White Trash

by John King

  It was largely his own fault of course. A mistake he attributed to youthful naïvety. Yes, he had experienced life in its darkest corners, and if there was a lesson to be learnt it was that such physical violence was the preserve of the ignorant. Hurting the tart would have meant lowering himself to her level, and he was anyway incapable of such violence. He was an intellectual, not a brute. He hoped that the prostitute and the thug found peace in heaven despite sins that would inevitably send them to hell. They did not possess the awareness to control their destiny.

  When Jonathan Jeffreys turned twenty-one he did not repeat his earlier mistake and allow himself to be led to another prostitute. By now he was engrossed in his studies and had no time for such debauchery. A meal had sufficed, his friends also busy studying for their coming examinations and therefore glad to eat early and avoid a drunken binge. He was lost in thought remembering this birthday, walking through the West End crowds after dinner, sober and alert.

  She was a common girl, as they all were. Unloved and unwashed, a bundle of smelly rags in a Strand doorway. A souvenir shop as he recalled. Selling Swiss penknives and china models of the Tower of London, framed photographs of royalty and mounds of sleeping bags. It was very close to the Savoy in fact, where he had met his mother the previous day for tea. It was easy to say that the girl sleeping rough was the fault of others, an example of the weak-thinking afflicting society in general. Liberalism had gone mad while socialism was busy ripping at the guts of the nation. He was a tolerant young man but sometimes decisions had to be made for the greater good. No, she had to shoulder her share of the blame for causing such an eyesore. Theatregoers and tourists were disturbed by her presence. Barristers coming along from the Inns of Court appalled. He knew only too well that an evening out could so easily be ruined by the sight, smell and sound of a street urchin begging, as if London was no better than Cairo or Calcutta. The South Bank had suffered for many years, with beggars and drunks terrorising gentler souls. Rough-sleepers were selfish and lacked self-respect, let alone respect for others. They needed a helping hand and the sense to stand on their own two feet once that hand was withdrawn.

  He had squatted down next to the girl and quickly earned her trust. He was sympathetic to her plight, her initial aggression quickly fading as he switched on the charm. He allowed her to speak, in a strange accent. Northern, he imagined. She was alone and scared and wanted to tell him her life story. A flood of family tales burst forth. The death of a father followed by the alcoholism of a heartbroken mother. The subsequent loss of the family home. It was a depressing story, but so, so familiar. He did not know if it was true of course, but gave the girl the benefit of the doubt. He remained on his haunches for perhaps five minutes as she poured out her emotions. Inwardly he found this embarrassing yet outwardly was sympathetic.

  He smiled. Then and now. Remembering how he had nodded in time with the breaks in her speech, not listening to the words after a while. The basics of the story were death and drink. Everything after was window dressing. Swiss knives and the Tower of London. Sexual abuse at the hands of her headmaster. He did not believe that for one moment. His knees began to ache.

  It was funny how he could recall the pain in his knees all these years later, as champagne bubbles tickled his tongue. He had offered to take the girl for a meal and she had accepted. He could still see the smile on her face. Her choice of restaurant was an American-style diner that sold hamburgers and French fries. Milkshakes were brought by a young woman in a short skirt. He relived the smell of frying food and the sound of Elvis Presley’s voice in the background. It was very tacky, even twenty years ago, before the globalisation of McDonald’s. He hated Presley as much as he hated the new punk rockers. Rock and roll was a blend of British folk music and black slave rhythms. The common people of America had accepted this abomination and danced to the tune of Satan. Naturally, this was all imagery. He did not believe it was literally the Devil’s music, it was merely the language of the Southern states of the world’s greatest democracy, a land of achievement with a continual war between the forces of civilisation and barbarism. Rock and roll was a cheap mixture of popular cultures and without meaning. Presley was its representative, a hillbilly with greasy black hair and a loud taste in clothes.

  The diner seemed to be frequented by young shop assistants and older couples. A man with a quiff and a woman with red lipstick sat nearby while a gang of youths were huddled near the door. The prices were very cheap and he felt uncomfortable with the endless parade of hamburgers, gherkins, melted cheese and ketchup. When they ate, he found the ingredients tasted artificial. The lights were too bright and the colours fluorescent. It was different to the dimly lit Soho staircase in which he had almost lost his life, yet strangely similar. It was the tackiness that linked the two. But the girl seemed to like the place. She was easily pleased, no doubt slow at school. Perhaps her headmaster had pointed out this fact and she had concocted outrageous accusations out of sheer spite. She smiled a lot and was very appreciative of the meal, seemed to find great enjoyment in the hamburger bun and was profuse in her thanks. She was obviously happy and this in turn pleased Jonathan, yet he was nagged by the notion that she was lying about the death of her father and the alcoholism of her mother. If she was prepared to lie about something such as sexual abuse then she would lie about anything. It was part of a greater malaise, a tendency towards dependency and the seeking of sympathy, a strain on the government purse, a burden to society.

  As she had no accommodation it would be difficult for her to claim benefit, but then her age was also against her. She was only fifteen, yet was begging from cautious people who preferred to invest their money rather than waste it on alcohol and drugs. She had nothing to contribute and there was a good chance she would never be able to fend for herself, forever inventing problems and excuses. Even the simplest tasks beyond her. She seemed so content just sitting in the diner, accepting a second hamburger when he offered, along with a further bowl of French fries. She added big dollops of tomato sauce which dripped on to the table when she bit into the hamburger. She also made a noise with her straw when she finished her milkshake. He felt embarrassed at such crudity but nobody seemed to notice. At the tender age of twenty-one he realised that this was an experience from which he could learn. It was a glimpse of the world at large, an early vision of that prostitute in Soho three years before. But he hoped not. He did not want this girl to end up in the same situation. He was determined to help her.

  Even as a young man he had inspired trust, so when the girl complained of tiredness and he offered her a bed for the night she accepted. He stressed that nothing was expected in return. He was a decent man who understood her plight and because of her unfortunate experience with the headmaster should not suspect all men of ulterior motives. Empathy was the word he should have used, yet was aware that her vocabulary would not stretch that far. He paid the bill and left a generous tip, explaining to the young girl that the waitress did not receive much in the way of a salary. She was a decent sort and should be rewarded for her efforts. This impressed the girl, as indeed he knew it would.

  The girl was stunned by his apartment. The same three-bedroom affair overlooking the Thames that he owned to this day. North bank of course. She stood by the window, mesmerised by the partially lit water below, south London stretching into the distance. He had to admit that it was a decent location in which to live, it would be churlish to deny the fact, yet felt she went a little overboard in her praise. He did not think she was mocking him, merely gushing, another outburst of emotion. She marvelled at the decor, running her hands over the wood panelling and cool marble of the fireplace. He had already noticed that her nails were bitten and lined with dirt, all but one nail longer than the rest. It was on the small finger of her left hand and very curious. He asked her about this and she explained that it was a sort of keepsake, a memory of better times. She used to have beautiful nails, before her father died each one had been over an inch long. She had
a collection of varnish and wore a different colour every day, and chose bright red on the weekend. Her father would not allow her to wear that colour to school. Her mother loved her nails. Every girl had to have a special memory of her mother. She told Jonathan that now she bit her nails because she was scared, but always kept this one as it used to be. As a reminder.

  She walked slowly around the apartment and he was slightly irritated when he noticed her running a hand along the back of the couch. It was made of expensive fabric and he did not want her leaving paw prints. He urged her to bathe and promised to buy her new clothes in the morning. She would then be able to find a job, and a place of her own in which to live. He would lend her the rent and she could repay him when she was older and had had time to save. Tears filled her eyes. She was undoubtedly a simpleton, but she told him he was very kind, that there were not many decent people in the world. He feigned awkwardness but was nevertheless pleased. He was by nature humble and this further moved her. It was all highly awkward, but he wanted to do something for those less fortunate than himself.

  He pointed the girl in the direction of the bathroom and offered her a clean towel, a flannel and dressing gown. It was quite strange how, when he opened the door to the bathroom, she actually gasped. It was also odd that she did not smell worse. He was usually very conscious of a person’s aroma. She was musty, and not exactly fragrant, but did not pong like some of the older tramps he passed. He smiled and left her to enjoy her bath.

  He returned to the living room and mixed himself a cocktail, sat on the sofa and allowed his mind to rest. So many new impressions had been gathered in so short a time. The diner meal rested heavily in his stomach. It was as if he had swallowed a ball of molten metal and it had solidified in his gut. The meat in the hamburger was probably rotten. Mayonnaise had been added to his hamburger by the chef and although this had annoyed him at the time he had kept quiet, not wishing to spoil the girl’s treat. He leant his head back and concentrated. The mind was all-powerful. He had believed that even as a twenty-one-year-old. Mind over matter was his motto from the earliest days. If he believed something then it was so. The food would not affect him so it would not. There was always a faint doubt but this did not matter. It could be controlled. Things were going well, certainly better than three years previously. He thought of the prostitute and felt her phlegm on his face. Disgusting. He wondered where she was at this moment. Eating a hamburger or performing oral sex in the same dirty hovel. How he had hated the flow of customers in the street below, the laughter and sound of music from amusement arcades, the mean streets of the city, the exploitation of innocents.

  Half an hour later, once the girl had washed the filth from her body and shampooed her hair, she walked into the living room wearing the gown. Jeffreys was surprised by the change in her appearance. She was no longer a scruffy urchin fit only for Fagin’s notorious gang of pickpockets. He saw her face properly for the first time and it was far prettier than he could have imagined. Her hair was lighter, brown rather than black, with flecks of blonde. This realisation was tempered by her lack of modesty. Parading around a stranger’s home with just the width of the linen preventing him from seeing her naked. Yet it was not her fault. She was a child. Or was she? Perhaps she would do anything he asked of her, perform fellatio on him or allow herself to be sodomised, if he was so inclined. But he had no sexual designs on her. He was helping a victim in distress. Nothing more.

  She did not wait to be invited and sat down on the sofa. She rested her head against the upholstery. For a moment he worried but then remembered that she had washed her hair. It seemed dry. She was very much at ease and he felt a great deal of pride that he was trusted. It was important to be liked. The face was mere decoration and should not reflect a man’s deeper thoughts. The masses did not know how to control their facial expressions. They tried but betrayed their emotions, shed tears and opened themselves up to ridicule. Jonathan had separated the physical from the intellectual. His mind followed one course while his expressions set the outside world at ease. Nobody knew what he really thought, the questions he considered, the worries he had concerning concepts such as truth and justice. This ability was etched into his genes. Some were chosen, most were not. This girl was most definitely not. She spoke about the diner they had visited, the awful food busy rotting his intestines. She was so happy it actually made him sad.

  He handed her the drink he had prepared, a mixture of fruit juice and sedative to help her sleep. She smiled at him. It was a meeting of two very separate worlds and he understood this perfectly, hers physical and prone to passion, his intellectual and quietly understanding. She sipped her drink and said that he was the most generous person she had met since arriving in London and that she would never forget his generosity. She had hesitated to go for the meal because she thought he might be after sex. Even coming back here she had been a little nervous in case she had misjudged him. But her instinct had been right. He was a decent man. Her friends said she was too trusting, and she told him a story about a boy she had known, who wanted to have sex with her and would not respect the fact that she was a virgin. She wanted to marry before she made love to a man. She blushed and Jonathan was very uncomfortable. He smiled and nodded and looked towards the bathroom. He hoped that she had washed the scum from the bath. She was quiet for a while, then he realised that she had fallen asleep. She was breathing deeply. He was surprised the sedative had worked so quickly, but what she needed most now was rest.

  He sat next to her for a long time looking at the young face and thinking about the horrors awaiting her in life. He felt so sorry for the girl, her circumstances, but he would help her. When he was a boy he had been unaware of suffering, while at eighteen he had been naïve and misled, exploited even, but now he was twenty-one he was a man and set on his course, ready to dedicate his working life to the relief of suffering in all its forms. His career pattern was mapped out. Helping this rough-sleeper was merely a beginning, a celebration of where his professional life would lead.

  He lifted her up and carried her to one of the spare bedrooms. She was very light. He eased her out of the dressing gown and returned it to the bathroom. He hung it up and neatly folded the towel she had used to dry herself. This he placed on the electric rail. The flannel was draped over the hot-water tap. This was silver-plated and he wondered if she had noticed. The bath was clean, a pleasant surprise. She was a good girl, a victim of society’s selfishness. That and the failure of her mother to cope with death. He checked the drain and found several hairs. These he held up in front of his face before dropping them into the toilet bowl and flushing. He noticed a wet outline on the seat where she had sat. He ran a piece of toilet paper along it, washed his hands and dried them, made to leave the bathroom. He stopped and returned to the sink. Scrubbed at his hands once more. He looked at the bath and imagined the germs she would have been carrying. He went to a cupboard and took out a bottle of disinfectant. Slipped into a pair of rubber gloves and squirted the bottle around the bath tub. He took a brush and worked at the marble. He covered every corner and finally rinsed it away with hot water. He flushed the toilet to be sure it was clean and switched off the light.

  He returned to the girl. He left the door open so that light from the living room entered the bedroom. He glanced at her, noting the way her adolescent breasts pointed towards the ceiling, the shape of her small body and the extra pinkness of the flesh between her legs. A thin matting of pubic hair. He wondered whether she was telling the truth about her virginity. But it was no business of his. Temptation lay on the bed, and if he was an evil man he would take advantage of this innocent, sexually abuse her as she lay naked and defenceless and at his mercy. But he was not. He quickly dressed her in a pair of pyjamas and eased her beneath the covers. Her breathing was strong and rhythmic as she enjoyed the first decent sleep she would have had for many months.

  He left the bedroom and closed the door. Went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of champagne, be
fore taking out his book and studying for a couple of hours. He then retired for the night. When she awoke the next day he would do as he had promised and provide the girl with a new start in life. He felt good about himself.

  Jonathan Jeffreys emptied his glass and noted how the lights of the airport twinkled. Electricity guided the aeroplanes home. Supersonic jets that brought in the finest minds from around the globe. At their head the best the United States had to offer. Corporate generals. International bankers. Free-market philosophers dedicated to the spread of opportunity and wealth. The airliners also brought tourists whose welcome dollars and yen and marks helped boost the economy. These were wealthy men and women fully appreciative of the real Britain. The London of Shakespeare, Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament. Of course, there were spongers who tried to creep in, there always had been and always would. The authorities would control the situation, no matter what the media claimed. He had no fear there. Was an educated man who did not pander to prejudice and hysteria.

  Jonathan did not want to, but could not help but remember the morning after his twenty-first birthday. He had allowed the girl to sleep, but by midday decided to wake her. He would make her breakfast and then find her a place to live. He would help her start a new life. She was still deeply asleep when he went in, and when he opened the curtains and gently shook her shoulder he had received one hell of shock. The girl was dead. He could not believe it. She was only fifteen.

  Without an autopsy he had no way of knowing what had happened, coming to the conclusion that she had either a weak heart or a fatal disease. Apart from the despair he felt at the loss of such a young life, he realised that he was in an awkward situation. Would anyone believe that his actions had been purely honourable and that he had not expected, or taken, any favours in return for his kindness. There was also the small matter of the sedative, which he had administered to help her sleep. This could not have killed her, but questions would be asked and the evil nature of mankind would look for dark motives where none existed.