When the Pilot Light Goes Out

by Daniel Stone

  I sat in the driver’s seat. I put my crap arm and hand on my lap. The steady burn was a constant reminder, never comforting, just acting like a brooding, angry volcano, and each time I moved sending a searing, molten pain erupting from my swollen fingers through my hand past my wrist and elbow and then intensifying like a million miniature explosions ripping up towards my shoulder. I wasn’t sure if it was better hanging by my side or if I should have tried to make some sort of sling. It hadn’t felt this bad before I went to sleep and I was sure it was gradually getting worse. What was gradually? How long ago had I been shot? Had I really been shot? All this wasn’t just a nightmare? I had hoped that it wasn’t that bad but it hadn’t really stopped bleeding and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t move my fingers. I had wiped the blood off my hand and been in the water, and the riding must have made it bleed more heavily; that would possibly explain why I kept having massive waves of tiredness.

  I wasn’t sure how long I’d been asleep in the car before being woken. The old clock in the car had stopped working years ago, though I guessed mathematically there was a chance it could be right. What should I expect outside? Light or dark? I could sleep now. Just a few minutes more. I went to check my watch but it was on my bad arm and the pain of moving it outweighed my curiosity about the time. What happened if I got to Spaces and it was shut? How long had the boat been left moored up? Would Mason’s head and body still be submerged with the anchor?

  I’d been a massive fool. I shouldn’t have taken the pictures with me on the bike. I should have left them on the boat and got them in the car at another time. Would it have been worth leaving them on the boat, though? Surely that would have been more risky? Why was I determined to doubt myself? I had to get a move on. What was done was done and I had to find out if I could drive one-handed before worrying about doing things differently.

  I put the key in the ignition and said a little prayer that the Quick Start spray had worked its magic. The engine bit immediately and roared to life, kicking out a huge plume of grey smoke. She was alive. I put my foot on the clutch, and lent over myself like I was wiping my bum with my right hand although going in from the left-hand cheek direction. I got the gear into reverse by pushing down on the stick and slowly turned the wheel as the car gradually crept backwards. I could steer using my palm; my early Essex boy intense driving training would come in handy after all. I crossed myself again to put the gear into first. Steering wasn’t going to be a problem, I reassured myself; but changing gears was going to be a nightmare. I crunched and made a song and dance of finding first gear. I thought I’d found it and the gear slipped into neutral. I tried a second time, feeling a nervous apprehension setting in: if I didn’t find it now I would begin to panic. It went in and I pulled away from the car space and made my way past the office, through the gate and up the ramp. All in first gear and relatively easy.

  I was sweating again and my head was pounding. It was light out. I must have been asleep right through the night. It was possible I’d only slept for five minutes but it looked too bright

  69 – One Armed Bandit

  I pulled into the first light of my day and immediately felt like a racing driver on the starting grid waiting for the green lights to change. As soon as I was sure the road was clear to the right I swung the old BMW out onto the road. As the car accelerated and I felt the inevitable need to change gear I was saved by another set of traffic lights. As always, the traffic in Islington was fairly heavy and the chances were I wasn’t likely to manage much more speed than I had achieved on my bike. But with the heat from the engine warming me and the nauseous taste in my throat momentarily subsiding I hit the radio, XFM, and turned it up. Queens of the Stone Age – ‘No One Knows’. I wondered how true that was. Perhaps the sultan’s house was crawling with police and inspectors right now. Perhaps Mason’s head and torso had been found anchored off the boat or his hands and feet partly consumed at London Zoo. The boat had been traced to Chloe’s parents. They would surely be close to having me as the number one suspect.

  My mind drifted and the baseline pounded my brain. I fell into a semi-conscious state, daydreaming. This was rudely interrupted by the flashing lights and honking horn from the car behind me. I jumped on the accelerator and tried to flash my indicators left and right as a way of an apology. This was a waste of time as unlike country folk the city types would just presume I intended to turn left and then right. I’d also noticed city drivers use their hazard lights as indicators in past. All it indicated to me was that the driver felt like he or she had right of way over every other driver. It really wasn’t worth being kind or considerate whilst driving in London. If you let someone out or in they never said thank you. People were very quick to flash or beep you. London wasn’t not the place to drive if you weren’t an aggressive driver. Londoners were hard, insular types. Murderers even.

  The time came to change gear. I put my foot on the accelerator, raised one knee to rest my leg on the steering wheel and reached across myself to change into second gear. Getting out of first was easy, but as the car coasted on, slightly drifting to the left, the need to turn to the right became more apparent, and as the gears crunched and as my eyes desperately checked the gear layout I realised I had been trying to select reverse. With the curb only inches away I found second and hastily took my hand from the gear stick to the steering wheel and veered right, swerving like a lady putting on her slap or a bloke answering his phone discreetly. I was spared the rigmarole of having to change up to third gear by another set of traffic lights at the bottom of Upper Street in Islington. I undid the window, trying to get some air into the rapidly sweltering car. I dry-wretched as I inhaled fresh exhaust from a black cab beside me. My lips felt chapped and dry; bits of dry skin jutted off them. Licking them just made them burn more. I put the car back into first and tried to read the road in an attempt to pre-empt any gear changes or difficult steering manoeuvres that were going to soon become obstacles.

  I still didn’t know what the time was... Would Spaces be open? I checked the rear-view mirror, suddenly paranoid I was being watched. I was sure I was going to turn and see a police car. I felt like someone was sitting behind me in the car. Sitting on my shoulder and staring into my ear. I tried to look behind me in the car. I even looked up at the roof to make sure no one was looking down on me. I was going mad. I was alone. No one was watching me, until a young Asian girl in the car in the next lane pulled up level with me. Her parents seemed oblivious to the murdering nutter sitting a few feet from their precious daughter, but she knew I wasn’t right. Was it because I was talking to myself? ‘Is it?’ I shouted at her. Her big brown eyes just burnt a hole into my soul. The little Pocahontas had my number. I stuck out my tongue, blinked and looked away. I didn’t fancy my chances in a staring competition. As soon as the lights changed I beeped my car’s horn at the dithering driver in front and edged forward, breaking the little witch’s spell.

  70 – Space Invader

  I bundled through the doors of Spaces to see Georgee Paris sitting staring, baffled, back at me. There were no customers milling around; there never really were that many at Spaces. He spent most of his day reading about West Ham on the internet. People tended to come by to drop off stuff and go about their lives, happy in the knowledge their belongings were someone else’s responsibility.

  ‘Jesus, mate, you look a right two and eight,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve felt better,’ I replied, slumping into the blue plastic chair opposite him. ‘I need your help,’ I said frankly. My voice was a dry rasp.

  ‘No problem, mate, what is it? What happened to your lip and you’re head? Has someone smacked you? Who was it?’

  ‘Can I have water, please?’

  He got up and made me a cup. The bubbles rippled up through the translucent blue container.

  Georgee was a legend. I’d met up with him at West Ham a fair few times. We moved in different circles but were still very good mates. I assumed he thought I was going to as
k him to look after something hot. Put something stolen into storage. That was all those places were good for after all; lock-ups for valuables people hadn’t quite worked out how or where to leave at home.

  Georgee had seen the lot and could deal with most things. I had heard he was a bit of a nutter, although I had never witnessed it first-hand. There was a story of him getting arrested for running onto the football pitch trying to get to the away support. After being dragged away by the police and stewards he’d been placed in the holding cells in the basement of West Ham, which I always imagined to resemble an old-fashion barred prison. He’d made some rival fans cry, not by saying anything in particular but by continuously staring at them in the separate cell and continuously growling and head-butting the bars over and over again.

  I took a mouthful of water and began. ‘Georgee, do you want my car?’

  ‘Why, don’t you want it? How much do you want for it? Where’d you get it from?’

  Why ask one question when you can ask three? I thought.

  ‘Look, mate, I haven’t got time to explain. I have all the documents, you can do what you like with it, and I haven’t got the space for it at home and can’t drive it home now anyway. I need to drop a few bits and bobs off now with you but after that you can do what you like with the car, okay? I don’t want it, I want you to have it. Do what you like with it,’ I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.

  ‘Okay, mate, you can leave it out the front of the shop where it is now. Give me the keys and I’ll park it in a moment. I’ll sort you out later for it. Jeez Louise what have you done to your arm, mate? You look really ill – what on earth have you been up to?’

  ‘I’ve not been up to anything. Even if I had I couldn’t tell you anything. Please don’t ask me any more. Can you also forget you’ve seen me today and that I’ve left anything here?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Georgee said with smiling eyes. He went on: ‘Let me at least order you a cab home, eh? Do you need any money; you look like you’ve been sleeping rough or in the car or something. Do you want a beer? How about that cab…’

  ‘No, no cab, no beer, no nothing. I don’t want anyone else knowing I’ve been here and I can’t afford to get comfy or be seen in any cabs or early morning bars. No, thank you anyway. I’ll just drink my drink, drop off a few bits and you can forget you ever saw me today, right? I’ll be back and we can have a catch up then. Just let me get on my way, mate.’

  ‘You must be in trouble? Is this about Chloe?’

  Her name smacked me round the face like a sledgehammer.

  ‘Georgee, please, mate! No, I can’t talk now. I’m going to get out of your way. Thanks for taking the car.’

  I pushed myself up from the table and made my way back to the car. Of course it was about Chloe. Everything was about Chloe. I took out the paperwork, bike and portfolio. I was becoming used to only using one hand. I carried the portfolio back into Spaces and made my way to my allotted spot. After dropping off the portfolio I walked back to the reception where Georgee was staring out of the window drinking a coffee out of a massive claret and blue West Ham mug. The smell wafting around the airy office made me feel sick and my stomach did a somersault.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t help you with anything?’ Georgee said.

  ‘No, not really,’ I replied. I knew he cared but didn’t care that he did. ‘Here’s the vehicle registration details and all the necessary paperwork; it’s all signed, you just need to add your details and send it off. I was going to give it to the fire brigade so honestly if you want it and can take it do whatever you like with it, no strings.’

  ‘You’d best be careful, you nutter!’ Georgee said.

  ‘And get yourself cleaned up, you look a bleedin mess’

  ‘Love you, Georgee,’ I replied.

  ‘Shut up, you mug,’ he said warmly.

  With a half-hearted wave I made my way back to the bike. As much as I didn’t fancy riding any more I knew it was downhill most of the way and I really was on my way home now. I needed to get a move on: the boat had to get back safely before anyone noticed it had been gone for any serious length of time, and I still had to work out what to do with Mason’s head and body.

  71 – The Light

  Once I’d moored the boat back up outside the house and made sure it was as clean as when I’d taken it I covered it again and went back into Chloe’s parents’ house. I was quite sure the boat wouldn’t be used any time soon. Chances were Chloe’s dad would never use it again.

  As I walked through the house I noticed the condolence cards on the windowsills and covering most surface areas. Already gathering dust. An old red rose lay on the sideboard, withered; I recognised it from the funeral. I couldn’t look at the cards or the flowers. They cut me to the core like an icy sword.

  In the empty house there were two expensive-looking pictures hung in modern-looking frames opposite two elegant, old-fashioned-style frames encasing a mounted West Ham shirt and also a piece of artwork by an unknown art student. One day someone would recognize the expensive-looking pictures, but believe them to be no more than unbelievable copies of real works of art. No one was at home, though there was a blood-stained blue scarf in the bin and newspapers on the coffee table were open to a report of a break-in and of a missing person at a famous sultan’s house.

  Initial reports suggested an inside job and the police were eager to speak to the weekend watchman who was believed to be on the run and was the chief suspect in the theft of two missing pictures believed to be original priceless works of art. One was uninsured and the other was originally stolen, acquired on the black market but that wasn’t mentioned in the article. The papers sat next to an older newspaper open on the obituary pages. A young woman had died whilst in childbirth. My wife and baby were gone. The house echoed with deserted enchantment. The heating was off and everywhere felt cold. The pilot light had gone out.

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  Published by 2bstoned Publishing

  Copyright (c) Daniel Stone