White Trash

by John King

  —It’s a shame, I was going to sit down with Ron and talk about when he was in the union. Properly. He invited me to go round for a cup of tea when he went home. You never learn, do you? You always think there’s a tomorrow, and there isn’t.

  —I know.

  —You okay now?

  —Have to be, don’t I. Thanks. I was being stupid before.

  —Come on, don’t be silly. We all get attached to someone now and then. Wouldn’t be normal if we didn’t.

  Ruby smiled and squeezed Sally’s hand.

  —Who’s in his bed?

  —A Mr Parish. He was in a fight and got slashed across the face. He’s had stitches, but was kicked in the head as well, so that’s why he’s being kept in, as a precaution. He’s asleep at the moment.

  It took a while or so for the information to register, and then Ruby was remembering DJ Chromo on the radio and his announcement that Charlie Boy had been cut up. She wondered if it was the same Mr Parish, seeing as his show was called On The Parish. It was probably a coincidence, but she’d check, went over to the bed and unhooked his chart, saw that his first name was Charlie. He was cheeky, that’s for sure, but there again, who was going to put two and two together and realise they had the real name of the pirate waiting to be deciphered, certainly not the DTI. The fun squad would be kicking themselves if they ever found out, and she stood at the bottom of his bed for another minute looking at what she could see of his head, a bandage over the side facing her while the other was buried in the pillow, the hair short and body still under the blankets.

  She knew it was only a radio show, and most of the time he was playing music, but Charlie talked as well so it was like she really knew him, she’d thought it many times before, not like who his family were, his friends and that, where he drank and socialised, but she knew some of his opinions and definitely his taste in music. It was as if he was her long-lost brother or something, the brother she never had, and how many mornings had she woken up and flicked the switch that shut out the police sirens with the sound of his voice. It really was a small world, minute if she was honest. Straight into the bed where Ron Dawes had died. If only it had been another bed, and though she was actually excited to see what Charlie Parish looked like, she felt disrespectful to Ron that she could feel any sort of excitement while he was waiting to be buried.

  She looked around at the other men and saw they were upset, brooding. They would’ve known Ron as well as her, probably better, he was one of their gang, even if they’d only been together a short time. She went back over to the desk.

  —Do you know him? Sally asked.

  —No, not really. I just recognised the name.

  —You look like you do.

  —All right? Dawn said, strolling past, licking her lips as she flashed a bottle of urine.

  Ruby and Sally laughed and went their separate ways. Ruby would always remember them, never forget the old man in the TV room with the thin body and wagging tongue, but even so, she couldn’t help smiling to herself and thinking it was mad how the world just kept on going, no sooner had one man been carted out than another was wheeled in, Charlie Parish off the radio, Satellite FM’s top DJ who spun records for a couple of hundred locals, a celebrity in her eyes, the man without a face cut across the cheek, and when they said life was for living she knew what they meant, Dawn passing back down the corridor and wiggling her bum, holding the piss bottle up again, like it was a fine wine or something.

  —What a fucking job, she said, leaning over and whispering in Ruby’s ear. We must be mad.

  Mr Jeffreys decided to drive to work. For a change. It was said that variety was the spice of life and who was he to disagree? He could fully relax on his own and escape the primitive beat of a skinhead in a checked shirt. Instead of the motorway he decided on a series of local roads. He preferred the major route, but traversing these grim tunnels was another aspect of his studies. The town in which he worked was not the sort of place he would normally stop, and if he used the motorway he might be tempted to keep on driving until he reached the countryside. A green and pleasant land no less. Those dark satanic mills had only ever existed within the warped mind of the revolutionary Blake. Imagine seeing angels in Peckham. He thought of cream teas and sprawling farms, roast dinners and elegant mansions. It was wishful thinking, of course. He was dedicated to his work and could not abscond willy-nilly. He was content to serve the people, yet these streets were so empty of culture it made him despair.

  Endless houses butted the tarmac as if they were blank walls. He passed parades of shops, service stations, pubs, yards, fast-food outlets, a snooker hall, patches of wasteland. The burnt-out remains of a car sat in a lay-by. There was no individuality and very little colour to stir the spirit. The roads were a continuation of the hospital’s deadening corridors, the dullness of the town reflected in its wards and waiting rooms. The staff did their best, but were from the same root.

  Even so, Mr Jeffreys’s mood was good and matched the smooth hum of his newly serviced BMW engine. German automobiles were most definitely built to please. Teutonic efficiency and American free enterprise represented the ideal combination. Add a good French meal and he was more than content. Passing a bus he glanced left. Jolted at the sight of so many bodies packed inside. His sense of well-being exploded as he saw himself destitute and forced to travel with the masses. Incarcerated within the bus. Pressed against the rancid clothes of men and women who stared straight ahead and said nothing. Surrounded by juvenile delinquents who said too much. School-age yobs spitting and swearing. Mocking his manners. He felt his lungs crushed by a herd of witch-like women. Their hair matted and teeth broken. Foul breath turned his stomach. He could feel threadbare coats on his skin, the fabric soaked in vats of sweat. These hags were straight from the pages of Shakespeare. Babbling harlots clasping plastic toys to sagging breasts. Presents for snotty-nosed grandchildren who repaid them with violent crime and loose morals. Dolls for the girls and guns for the boys. When they reached their teens the boys would steal cars and rob pensioners, the girls stab each other with knitting needles. High on drugs as they flitted from one sexual partner to another. Passing on syphilis and herpes with a nonchalance he found obscene.

  This documentary-inspired vision continued as he pictured a young mother clattering a plastic bag against his right leg. The sharp edge of a tin stabbed into his kneecap. A retarded brat tugged at his arm and begged for fifty pence. Fingernails bitten. Nose running. A smile on its face. It was so degrading. He dare not imagine what went on inside the child’s home. No doubt the father was a bully with tattoos surrounding his navel. The sort of man who stood outside bars on foreign street corners throwing beer bottles at peaceable locals. A user of amphetamines and strong lager. The mother little more than a common whore, a Dickensian slut with bloodless skin and grey eyes. Quite prepared to sleep with any man who took her fancy. Totally without shame. Hollow cheeks and a love of crack cocaine. Her brother another drunken skinhead who stared at him across the bus. Hate etched into redneck features. A swastika tattoo on his forehead and a knife in his hand. Mr Jeffreys fought the unfurling film footage, and recovering from the shock accelerated away. The bus stopped for a mob of howling peasants who surged forward with their plastic bags swinging, frothing at the mouth. It was a glimpse of hell and of no consequence. He was a man of reason.

  Public transport made sense of course. If every single person was to drive a car then the roads would soon be at a standstill. A brave new transport policy was essential. An intelligent strategy where only those whose jobs were vital to the welfare of society were allowed a vehicle. If this rule was implemented he would be able to cut as much as ten minutes off his journey to work. When he arrived he would not have to waste valuable minutes searching for a parking space. Other employees had bays reserved for them yet he was left to fend for himself. He had a permit, but felt it was unfair as he was forced to park with the visitors. The attendant was a fool, of course, with a gormless smile and c
onstantly shrugging shoulders. This man was at home with anarchy, cars filled with skinheads and bleached blondes. Their children exact replicas. The attendant allowed cars to rest on yellow-lined kerbs rather than banish them to the street.

  Mr Jeffreys kept his dignity. He was not angry for himself, not at all, it was just the inefficiency involved. Instead of driving up and down he should be in his office working. He did not hold this favouritism against other members of staff. No, it was the system that was at fault. The staff car park needed extending, thereby increasing efficiency. It was common sense. He often worried that his car would be scraped.

  Some of the vehicles on the road were an absolute disgrace. They polluted the atmosphere and threatened other motorists. Worn-out automobiles driven by lazy thinkers. Men such as the thug hunched over the wheel of the van he was passing. The bodywork was filthy and the wheel arches lined with rust, engine struggling to cope with the fifty miles per hour it was doing. The driver’s face was unshaven and his expression fierce. A Neanderthal head turned to look Mr Jeffreys straight in the eye. The thug raised a dirty hand in a gesture that implied masturbation. The mouth curved in a sneer, lips forming an obscenity. Mr Jeffreys felt his buttocks quiver with fear and accelerated away, wondering about the odour of the thug’s mouth, the state of those teeth. Worst of all guessing that the lips were infected with herpes. Sores oozing pus. He considered recording the licence plate and passing it to the police via his mobile phone but was too far ahead now to see clearly. He did not want to slow down and invite a road-rage assault. He might be wounded. Murdered even. This was a very common occurrence these days and a sign of the times. He was putting distance between the two vehicles and able to relax once he had passed through a set of changing traffic lights, neatly dismissing the thug from his mind. He refused to lower himself to the man’s level by even thinking about him. Film of petty thieves and brawlers replayed in his mind’s eye. Conmen and robbers who risked prison for insignificant returns. Honesty and decency qualities they could never comprehend.

  Mr Jeffreys was in a bullish mood. He was sympathetic to other motorists yet frustrated by the lack of organisation. Hard decisions were needed. It was not just the health service and public byways that cried out for reform, but the whole of society. It was one of his pet topics. Something to mull over when he was not working. The justice system was an area that needed immediate attention. Sentences had to be stiffened for a start. A policy of zero tolerance adopted towards offenders, be they murderers, shoplifters, bad mannered children. If this meant more prisons had to be built, then so be it. The malaise was deep-rooted and sometimes it was necessary to be cruel to be kind. Firm but fair. Of course, these were expressions, but the truth could not be denied, however loud liberal do-gooders bleated. He was not a cruel man, saw himself as both kind and considerate, perhaps even too amenable at times, not speaking out enough as he did his best to maintain good relations. It was his education. His background. A highly civilised and cultured way of behaving.

  He saw the junction he wanted and indicated right. Waited for the traffic to subside before crossing towards the maisonettes. He parked in a side street and walked back, rang a doorbell and waited. There was the sound of footsteps. Candy kept the chain in place until she recognised it was Jonathan. He smiled and followed her up the stairs.

  He had found her through an advert in a local newspaper and visited once a week. She was in her thirties with blonde hair. He did not know if she was a natural blonde as naturally he had never seen her naked. She provided him with an insight into the nature of the women of this godforsaken town. He had to play the role of ‘punter’ to glean information yet considered this essential research. She wore an apron covered with pictures from the seaside. Shells and suchlike. She took this off and hung it over the back of a chair. He doubted Candy was her real name, that she used it to express some sort of American glamour. He believed her real name was Carole, but it did not matter. It was a professional exchange. The procedure always the same. Simple yet effective. Soon she would offer him a cup of tea and they would talk. Maybe she would make him some toast. That would be nice.

  Candy was dressed plainly, in the sort of cheap blouse and slacks he saw so often in the hospital. She knelt on the carpet and bowed her head. Mr Jeffreys walked over and stood inches away from her face. He stroked her hair. There was bacteria there but he did not care. He felt the dirt on his palm. Stood stroking her head for two minutes. When he had finished he raised his hand to his nose and smelt the odour. He looked around the room and unzipped his trousers. Withdrew his penis. His bladder was full from the tea he had drunk in the hotel before leaving. It was a very nice Darjeeling blend. Soon he would drink PG Tips. Candy opened her mouth and he moved forward. Held his penis at the correct angle. The urine burst forth from his loins yet she managed to catch and swallow it without spillage. She must not mess her clothes, no doubt bought on the high street. He looked down at the hair. The blonde strands and white skin below. But he was not a beast. Every so often he squeezed his penis to stem the flow. This allowed her to catch up. He leant sideways to observe the swallowing motion. He continued. In control. There certainly was a lot today. He smiled generously although Candy could not see. He controlled the sexual urge and he controlled the working of his bladder. She was under his spell. Bewitched. Under his control.

  Once he had finished he shook himself dry and tucked his penis back inside his underpants. At no point did he touch Candy’s mouth. Neither did he have an erection. He rezipped his trousers and stood for a few moments surveying the room and its cheap furnishings. It was a natural act and he felt better. Candy stood up. Her breath was truly wretched. Disgusting in fact. It was as if someone had urinated in her mouth. She retired to the bathroom and he heard the tap running. Two minutes later she returned and stood before him again. He leant forward and breathed in. Her breath smelt sweet now. Toothpaste and the strongest mouthwash available had done wonders. He went to the sofa and sat down.

  —Would you like a nice cuppa? Candy asked, exaggerating her accent so that she sounded like a chirpy cockney in a Dick Van Dyke film.

  He loved it when she talked like this.

  —That would be nice.

  She went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. As he awaited her return Jonathan pondered her collection of cheap ornaments. The Queen’s face adorned several mugs. Cheap trinkets stretched in a long line along the windowsill. Shells had been glued together in the form of a horse which sat on top of an electric fire. He almost expected to see a half-eaten stick of rock there, fluffy with dust. It really was preposterous. But an experience. Irony was the key word here. He did not make a habit of slumming it yet this was purely business. There was very definitely no sexual thrill involved. The woman left him cold in that respect. She had apparently worked in a massage parlour but been pushed aside by several younger girls. According to Candy these girls were teenage slags prepared to do anything for money. It amused him how she made such comparisons. As if she had higher standards. But never mind. He was not making judgements. She was a human being with feelings, which he respected.

  —I’ll make you some toast, she sang, popping her head into the room. You like your toast, don’t you?

  It was unfortunate that he had been caught short. It was lucky he had a friend such as Candy. She offered what she had once jokingly referred to as a piss stop. A crude comment in fact. But just what he would expect. At first she had been unwilling to allow him this form of relief, but eventually he had managed to convince her. He had been surprised at first, a little irritated even. One hundred and fifty pounds was a hell of a lot of money for urinating in the mouth of a common tart, yet it proved that there was no honour in the rancid sprawl of this awful town. It had taken three visits to strike a deal. On their first two meetings they had talked. He had broached the subject and been rebuffed. At the third attempt an agreement had been reached. The routine was the same each time. He did not seek variation. There was a pattern. The world was
rotten. It was rotten to the core. A failing heart that had swollen through abuse and no longer pumped efficiently. It was very sad. But he had to know. He was one of the few men in the country who could not be bought. He was as honest as the day was long. His soul was truly his own property.

  —Here you are. Would you like some Marmite?

  —No thank you. This is fine.

  He ate the toast. It was cheap white bread. The texture reminded him of cardboard. It was soaked in margarine.

  —Fancy a bicky?

  He took a biscuit and dipped it in his tea. It was milky and the biscuit was bland. How people ate such rubbish was beyond him.

  —Perfect, he said, forcing the goo down.

  Jonathan stayed with Candy for exactly half an hour. When it was time to continue his journey to work he briefly used the WC so as to spare her any inconvenience. He pecked her on the cheek and slipped the envelope containing her wages into her hand. He knew that she had a daughter to look after, the girl’s face big and grinning in a silver frame, the rest of the photographs in the room stuck in plastic. He assumed it was her daughter. He had never seen the child himself. Maybe he was wrong. But he did not care. He did know that Candy’s nerves were not good and she lacked confidence. This she told him as they sat drinking tea. He did not want to hear this. It was not what ordinary people spoke about. They talked about football matches and their betters. He did not care a jot for Candy and her problems. One hundred and fifty pounds was damn good money. But she was appreciative. Looked forward to his visits. He knew that she was rubbish and without standards, but he had to confirm the fact. It was her resistance he was paying to break. Proving a point. They were two consenting adults and both prospered from the arrangement. He smiled and she smiled back. He felt warm inside. He was helping her with his money. The simple act an excuse for him to give generously. He did not want her to feel as if she was begging. Hand held out and dignity lost.