncer number one to do the business on me.

  Here we go, I thought. The bouncer patted me down and asked me to remove the stuff from my pockets. Bingo, my brain was working at double speed; a deception was my way out of this. I’d been patted down once; all I needed to do was remove everything from my pocket as naturally as possible and leave the pills in there. If they didn’t pat me down again they’d think I’d already dropped them and hopefully I’d be in the clear. No evidence, no charge; as long as they didn’t tell me to stand on my head. If I was lucky they’d just chuck me out. James would probably be outside milling around, waiting hopefully.

  I pulled out my wallet, phone and chewing gum, then I rooted around in my other pockets for good measure.

  ‘Wos in dat pocket dare?’ the security gorilla asked.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said, acting as innocent as possib
le, and pulled out a box of fags and a lighter to add to the growing pile of toot assembling on the table.

  The manager checked inside my fag box. I found my tickets and some flyers and crusty old tissue in another pocket and flung them on the pile for good measure. I’d felt the pills with the tip of my finger whilst emptying my pocket. For a while time stood still and massive alarms went off in my head, but I ignored them, knowing they were looking at me for any indications. They missed that facial flinch. My only worry now was that some might be nestled in the tissue.

  The manager briefly prodded at my worldly goods with a chewed biro and then asked the ape to check me again. Fuck it! Here we go again. This time when he patted me up and down I could feel the little fuckers pressing against my legs. I could swear they were burning a hole through my trousers and shouting, ‘Oi, you daft fuckers, we’re in here, near his balls, come and get us, fuck him, he’s a dick, oi, oi, OIIIII!’

  Whilst I was lost in my own mind the bouncer said, ‘Nothing, boss, he’s clear.’

  ‘Okay,’ said the manager. ‘Are you sure you don’t know these girls?’

  ‘Absolutely positive,’ I said, looking them in the eyes. I almost felt sorry for them; I felt like I’d done the Judas on them just like James had done to me ten minutes earlier. I reckoned the security had been watching them in the club. The police were on their way, they had been caught dealing drugs, hundreds of the fuckers looking at the bag they had. They had nothing on me, no evidence of any connection with the girls.

  ‘Okay, he can go,’ the manager said, looking at the bouncers but talking about me. Then he said, ‘I don’t want to see you again.’

  The bouncer showed me out of the office. I expected to be led to the exit.

  ‘Where do I go now?’ I asked.

  ‘Just fuck off!’ The bouncer replied.