White Trash

by John King

  He regretted his generosity and spent the next few months lost in regret, which soon turned to depression. In the immediate aftermath of the discovery he had sat on his couch and cried. Actually cried. That night he had disposed of the body. He woke in the early hours depressed and confused. Threw himself back into his studies and gradually softened a little of the horror. At least she had died happy, that much he knew, and as small a comfort as it was, it was still something. He worked on this idea until he believed it to be true, admitting that her life would have been one of endless misery. She would never now end up at the top of a stairwell forced to service strangers, or as a wandering old woman with a brain destroyed by alcoholism.

  From that day on he had channelled all his energy into making amends, even though he was guilty of no crime, his resolution to help those less fortunate than himself stronger than ever. He had made mistakes. With his treatment of the pet and his visit to the prostitute, but the girl had been an act of charity that had gone horribly wrong. All these years later the memory saddened Jonathan Jeffreys and he did not dwell on the unfortunate death, returning instead to his view of the airport, sipping champagne and smiling back at his reflection.

  Standing in front of the pet-shop window, Ruby was able to switch from a reflected view of the street behind her to the display in front, diving into a heap of plastic bones and bouncy balls, a wicker basket full of studded leather collars, blank name tags and clockwork mice, jellied chunks of meat for cats and dogs, blankets and packs of catnip, a glass tank with a cardboard star offering it at half-price, bags of sunflower seeds and wood shavings. She looked back into the reflection and saw a woman loaded down with bags, a little girl next to her, helping.

  There was no familiar face so she went back to the pet shop, further in to a stack of silver cages, plastic wheels for gerbils and hamsters, a wall of goldfish swimming in and out of wrecked galleons, star of the show this kennel where a black puppy was sitting, huge paws too big for his body, tufts of white around claws she couldn’t see, a rubber nose and eyes that focused on her, and he stood up and wagged his tail, licked his lips with a massive pink tongue, and she wondered what he saw, what he thought, if he remembered another life, and she was tempted to find a brick and smash the window so she could take him home with her, noticed the kittens now, piled on top of each other, fast asleep, and she’d take the lot, the puppy and the kittens and the gerbils and hamsters, knew she wouldn’t get far, the tap of a policeman on her shoulder, Charlie Parish standing behind her like he’d come up out of the pavement, through a manhole cover, she’d been watching for him, clicking back and forward, in and out of focus, expected him but still jumped, more butterflies in her tummy, Charlie twice his normal size, the glass blowing things up out of proportion.

  —Gotcha, he laughed, moving forward so he was standing next to her.

  —You made me jump. You came from nowhere.

  —I thought you saw me in the window. You looked like you’d recognised someone. Smiling and that.

  —I was looking at the puppy, see, next to the shelves.

  They stood with their faces pressed against the window so the world behind was shut out.

  —He’s wagging his tail he’s so excited, Ruby said. I wish he was mine, that I could take him home with me. He’s beautiful, isn’t he? I had a dog when I was little and he looked like that, it could almost be him when he was younger. He can’t be more than a month or two old. He’s so small and cuddly. But it wouldn’t be fair keeping him locked up in the flat all day, when I’m at work, he’d get lonely. It’s not like I’ve got a garden either.

  —You should buy him. As long as you love him he won’t mind.

  —No, it wouldn’t be fair. He’ll get a better home with somebody else.

  —Suppose so. Someone will have him. He’ll be all right.

  They stood looking at the puppy for a minute.

  —Come on, I’ve got to pick something up in the pub. We can have a quick drink then go out.

  She waved goodbye to the dog and felt so sad for a second, but then it was gone and they were walking down the high street. Charlie had taken the bandage off his face too soon, he needed to keep the wound covered so it stayed clean, and the stitches turned heads, blood congealed and black, bruises turning yellow. All the time the skin was healing, and the scar wouldn’t look so bad, would fade and become part of him, and she was looking at the colours again, past the muck of the stitches to the shades of red that were going to blend in, and she was always amazed how the body repaired itself, skin growing and melting together. After years of working in the hospital she still reckoned it was a miracle how people recovered from their injuries, both skin and bones mended, it was magic, and they could transplant organs that would settle in and thrive, the body a fantastic thing, some people called it the temple of the soul, and she could see that easy enough.

  —How does your face feel? she asked.

  —Sore, you know. It could’ve been worse. That’s the way I’m looking at it. They could’ve had an eye out, or stabbed me through the heart.

  Ruby saw his chest being opened up and a replacement heart slipped in, a beautiful operation performed by miracle workers, the surgeons who saved lives on a daily basis, and she thought of that instead of the trauma the victim went through, happy endings all the way.

  —It will look better when the stitches are out and it starts healing, she said. You’ll be fine.

  —I’ll look like Action Man.

  Ruby slipped her arm through his, and she’d known he fancied her within a few minutes of talking to him in the hospital, felt the same way herself, and she wasn’t going to miss out, life was too short, so when she knew he was being discharged she went and saw him, asked how he was feeling and got him to ask her out, made it seem like it was his idea, guessed Charlie was shy, even though he was on the radio, it was probably easier talking into thin air than to a live person.

  —I thought you might be on the radio this morning, but it was dead.

  —I wasn’t in the mood, to be honest, but it was coming to an end for a while anyway. I was working evenings so it was easy going in after, then sleeping through till three or so, but I’ve got a lot of days coming up. I need the cash.

  —We all need money.

  —You have to live, don’t you? Work comes first. The radio’s a laugh. I’ve got a month solid at the airport, delivering round the M25 mostly. We used to do a lot of gigs, but cut down with the radio. The other night was the first one for a while.

  They walked past the multiplex and the entrance to the shopping centre, the underground pub there full of junkies and alcoholics, a half-lit zone with velvet seats and no windows where the only music ever played was Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin, she’d only been in there once but it was well known, three girls mucking about on their skateboards up ahead, doing flips off a concrete slope, dry plants burnt in the sun perking up with the first pricks of a summer shower that in seconds was a flood of thick blobs from the ocean, raindrops lined with oil, drips off the end of a needle, Ruby standing in the shelter of a shop doorway leaning on the grille, china horses and Mickey Mouse clocks through the slats, gypsy ponies and field mice on the edge of town, towards the airport, and a puddle was forming, oil slicks washing out, catching the light and creating vinegary patterns, the faces of her mum and the puppy swishing around in the water, Mum stroking Ben’s tired old head, opening a tin of chicken chunks and him going mad, whining and wagging his tail, gobbling it down in seconds, climbing up on the couch with them, snuggling under the blanket, Gene Kelly stuck in the rain, clicking his heels, the shower over, the puddle still, little girls back out on their skateboards, foam-padding kneecaps, scabs on their elbows.

  —What do you want to do? Charlie asked.

  —I don’t mind.

  —Come on, anything you want.

  She thought for a minute.

  —Take me on holiday. A day will do. A few hours on a Spanish beach.

  He laughed an
d they turned the corner, Charlie guiding her into the pub, the place busy, full mostly of men on the piss, in straight after work, and there were a few women with their husbands and boyfriends, a noisy group of five dressed-up blondes sitting at a table pulling a lot of looks, faces pretty but puffing up now they were into middle age, chubby but making up for it with their confidence.

  Up the back was a platform with a row of pool tables where Charlie’s mates were sitting, calling him over, a skinny man in a shell suit with a cue in his hand, the handle resting on his right foot. She waited for her drink and recognised one or two faces. Bob from the end of her street, a short fat man with a bald head and sense of humour, he’d had a heart attack the year before and shouldn’t be drinking that pint of bitter, the cigarette in his hand, and there was one of the skin-head dustmen she saw in the morning sometimes, the one who was always whistling at her, he was at the bar with his arm wrapped around the waist of a ginger girl who was stunning, really fantastic-looking, and he saw Ruby, nodded, no wolf whistles now, trying to impress, and he was in the prime of life, no health worries, a pint of lager on the bar.

  —Here you go, Charlie said, passing her a bottle. She followed him over to the platform.

  —This is Del Boy, he said, as they sat down. And this is Johnny, better known as Johnny Chromozone, also known as DJ Chromo.

  —Special AKA.

  —It’s Derek, not Del Boy, the guy with the silver chain said.

  —No, it’s Del Boy. If you want to buy some good whizz or dodgy porn, he’s your man.

  —Fuck off, he said, laughing. Only fools and horses work.

  —This isn’t fucking Peckham though, is it? said the skinny man, leaning over. None of your bushwhacker bollocks over here.

  —Call me Derek, the Trotter version said, leaning over and smiling at Ruby.

  She nodded and sipped her drink. She felt like she was with people she’d known for years, hearing Charlie and Chromo’s voices so often, and they sounded more or less the same in real life, maybe calmer, but then you probably had to pump yourself up to perform, and she wondered about the other DJ, Punch, who played the punk and reggae and mixed it in with Tricky and the Prodigy and Beenie Man, not her usual listening but okay, with her it was the sound, the worries of the world right in front of her every single day so she needed to escape, had enough to think about dealing with cancer and comas, never mind the party-political squabbling, that’s why they had a union, so they didn’t have to listen to the career broadcasts, and Sally took care of union affairs, argued the toss, Ruby wanted a laugh, happy sitting with Charlie and waiting for DJ Chromo to play a record, launch into a speech about space and time, how life was all about motion, vibration, energy, nothing solid, he was the philosopher, and that’s what you got when you entered the Chromo Zone, she was in his presence now, had stepped through the curtain into an eternal present where there no past and no future, nothing to worry about because nothing was how it seemed, and she wanted it to be like that for her mum, they said that was what happened to you, when you had Alzheimer’s you lost the plot but you lost your worries as well, nothing to regret and nothing to fear, and she grabbed the straw and held on, grabbed and held on to life, went out as much as she could, lived in the present, didn’t believe in planning ahead.

  —I remember seeing you in the hospital, Johnny said, and she was thinking how he didn’t look anything how she would’ve imagined.

  —You had your uniform on, but I remember your face. Did Charlie have to use a bedpan when he was in there?

  —He was all right to walk, a bit drugged up at first, but he was okay.

  —I tell you what, Johnny Chromozone said, pissed. Nurses are the fucking business in my book. Anyone’ll tell you the same, whether it’s a crook like Del Boy or a man of reading like myself. We all know the score.

  —It’s Derek.

  —You do a hard job well, in my opinion. For not much reward either. Fair play to you.

  He leant forward.

  —I’m not patronising you either, he slurred. I’m a bit pissed, that’s all. Been in here since five.

  DJ Chromo tapped his pint against her bottle, made Charlie do the same, and he was toasting Ruby, making a big song and dance about raising his glass in the air, wiping a fluorescent tongue over purple lips, battered and bruised from too much drink, too much something, she felt embarrassed but saw he was one of those bubbly characters who spout off at twice the normal speed, three times the volume, a beatbox on legs, barrel chest plugged into the mains, but there was a racket going on in the pub so it was only her and Charlie and Derek who could really hear what he was saying, and it was all right watching his face pulling shapes, she would’ve had him down as thinner and with glasses, not this drinker, but it made sense, a pub philosopher who was busy with the ideas, books and music, anything that worked.

  —To the nurses, who do the hard work while pop stars and actors get all the wonga. Them and footballers. It shows what a shit society we’re living in when it’s the pretty boys who pull all the girls. What happens to an ugly fucker like Del?

  —Derek.

  —Ugly bastards like me and Del Boy.

  —Derek.

  —They’re just the ones they take pictures of, the man in the shell suit said, leaning in for his pint, taking a sip off the top as he held his cue over his shoulder, Charlie forgetting to introduce him.

  —You don’t see the real money-spinners, do you? They keep you wound up on footballers and what have you so you won’t do your homework and find where the real money goes. They’re the ones who’ve come from what you’ve come from, done well, so they slag them off so you don’t worry about the silver-spoon brigade.

  —They’re all a bunch of cunts, Johnny Chromozone said. It’s just, I don’t know, you expect it from that lot, you know, the rich and that, but when someone gets in a position to say something from your world you’d think they’d tell it how it is.

  —They wouldn’t get the publicity if they started moaning, would they? It’s the price you pay for fame and fortune. As long as you know your place and don’t rock the boat you can have it all.

  —All I know … Chromo said, lowering his voice.

  —All I know is that when it comes down to it nurses are the heroes. They lend a helping hand and get sweet FA in return. It’s not about money with them, is it? Doctors and nurses do it because they want to help people. Them and teachers dealing with all those snotty-nosed little hooligans trying to wreck their lives.

  —Fuck off, said the pool player. You upset enough teachers when you were at school.

  —I know I did, and I was wrong, wasn’t I? A right little toerag. I wish I could go back and change things, but I can’t, can I? What’s done is done. I wasn’t interested in learning then, but I am now.

  Ruby could see Chromo sitting down with Sally and being serious about life, and she was thinking about how she’d have pictured him again, an older version of the kids on the hard shoulder, talk about flavour, that skunk blew your head off it had so much petrol in it, rocket weed they should call it, and this was weird putting faces to names, voices, ideas, and as for Charlie, well, she was into his music, didn’t feel like she had to talk about life, they both knew what it was about, he could’ve looked like anything, three eyes and one leg, she’d never cared about the glossy world of beautiful people in shiny clothes, what you were was more than skin-deep, it was there in the organs, but things moved fast, shifting so no day was ever the same, people having their ups and downs, every single person busy doing something, even if you couldn’t see what, every brain was charging, millions of electrical impulses firing off opinions, visions, she loved all that, the drink on her tongue and the click of pool balls a few feet away, the smell of the pub and its clientele, paint off the overalls of a man nearby, the smell of chips piled next to a hamburger, next to an ashtray full of fag ends, embers of a bonfire, bangers and mash and jumping jacks.

  —You’re on, Del, someone called.


  —Derek. It’s Derek, you piss-taking cunt. I’ll fucking nut you in a minute.

  —Sorry, Del.

  Ruby watched him walk to the rack and take a cue, guessed he liked the attention, and he was searching for the chalk and polishing the end, giving it the professional touch, flamboyant now, so she could understand why the others were calling him Del Boy, wondering if the whizz was as good as Charlie said, what sort of porn he was selling, Derek raising his eyebrows and giving up because the chalk was worn out. He approached the table and leant forward, scattering the balls, the special crack that went with breaking. Chromo got up and took his pint over so he could watch, leaving Ruby alone with Charlie, being discreet, and someone else who’d just arrived came over and handed Charlie a set of keys, whispered something in his ear, patting him on the back, walked off.

  She’d finished her drink.

  —Same again? she asked.

  —No, come on, we’ll go somewhere else where we can talk. You wanted to go on holiday so we’ll run away together.

  She laughed and waved goodbye to the others, following him through the pub with her hand in his, the dustman kissing his model, Bob knocking back a chaser, laughing his head off.

  —Hello, Ruby, I never saw you come in.

  It was humid outside, water hanging in the air, and she followed Charlie across the road to a van, imagining a beach in the sun, wanting to know where they were going. He opened the door and got in, leant over and opened the passenger side, Ruby climbing into a sauna, one that needed a good clean, Charlie reaching down and lobbing the plastic cups and cartons into the back, flicking a chip on to the floor, and she was weighing up the front of the van now, a mess of fag ends and cassettes, a couple of green bottles he must’ve drunk on the way back from Calais, gulp-size Stella, and even though it was stuffy with dirt and grime in the carpet, gravel in the ridges of the mats, Charlie’s smell was in here, same as she noticed when he was laid up in hospital, Charlie Parish coming through the disinfectant, and it was a smell that made her think of trees for some reason, wholesome, with a sweet note, his deodorant maybe, and he was just a boy grown up who didn’t put his toys away, had a hobby with his music, he didn’t deserve the cut face, at the same time knowing his attackers were boys grown up as well, they’d lost the thread somewhere and gone too far, spoilt the game, and it was all a game, the chopper coppers and the DTI and the riot squad barrelling down the hard shoulder, everyone playing a role.