White Trash

by John King

  He walked across the street feeling happy. As if treading on air. A gang of hooligans stood outside a chip shop talking. They were no doubt up to no good, but such was life. They did not even look his way. His role within society was centred on the hospital. He was not a police officer. He was grateful his car was parked out of their sight. They would remove the wheels given half a chance. Break a window and steal his stereo system. The alarm would sound and off they would run.

  He started the engine and moved away from this squalid little corner of the world, tuning into a radio discussion on a famous miscarriage of justice. So-called. He did not believe that the police had fabricated the evidence. Perhaps they had skirted certain procedures but it would not have been intentional. The judge would have offered an independent perspective. Of course, many of these so-called mistrials were merely justice by other means. These people came from criminal backgrounds. Bleated on about how they had fallen into bad company at a young age. Everybody knew they were guilty of something, even if this could not be proven. The legal system was designed for the benefit of criminals. The jury itself a weak area. In a very small number of cases he had to admit that mistakes may, possibly, have occurred, yet no malice was intended and that was a fact that was well worth remembering.

  In his own field he was both judge and jury combined, albeit in a far less confrontational way. The judicial system was based on firm ideals. A man was innocent until proven guilty. It was easy to tell the criminal type, but the judiciary was forced to go through the motions, wasting resources on long and expensive trials. A necessary evil of course. He was certainly no fascist, nor communist. However, a major problem was that jurors were chosen at random from the general population. This meant that virtually anyone could sit in judgement of their fellow citizens. The one saving grace was the judge, a trained and neutral professional. He was able to guide the jury in the right direction. Even so, the concept was flawed. There were certain people who believed in curtailing the right to trial by jury, which in his humble opinion seemed a fine idea.

  Having a dozen sentimental oiks pontificating on every decision was quite clearly out of the question with regard to Mr Jeffreys’s work. Nothing would ever be achieved. He weighed up the evidence and made a decision, the responsibility his and his alone. At all times he remained impartial and judged according to facts. There was no room for mistakes and he made none. The pressure, however, was sometimes unbearable. His judgements had to be spot on or people would suffer.

  When he arrived at the hospital it was nearly seven o’clock and he had no problem parking. A group of Asian youths kicked a tennis ball against a wall. He found this annoying but said nothing, not wanting to be accused of racial intolerance. The subcontinent had supplied the NHS with many fine doctors and nurses over the years. He did find their customs odd, and their food was revolting, the garlic and spices oozing from their skin foul. Yet as a professional man he respected these people for their work ethic. Their ability to endure the behaviour of low-intelligence whites was quite amazing. West Indians fulfilled lower-caste jobs along with their English counterparts. These people were closer to nature, more spontaneous and less hard-working than Pakistanis, Indians and Bangladeshis. Then there were the Irish of course. Many Irish girls came to England to work as nurses. They toiled next to the Asians and Caribbeans. A large number had been absorbed into the indigenous population, as indeed had Asians and West Indians. The Irish had been here longer and their DNA had filtered into the gene pool. Many were unrecognisable now. The same was beginning to happen with these brown-and black-skinned peoples. This was no doubt a good thing in terms of stability, and while he did not possess an ounce of prejudice, it nevertheless reflected the low morals of the common whites. It revealed a distinct lack of self-respect. While more educated whites preached racial tolerance he was fully aware that they maintained segregation, although they would obviously never admit this fact.

  Mr Jeffreys passed through reception and smiled at members of staff, aware of differences but accepting everyone as an equal. No matter what their ethnicity or social background. He despised bigotry in all its forms. Loathed crass prejudices based on colour and culture. Too many of these white men and women lacked this awareness and revelled in a false sense of racial superiority. The men shaved their hair close to the bone, thereby erasing individuality. This custom crossed the boundaries of age. From old men to young boys they accepted the fact that they were little more than robots. The women wore cheap clothes that were far too tight for their bloated bodies. Make-up swamped their features, layers of powder forming crass masks which they believed could hide their inherent ugliness. There was no point being dishonest about the facts.

  These were common people. Ordinary. Prone to sentimentality and outbursts of anger and joy. They lived and they loved and that seemed to be enough. Where was their ambition? Real ambition. Not small-scale hopes but full-blown dreams. He understood that these people had dreams of a sort, but they were so small as to be meaningless. They spent their lives working to own a modest home as if this set them apart from those who rented. They lived in flats. Terraced houses. Made distinctions between manual and office work when they came from the same streets. This snobbery was amusing of course, but quite ridiculous. The masses had no power yet were so stupid that they fought over the crumbs thrown to them from on high. This narrow thinking filled him with loathing.

  The canvas of his life was far larger than that of the ordinary man and woman in the street. Ah yes, the street, its imagery captured by cameras rather than the palette. The street flooded with uncollected litter and discarded refrigerators. Lined with takeaways and greasy spoons. Soaked in the stench of fried batter and roasted chicken. Tender ears assaulted by the constant boom of bass and treble. Fear stirred by gangs of mindless hooligans. The skinhead element. Everywhere he looked there were bloody skinheads. It was as if every male in this horrible town had a shaven head. Scars and nicks from electric razors. The stench of aftershave. The smell of a black man with dreadlocks standing with a gang of skinheads sipping a carton of fruit juice. Tossing it to the ground and crushing the cardboard with his heel. Streets packed with drug dealers and pimps. Gutters trimmed by torn newspapers. Shutters fastened. Protecting the sort of garish jewellery he would not accept from a Christmas cracker. In winter there was no colour. During summer the reds and blues merely washed out and faded.

  No, the streets he was forced to view were grim and uninviting for a civilised man such as himself. His dreams were far grander. He did not have to worry about money, of course. He was rich beyond their wildest hopes. No, that was not true. The dreams of these people had been stretched by the National Lottery. They had become totally unrealistic. He was amazed at the importance the National Lottery had assumed in their lives. Patients became terrified they would lose out on a fortune as they lay dying in one of his wards. They had favoured numbers and feared that these would be selected at the very moment they were in hospital. This fear consumed them. Visitors were quickly pressed into service. They recorded the sacred numbers and bought the relevant tickets. Until these lottery numbers were safely in their hands his patients were anxious. It applied to both men and women and across all the age groups. He had witnessed this himself and had spoken to one of the night nurses about this phenomenon. It honestly amazed him. Those who could ill afford to waste even a pound spent as much as ten at one time. The eyes of the unemployed shone at the thought of winning millions. The elderly waited eagerly for news. It was too late for them, but they wanted so much to leave a fortune to their children and grandchildren. It was absolutely pathetic. Relying on a lucky dip. It was so demeaning.

  One of the nurses had explained that it was all many people had to keep them going. The lottery offered hope. That word again. She had taken out her purse and shown him her own ticket. If she won the jackpot she would never have to worry about money again. Everything would suddenly be possible. He had nodded to show that he understood as he did not want to appea
r out of touch. But it was beyond him. Any one of these people could win a million and it would not change what they were. The root of their being would remain the same. They would still be dull and faceless, sudden bursts of emotion leading them to trouble. They would feel sad hearing hard-luck stories. Cry at a ridiculous drama swamped with sentiment. They would spoil each other if they won a few pounds. Fritter the cash away on a takeaway meal. A visit to the cinema. It was impossible to buy breeding. It was not for sale. At any price. It really was not about money at all. That was the problem with the small people who imagined they could work themselves up out of the gutter. He saw them in the hospital. Puffed-up and proud. He hated them more than the failures. They fooled themselves. Did not understand that money was not the issue.

  On the day he was born he had been worth more than these fools were after a lifetime of hard work. Wealth gave a man a degree of power, but it was of a crude form. The nature of his work gave Mr Jeffreys the greatest power of all. He had the power of life and death. At the same time he was able to serve the community and help those less fortunate than himself.

  He despised many of the people within the community for their lack of control, for their ignorance and selfishness, yet at the same time loved them as you would a foolish child. A soldier had the power of life and death, but was a lackey. A moron who killed according to orders. The soldier did not think about who he exterminated. Did not care. He was a coward, a destroyer of life. Mr Jeffreys had no respect for the military. He had dedicated his life to helping society rather than being a part of its destruction. His father had been the same and had saved thousands of lives during a lengthy career. Jonathan Jeffreys was merely following in his esteemed footsteps.

  The Green Man was Danny’s local … opposite the milk depo … a car park away from the Latter-Day Church Of St John The Baptist … a yellow-brick pub with fruit machines and pool tables by the function room and a handful of tables and chairs down the other end … most of the space there for standing and drinking … the TV screen showing everything from Brentford– Millwall on a Friday night to the Old Firm game Sunday dinner time … regular European trips during the week … and there was always a session going on in the Green Man … Danny sticking to lemonade … the pub a two-minute walk from his flat … so he knew everyone … was well liked … on the brink of life looking at a future that stretched over another half-century … fingers crossed … juggling oranges and lemons on the fruit machine … chalking his nickname Wax Cap on the board between Bubba and Paul P … silver on the table … waiting his turn … choosing a hole and potting the black … next game up slaughtered by Gal … he looked over at me and shrugged his shoulders … handed his cue to Steve with the glass eye … going over to the pinball machine and rolling a big chunky spliff on the glass … Wax Cap’s nightcap … going out front to smoke his motorway draw on one of the benches … leaning back and thinking about the ways of the world … how things had panned out … a green man watching from the pub sign … blue eyes peeking out of green moss and brown leaves … Bubba inside raising a pint to his mouth … performing the ritual … celebrating life … licking his lips … draining the glass … and the pub had these massive windows that showed everything … there was no hiding in dark corners … the lights bright … the bottom of the windows lined with all sorts of specials … Sunday roast for the Old Firm game and a regular beef curry during the week … extra chips if you ordered before kick-off … faded England fixtures on a newspaper pull-out … flyers for Thursday’s garage night at Jubbly’s … and then there was the once-a-year circus with photos of elephants and lions that didn’t travel any more … sharp letters on smooth paper … the tape yellow and peeling … Bubba lifting a fresh pint to his lips … Danny Wax Cap looking down the street now towards the Karachi Kebab … Billy’s Fish Shop … and he loved sitting outside at night and kicking back … the best time was after it had been raining and the tarmac was glistening … summer when it stayed light till ten … the streets quiet by eight … he just sat there watching … a pensioner walking his dog … three boys doing wheelies … a woman eating a pasty … the smell of batter frying … chips … petrol … a family crossing the road and the little boy stroking the old man’s dog … it went on and on … never stopped … and Danny sat there for ages before going back in for another glass of lemonade … putting Wax Cap on the board … twenty-three years old but teetotal for two … he laughed when he told you that … it made him sound like a prissy woman in a biscuit-tin village … all dentures and sponge cake … sipping tea at the village fête … and he liked his tea all right … PG Tips plus those herbal flavours … ginger for zest … bags of the stuff … they were expensive but easy to slip in his pocket … those supermarkets were making billions every year … they didn’t notice a few tea bags … camomile was good before he went to bed … helped him sleep … though to be honest by the time he got in at eleven after a smoke he was on his way … then on Saturday he had his special cuppa … something to look forward to … a treat at the end of the week … another ritual … he wasn’t working but still looked forward to the weekend … it was there from when you were at school … and he did odd jobs … when he could get them … but he got by signing on … didn’t need much to live … the corporations were pumping out cheap food … own-brand … pasta … butter beans … bread … baked beans … spices that lasted for years … and his rent was paid by housing benefit … the bills were low … his membership for the sports centre subsidised … he didn’t drink a lot … a couple of glasses of lemonade at night … didn’t buy clothes … more interested in living than working … what did you get for fifty years of yes-sir no-sir … a plasterboard house and subsistence pension … if you were lucky … by the time you retired you were knackered … all your strength sucked out by the banks … even if you managed to save a few grand you were too worn out to use it … no … it was a load of bollocks … he was saving his strength … any one of us could die tomorrow … and on Saturday mornings he had a fry-up and read the paper … finished off with a nice mug of liberty-cap tea … the name summed it up … magic mushrooms sounded better as liberty caps … it was all to do with freedom … and they weren’t addictive … that was important … he knew the technical terms as well … this was his only drug these days … the skunk didn’t count … Danny was fighting back … the law had given him six months in prison for thinking too much and fucked him up big time … done for ecstasy then introduced to heroin … from E to H in six long … short … months … it was wrong sending him to prison … he’d never hurt anyone in his life … wasn’t even a small-time dealer supplying friends … like the police said … it was just that Danny was intense … did more Es than was normal … gulped the MDMA down like it was sweets … he was dedicated … that’s all … looking for answers to all those questions most of us bury away … but as well as the E he was sent to prison for being scruffy … for having a ponytail … that was part of it … Danny tried to explain the way he saw things to the magistrates … that he was a spiritual man … but they didn’t know what he was talking about … didn’t have a clue … their faces blank … he tried harder … went into one about how the drugs and music matched … a ceremony … lifted him up so he saw life in a better … cleaner way … but they wouldn’t believe him … it was beyond them … and the thing with Danny was that this addictive personality made him what he was … no doubt about that … his enthusiasm rubbed off … an exciting edge to his nature … but it caused him problems as well … it didn’t matter if it was drink … drugs … music … a place … a girl … he had to have it all … right now … he was so glad to be alive he wanted the girl till his head swelled up with love and exploded … everything magnified … or if it was a pub he’d be in there every night … or with a drug he’d be sucking it down and snorting it up till he was done in … big time … moderation didn’t come into it … he was out of control … did what he wanted … when he wanted … all the time the questions nagging at him �
� why was he him and not someone else … why was he born and why did he have to die … it was all there in his head … a child’s questions he couldn’t silence … and he kept on at the magistrates … about wine being used in religious ceremonies for years … matching a rave to a Christian service … the hymns and blood of Christ … he was looking for the same euphoria … where everything made sense … he was trying to appeal to their own experiences but didn’t realise till after that they didn’t have any … these were people without knowledge … or imagination … they hugged the Bible because they were scared … it was written in stone all right … they did what they thought they’d been told … reckoned Danny was trying to hide a sick way of life … saw him as immoral … a hedonist … to them hedonism was a crime … and they believed in sacrifice … as long as it was someone else being sacrificed … Christ was the perfect example … and Danny said they were the sort of people who believed in hoarding their money and controlling their feelings because deep down they were afraid … and this made them bitter … they wanted revenge for feeling this way … for never feeling drunk … and he was another mug to punish for their frustration … jealousy … they were wasting their lives waiting for a better time that was never going to come because it was already here and they were missing out … they were the exact same people who’d sit in judgement and crucify Christ … so they gave Danny six months … and then he laughed and told me to forget all that … they just didn’t like scruffy young herberts … their reasons meant nothing really … it was prejudice … repression … with this belief that the spiritual was separate from the physical tagged on for good luck … if something like ecstasy could give him insights it meant their sacrifices were a waste … and he came to feel sorry for them … before he knew the effect switching to smack had on him … then he just forgot about them … Danny believed in living life to the full and when he came out of prison he was worse than ever … a junky now … racing downhill with no brakes … and it was like the stuff was being shipped into prison specially to mess everyone up … the authorities knocking prisoners out for the duration of their sentences then sending the likes of Danny home with a habit that would eventually kill him … and he said it was like someone had dreamt up an extermination plan that couldn’t be done out in the open but was working in the shadows … shifting the blame to the inmates … how could you ever prove it was a state policy … no one would believe you … it was mixed up with blame and retribution … and a year or so after he came out he was diagnosed as HIV-positive … the next six months the worst of his life … he was dying … and life was shit … he had no hope … no future … till one day he just woke up and his personality had swung again … he got out of bed early and walked through the empty streets … could smell the world and feel the wind on his face … saw the sun come up over the houses … knew that the odds were stacked high against him but wanted to live … he was going to fight the virus … and his brain clicked … he went through withdrawal and kicked the habit … alone … by sheer will power … it was his addictive personality did it … switched him from a fucked-up junky to this hardcore straight-edge life … he started looking after himself because weak he didn’t have a chance … but strong he might survive … and he worked out a fitness regime … lifted weights and went swimming … bought the right food to eat … read up on it … the drink and drugs were out and fruit juice was in … beetroot for his blood … carrots for the carotene … celery for iron … he could run through a long list of the stuff … he was up early and out jogging … a year later seriously fit … and it was hard work but he had the inner strength … said exercise was the key to happiness … released endorphins into the blood and gave you a natural high … how many unhappy sprinters did you see … laughing … one day they were going to discover a cure for HIV and he wanted to be around to enjoy it … and anyway … not everyone who was HIV-positive developed AIDS … if he took care of himself he had a chance … if he’d kept on the way he was going he’d be dead … imagine dying from a cold … a skinny wreck of a man withering away … he had the will to live … it was going to save him … Danny knew it for a fact … had it sorted … as much fizzy drink as he wanted and one smoke a day … to quieten him down at night … he’d always had trouble sleeping … up late with insomnia … and he was doing his living during the day now … in bed by eleven … he was a spiritual man … always emphasised the point … a spiritual man … so the magic mushrooms were vital … gave him another view … made the world softer … opened things right up … he never stopped thinking about life … women loved him for that … flocked to him … he never had a bad word to say about anyone … stayed positive … a quiet man with everything in its place … he was the fundamentalist now … a spoonful of olive oil in the morning … the virgin stuff … expensive … but the mushrooms were free and how much had he spent on smack? … thinking back for a second … he knew it was too late to change what had happened … he hated thinking about the needle that infected him … sliding the poison into his bloodstream … what did a man condemned to death feel when he was strapped down and sedated … the executioner stepping forward and giving him a lethal injection … Danny asked me that and I didn’t know what to say … that was pure evil dressed up as civilisation … it was planned and worse than something that happened in an instant … an argument and murder … it was the same as a serial killer tracking his victim … a paedophile in an orphanage … it was warped … but Danny was thinking long term … getting into the regular motion of the breaststroke … breathing in and out as he sunk deeper into the swimming pool … chlorine in his hair … scrubbing his skin as the jets in the shower drilled in … imagining the virus being sandblasted out … or if he was doing weights he pushed his muscles to the limit … sweating the virus away … and either way he was going to win the battle … all the things he used to worry about were sideshows now … every second ten times more precious than before … and he’d always tried to grab as much of life as he could … feared death and how it was always going to end in tears … he was planning ahead … reading hard … sitting in the library for hours on end … every day … feeding his brain … concentrating … his life rich … just breathing was enough … and he talked about the way hardcore Christians impose their heavy manners on a pagan country where people drink and fight and kiss and make up … and he hated being told how to behave … limits set on what he could … and could not … do … this was supposed to be a country where eccentrics were welcome … part of the tradition … and the major problem was the way these Christians separated body and soul … inflicted harsh Judaic desert laws on a land that was wet and green and fermenting all sorts of magic potions … spores floating through the trees and across fields … rotting fruit and hops melting into alcohol … a place where the boys drank in the Green Man and the girls rented the junction room for their hen nights … strippers dressed as Vikings … and that’s how he saw things … the magic mushrooms had opened his eyes … given him a natural take on life … they weren’t manufactured … concocted in a test tube … there were no military chemists involved … no pharmaceutical companies … no CIA … the spores rode the winds same as a good DJ … and once Danny started on this track he was off … an expert on the subject … loved talking about fungus … and it wasn’t just the magic variety either … he picked all sorts … ate more than his fair share … he knew his stuff … could tell a grey knight-cap from a cornflower bolete … he had to … some made you sick … others you could eat … and he’d tell you about the gills and everything … the colours and textures … where they grew … on open land or in forests … so they called him Wax Cap in the Green Man … it was a type of mushroom … and they were only interested in the magic variety in the pub … didn’t care about the ones you could eat … why bother? … there was plenty of food around … Danny laughing at Bubba and the rest of the boys … going into one about how he gently heated some oil and added a fresh puffball … the common variety … crus
hed a few cloves of garlic … he was Danny the chanterelle hunter … an earthstar man … a stinkhorn gatherer … the fungus chef … he was feeding his mind and feeding his body … and mushrooms were expensive … why waste good money when you could pick your own … get them fresh … and he looked forward to spring and autumn when there was a glut … went out to the woods on the edge of town … on his bike … chained it to the fence lining the main road and was soon lost in among the pines … the steady hum of the motorway in the distance … and there was a lake where people went to swim in summer … a tea shop selling ice creams … the burger van doing a roaring trade in bacon rolls … but that was in the car park and it wasn’t hard to get lost in the trees and ferns … specially when summer was over … nobody went into the woods in the autumn and winter … least not where he walked … he knew the small tracks and new plantations … older trees shutting out the light … a pit where they buried rubbish … and he went there more and more … for a walk when there was frost or a bit of snow … all alone in the wood … he never saw the tramps who built the lean-tos … he loved it there … the shades of black … grey … brown … the white of the frost … it was lonely but good … healthy … the tracks hard under his feet … sheets of glass covering puddles … sometimes he’d smash the ice and lift out big chunks of broken window … and because there were so many pine trees there was lots of boletes growing … so when the time was right he’d be looking through stacks of needles and ferns … the smell of the earth heavy … rich … rotting logs and tree trunks sprouting all sorts of fungus … big brain-like shapes and multicoloured killers … the thing with fungus was it could be good or bad … could rot timber or make bread rise … create antibiotics such as penicillin or rot potatoes and cause the Irish potato famine … the mushrooms themselves were there to spread … to reproduce … the main fungus underground … out of sight … he was feeding off the messengers … the spores in tubes under the cap … once he told me he’d seen goblins in the woods … another time witches … another time an imp … that was a bad trip … sometimes in summer he’d spend the whole day in this clearing he’d found … it was in the middle of a plantation … there was no path and you had to get through a wire fence … and he always went home at night … there was no way he would ever sleep in there … but the clearing had long rich grass … a tree trunk to lean on … sunlight reaching in … and he was happy … away from the concrete of the town … on holiday … day-tripping … Danny laughing … and the trees were tight and blocked out the sound of the motorway … he was in another world where there were no roads or factories … cars … lorries … he knew all the players … Jack Frost … Hern the Hunter … Will-o’-the-wisp … and he was just interested … you wouldn’t call him a hippy or anything … when he went into something it was right to the limit … but most days were planned … trying to keep healthy … Saturday his reward … what Danny saw depending on his environment … he understood how to guide things … there was no point putting yourself in a dark comer where Death was waiting … holding up a syringe laced with dirty blood … Death laughing at Danny who couldn’t move a muscle … sedated … a death-row case … and when it was grim outside he stayed indoors with his videos … watched happy films … comedies … his tapes worked out in advance so he followed a course … and he took the mickey out of himself … knew who to talk to about certain things … he’d never tell Bubba or Paul P or any of the boys in the Green Man about the clearing in the wood … the witches … but he was spiritual … a stupid word that didn’t tell the whole story … stunk of wankers … hypocrites … he made a joke of it … knew what was what … and then his mood would shift for a second and he shook his head sadly … one fucking syringe … it had to be that one … sitting in a cell … and most inmates stuck to dope … knocking themselves out … but he had to go further … he called himself a stupid cunt … but then he was strong and was going to win … addicted to being moderate … doing the right thing … he was sorted … knew he was going to live to see a cure … was going to die of old age … live a full life … he could see things clearly … like Bubba lifting that pint to his mouth … Paul P with a pool cue in his hand … the sights and sounds … these days he didn’t wonder so much why he was here … why he was who he was … he just wanted things to stay how they were … and on Sunday he’d be sitting there outside the Green Man with a roast dinner in his belly and a spliff in his hand … the Cross of St George flying off the roof of the pub next to the Skull & Crossbones … the roar of the boys inside as the ball hit the back of the net … miles away in Glasgow … a contest none of them cared about but offer a few drinks were happy to go along with … enjoying the excitement for a couple of hours … bar heaving … bodies pressed against the windows … Bubba holding his pint in the air and balancing it on his head … doing a dance for the lads … who were laughing … cheering … Steve Rollins next to him … maybe … grinning from ear to ear and looking out of the pub to check his wife and daughter were okay and didn’t need a refill … the two of them with another woman and two boys … Carole waving to Steve and then smiling over at Danny who nodded back and turned to look down the street … a police car cruising past the pub … the driver looking into the Green Man while his mate sat with his head down … busy tucking into a Big Mac … window open … the smell of the burger hiding the scent of the dope.