White Trash

by John King

  He smiled to himself. He was not such a fool that he actually believed this was possible. While such a diet would benefit both the individuals concerned and the state, most people ate for pleasure rather than nourishment, slaves to their taste buds. They were unable to make even the simplest of sacrifices. It was the same with cigarettes and alcohol. It was a problem, the messages of health workers and corporate interests clashing full on. It was very frustrating, but a part of the challenge he so enjoyed.

  He forgot the fat boy and thought instead of Ronald Dawes. Talking to Nurse James, he pretended he had never heard of the man, yet this was not strictly true. He did not know the patient personally, of course, but was aware of his existence and death. He had told a white lie but with the best of motives. As far as James was concerned, a sympathetic ear was more productive than a stark observation. Dawes was elderly and his heart weak, a build-up of fluid on his lungs the cause of his being admitted to hospital. It was not an unusual case, yet the man was very elderly and in his twilight years. It was a harsh fact that his life was coming to an end and this could not have been easy for him to accept.

  Depression was common among men of his age, their joints painful from arthritis and organs struggling to cope with the most basic of bodily functions. A tiny patch of garden constituted their outside world, if they were fortunate. He envisioned the old man sitting alone day after day in a badly maintained house, money short and his contemporaries dead, his wife long deceased. It was such an undignified way to pick through one’s final years. He saw the man trembling with fear, frightened by the young hoodlums throwing stones at his windows and pushing dog excrement through his letter box. Neighbours looked the other way for fear of confrontation. Rubbish heaped high in the kitchen and the sink filled with dirty dishes. His meals were basic, clothes in need of a wash. Gradually he would give up on the essentials such as shaving and washing. His family were too busy with their own lives and forgot the old man. Left his welfare to the state. To strangers who nevertheless did their best in difficult circumstances. This was how he saw Mr Dawes, while Nurse James did not want to confront the sadness of the situation, nor the inevitable consequences of old age.

  Nurse James saw good in every situation. Perhaps this was because she so feared the terrible nature of life. Yet he admired her optimism. She convinced herself there was hope when there was none. She was not a realist in the same way as he, but she meant well. The patients needed a positive outlook from those dealing with their everyday care, while behind the scenes, at the higher end of the scale, cold facts were the order of the day.

  He could not criticise the nurses. Indeed, would not. They had to deal with the nitty-gritty of hospital life and this was a thankless task. His role was more delicate, albeit equally thankless. Each needed the other. Without his expertise the hospital would soon be overwhelmed and sink into chaos. The same applied to the nursing staff. He did not want her to be sad at Mr Dawes’s death. The man had lived a long life and made his choices along the way, no doubt enjoying many good times. After a few days the sorrow would fade and this patient would be forgotten. Nurse James would find other people to help. Life went on.

  He sipped at the coffee. Forced the muck down. It was so different to the blends he was used to drinking, yet the caffeine would help him stay awake when last night’s lack of sleep caught up with him. It was difficult to adjust to working during the day and he had spent much of last night studying, finally watching the documentaries he had been recording. This was a vital part of his work, although sometimes rather depressing. But it was important to know his patients inside out, to be aware of changing trends.

  He had watched the entire six hours of footage, starting with a one-hour programme on holidaymakers in Ibiza, a current favourite holiday destination with the young. The film was shot on a bouncing handheld camcorder and had given him an inside look at the behaviour of a section of today’s youth. For an hour he had listened to drunken teenagers talking utter rubbish, but refused to judge people, although he had found them both crude and boring. Obsessed with trivia, they screamed and giggled for the camera, one girl in particular turning his stomach. Sleeping with men she did not know and boasting about it in front of the whole nation. Had she never heard of venereal disease? AIDS? He could imagine Nurse Cook behaving the same way, perhaps even sleeping with two men at the same time as the girl on the documentary had done. Even animals behaved with more dignity.

  He had been glad when the programme ended. Had called room service and ordered a plate of pasta with basil sauce and a glass of wine to wash it down. The standard of the food and service in the hotel was so very different to the cafeteria in which he now sat. There had been a knock at his door and a woman delivered his food. She was well turned out and with different coloured hair to the girl on the video. Her skin was untanned, but he could not help but match the two. He studied her as she set the tray down on his desk, carefully moving his papers to one side. He imagined her on all fours in Ibiza with a man penetrating her from the rear in rapid thrusts while she performed fellatio on his friend. The men were rough types and covered in tattoos. First they were white. Then black. Finally a combination of the two colours.

  Many of the disc jockeys on the documentary were black, hence this imagery. It really was disgusting. Not the racial element of course, but the animalistic mating with strangers. There was a violence there that unnerved him and he wished the girl had never mentioned the episode on camera. When the maid put his tray down he tipped her generously, giving no hint of these craven thoughts. It was not nice projecting such things on to an innocent member of staff. She thanked him and blushed a little. Perhaps she found him attractive. For a split second he had thought about engaging her in conversation, but resisted.

  When she left his room Mr Jeffreys had collected his plate from the desk and taken it to an easy chair. He was going to eat on his lap. This was a bit like ordering beans on toast in a good restaurant. Ironic. If the beans and toast were cheap and served in a cafe full of common men they would taste revolting, yet decent surroundings elevated the experience. In this particular case he was experimenting with something he had seen on his television set. Whole families balanced plates on their knees as they watched their favourite programmes. Some did not even own tables, or so it seemed. He had seen pensioners next to small children, parents stretching for bottles of sauce, shaking salt over food that already had an unhealthily high salt content. They splashed fried breadcrumbs and pieces of boiled potato down the front of their clothes as they ate. So he had tried this custom for himself. It was not so difficult. At least not at first. But he soon tired of the experience and wanted to move to his desk.

  The flavour of the polish was so strong and attractive that he could almost smell it now, sitting at a barren vinyl table in the hospital. It was a nice desk, busy with his laptop, reference books, CDs, a lamp, and unused envelopes bearing the mark of the hotel. He had laughed and resisted the temptation, cut into his food and seen the thing through. He recalled the basil on his tongue, in among the instant coffee.

  He thought back once more to last night’s recordings, closing out his immediate surroundings. Following the hedonism of Ibiza an authoritative voice had introduced life on an inner-city housing estate. The place was similar to a bomb site and not a single person featured had any interest in working for a living. Five youthful individuals were the focus of the documentary and he found each one a disgrace, either drunk or on drugs. They were inarticulate and self-obsessed, but he had learnt about burglary, heroin and under-age sex. There was a violent assault outside a youth club and a teenager sustained minor head injuries. As the camera team arrived with a police unit he was able to observe the boy’s cut head first hand. The hair was blond and smeared with bipod, skin white and pale. His friend had a bruised eye and ginger hair, and was interviewed by a member of the production team. He shouted and blasphemed and blamed everyone but himself. His sentences were broken by bleeps. Hundreds of obscenities ha
d been painstakingly edited out. Mr Jeffrey’s sympathy was with these television professionals. It could not have been much fun working in such an environment. Yet as an honest look at the country at large, it was invaluable. It was easy to match the faces to those he saw within the hospital.

  So it had continued through the night. Another documentary showed the work of the police force in combating crime. There was frightening footage of football thugs in London. High-street violence from all over the land gripped him with its viciousness. Flickering images of shaven-headed thugs kicking at each other in drunken rage. This was followed by a programme highlighting the use of CCTV and other surveillance equipment in policing a notorious red-light district. Prostitutes were spoken to with their faces digitally masked. This he found dull, albeit informative.

  Next was a visit to the United States where forensic experts convicted killers with the smallest of DNA samples. This he found fascinating, a glimpse of the future. Finally he watched a documentary on teenage mothers, but by this time he was dozing off. Everything he had seen blended together. The theft and drug abuse of the estate merged with violence on the country’s high streets, the prostitution and lapsed morals. A lack of family values. It really was a vicious circle. Education was the key, of course. A long haul back towards civilisation, but that was another argument. These documentaries were vital, a slice of real life expertly presented.

  He returned to the present and left the cafeteria. Once safely ensconced in his office he prepared a cup of tea and drank it eagerly. This quickly replaced the lingering taste of the coffee. Refreshed, he settled down and was soon absorbed in his work. The outside world no longer existing. Documented horrors erased. His mind moved smoothly as he studied data and focused on his monthly report.

  He needed to urinate, but instead of leaving his office and walking to the nearest WC, took out a bottle. This was hospital issue and saved valuable minutes. Plus the corridors were busy, crowded with the sick and dying, the sad and lonely. The WC was basic in the extreme and used by visitors and passing staff. On one occasion he had heard a man defecating. It was disgusting and he had felt sick. He placed the bottle in his cupboard. Before he left he would empty and clean the vessel. He went straight back to work.

  It was hot in the office and he opened the window. Switched on the fan. He had brought sandwiches with him and ate these at his desk as he worked. The hotel had made them up. He wanted to finish his report. His legs were stiff and he knew he should walk the corridors, but they would be noisy and disrupt his concentration. Instead he paced the narrow width of his office. He returned to his report. Urinated several more times. Drank more tea.

  At one point he thought of that documentary footage. Were there no hard-working, community-spirited people left? Then he settled back down to work. Kept going. The temperature finally dipping and the light outside fading. There was no view from his window, only a small concrete square and brick wall. There was plenty of light though, and he kept the blinds half-closed. The worst of the day was over and soon the hospital would begin to quieten. The last visitors would leave and the patients find rest. They would have their final cups of tea and any medication prescribed. They would be at ease. The majority of staff at home taking a deserved rest. The world would be at peace.

  His bottle was full and he decided to empty it, put on the white coat he wore in the hospital and walked to the WC. A couple of people passed but did not see the hidden bottle. It was nine o’clock now. He reached the toilet and relieved his bladder inside the cubicle. Tipped the contents of the bottle away. Someone had drawn a picture of a penis on the wall. A woman was positioned in front of it with her mouth open. He thought of the girl in Ibiza. Someone else, or perhaps the same person, had written a plea for gay sex. He flushed the chain. The WC needed a clean but he was not going to complain. Everyone was working flat out. He understood that. He washed his hands in the sink and imagined the hundreds of hands that had touched the soap. Thought of the bacteria. He steeled himself and left quickly. Became immersed in his report. A near religious experience.

  Another three hours passed and the alarm on his computer sounded midnight. Long ago people called it the witching hour. A time of superstition before science made sense of life. The masses had believed in magic, witches, warlocks. The supernatural. He smiled to himself. It was almost unimaginable now. His report was more or less complete. Another hour at the most. He could do no more right now. The corridors would be deserted and he had earned his exercise. How many people worked as hard as he did?

  Mr Jeffreys strolled along the corridors. He did not dwell at corners but passed the sleeping wards and empty operating theatres with the satisfaction of someone who had completed a difficult task. The machines were silent. Life-saving drugs awaited the call. There was no noise. No confusion. Just blissful silence. The raving maniac of the other night had been a fluke. He knew that. Walked steadily for the next half an hour before gravitating towards Accident & Emergency. He thought of little Daisy in the children’s ward when he passed. One of the nurses had told him her story last week and he knew there would be a happy ending. The hospital specialised in happy endings. He thought of the women who came in to keep the little ones amused. They were called play specialists. Told stories and helped out generally. Imagine that. It showed how the system had developed. He looked into the cafeteria where he had sat earlier in the day. He could not now imagine the gloom he had felt. There was a dead fly on the ledge in front of him, on the other side of the glass. He did not know if it was the same fly as the one he had brushed away. How could he? But it was dead.

  He soon reached A&E. It was here that, sadly, many of those documentaries came to life. Car accidents. Drug overdoses. Street fights. He had seen these things many times over the years. The waiting area was empty but he could hear voices. He followed the sound. Nodded at the staff on duty but did not interfere. He stood by the wall and observed the three men being attended to. One was covered in blood and it took Mr Jeffreys a while to separate their characters. He saw them outside a nightclub on the high street swinging their arms at other young men. Someone fell to the ground and was set upon. The head used as a trampoline. That image had shocked him the most. The street was unnamed and could have been anywhere. Of course, this was a separate case and these men were different. They just seemed the same. There was little difference.

  —Fucking hell, Chas. You all right, mate? one of the men said.

  He was a chunky fellow with a thick ring on his middle finger. A yellow shirt hung out over his jeans and was tagged with the letters YSL. Whatever that meant. When Mr Jeffreys looked closely at the man’s hands he could see that the ring, a circular gold monstrosity, was caked with dried blood. His hair was close-cut, as was that of his two friends. The man next to him was shorter. A silver chain hung out of the collar of a polo shirt. He was squat and stern. Shook his skull slowly from side to side but remained silent. The shoes were flat, with tassels. He wore white socks. There was a mobile phone protruding from his back pocket. A thick wallet filled the other. Mr Jeffreys was reminded of that television comedy about cockneys in Peckham. He forgot its name. He had never found it funny.

  —Course he’s not, you plum, the squat man said, half laughing.

  It was the first time he had spoken. Mr Jeffreys watched. Fascinated by the sheer brutal tribalism of these people. He sounded like a cockney yet lived in a new town outside London.

  —That cunt is fucking dead, I tell you. Him and his fucking mates. We nearly had them as well. That skinny geezer got a proper slap before he legged it out the door. We’ll have them, don’t you worry.

  Mr Jeffreys wondered if he should report these comments to the police. Murder was obviously in their minds. As a medical man he recoiled from this notion. Any sort of violence sickened him.

  —Go and wait over there, will you, a nurse said.

  The two thugs wobbled on their feet. Blinking.

  —Come on, hurry up, or you’ll have to go and sit in
the waiting room.

  It was the first time Mr Jeffreys had properly noticed the doctor and nurse tending the injured man. The nurse was a thin little thing, skin and bones under her uniform. Her hair was in a small bun and her lips were without lipstick. Her watch seemed artificially large on a flat chest. She could not have weighed more than eight stone and was far from imposing. The thugs towered above her yet to his surprise did exactly as they were told. Perhaps it was the threat of the security guard at the far end of the room, but he did not think so. It was hard to understand this sort of obedience. He had expected harsh words and a threat of physical assault. Obscene suggestions of a sexual nature. They were almost meek.

  —Does that hurt? the doctor asked.

  He was Asian. In his early thirties. Probing the patient. Mr Jeffreys looked more closely and tried to see something beyond the blood and short hair. It was hard to make out features. There was a nasty gash across the face. The nurse seemed friendly with the injured man, smiling and nodding. He could not hear what was being said. They spoke quietly. The two thugs leant against a wall opposite though he doubted they did so for support. More likely it was a display of cockiness. If so, then it was unseen. The short bulldog gazed into space, his brain pickled by drink. The YSL yob looked around blankly for a while before staring at his injured friend, then the doctor and nurse. Mr Jeffreys tried to follow the line of his gaze but it was very difficult. It seemed as if he was staring at her buttocks. He hated to think what was going on in his head. Felt as if he knew these men. Much as he believed he understood Ronald Dawes.