White Trash

by John King

  —Where are we going? she asked.

  —I’m taking you on holiday, that’s what you wanted.

  —No, really, what are we doing?

  —Wait and see.

  Ruby shrugged her shoulders and looked back at the pub as they drove past, small windows she couldn’t see through, the door wedged open.

  —I want to show you this Cadillac.

  She looked blank.

  —There’s a Cadillac I’m going to buy.

  Ruby nodded.

  —It’s not far. I’ve got a loan sorted out but I’m still a grand short. The bloke wants six thousand, but he’ll take five and a half. That’s what he said. It doesn’t do good mileage, seven to the gallon, but it’s the sort of car you take out on special occasions, you know, drive up to Heston or down the Embankment.

  —It’s a lot of money.

  —It’s going to be for work. What I reckon is you get people hiring Rolls-Royces and Daimlers, you know, for weddings and funerals, special occasions, like I said, but when have you ever seen a bride come out of an old Norman church and jump straight into a pink Cadillac.

  —It’s pink?

  —Has to be, doesn’t it. Anyway, people go to a wedding and everything turns formal. They buy, borrow or rent suits that they would never think of wearing normally, then ponce around waiting for cars none of them have ever ridden in before, and the reason they’ve never been in a Rolls or a Daimler is they can’t afford one, and that’s it basically, they have to taste the good life to make the day stand out, drink champagne when they’d prefer a pint. They listen to middle-of-the-road music when they’d prefer something a bit more lively. Least till everyone’s drunk and then it’s over to the bar for a pint, and they get the music cranked up, everyone asking for their favourites, and it turns into a party.

  —What’s that got to do with a pink Cadillac?

  —Well, my idea is why not use a Cadillac instead? People would love that. Imagine coming out in your suit and wedding dress and jumping into a classic pink Yankee, big silver fins and polished chrome, playing Love Me Tender as you drive them to the reception, and then when you take them to their honeymoon night you could play Great Balls Of Fire.

  Ruby laughed, like he was joking.

  —Really, you think about it. Would you like a vintage Rolls, all stiff and proper and boring, or would you rather get into a Cadillac that’s big and flash and more of a laugh, not taking yourself too seriously? What would you choose? Be honest.

  —A Cadillac. I’d choose a Cadillac.

  Charlie turned down a side street, did a right.

  —There it is, in front of that end house.

  She didn’t need him to point it out, the car was pretty obvious, like it was the wrong size model for the houses. Kids did that, played with cars that were out of scale, where one would fit in the boot of another, toy soldiers where the German could crush the Englishman with the click of a jackboot. It was a beauty all right, no doubt about it, parked at an angle as it rested on the pavement, the black cab behind it looking like a miniature. The Cadillac was clean, gleaming in the fading sunlight, the fins massive, everything about it big and flash, like Charlie said, and she didn’t have him down as a show-off or anything, it was a different sort of class, but where was he going to get another thousand from? It was a dream, something to aim for, she supposed.

  —I got the idea for a Cadillac service when we went to Las Vegas. My mate got married and he wanted Elvis to conduct the service. Twenty of us went. It worked out cheap and we loved it, stayed in this smart hotel, and you go through the casinos and they lead into each other so it’s hard to get out again, and all the time they’re giving you free drinks to get you pissed. We stayed five days and had a blinding time.

  —So your mate got married by Elvis Presley?

  —It was an impersonator.

  —I didn’t think it was the real one.

  —It was the older Elvis, he was wearing a cape and sideburns, then the bride and groom went off in a Cadillac. It’s not my own idea, but everything’s recycled, isn’t it? I would’ve had the young Elvis, not some fat old boy with a stick-on chest and medallion. That got me into the rockabilly records I play with the other stuff. It was a good laugh.

  —Where will you get the extra thousand? she asked.

  —Don’t have a clue. I just hope he doesn’t sell it in the meantime. He’s not getting a lot of interest, but he won’t drop the price any further. Maybe it’ll go before I get the money. I’m pushed to the limit as it is. Fingers crossed though.

  They sat in the front of the van looking at the car for five minutes, then Charlie turned round and moved off.

  —Where are we going?

  —On a magical mystery tour. Wait and see. Ruby sat talking with Charlie, watching the streets pass, fields where the china horses had come to life, the sun sinking down, and she was wondering if he was taking her into London, and then they were turning, past the airport boundary and down a dip, into the tunnel leading into the airport, and she was sitting up now, wondering, and it didn’t take long to come out the other side, Charlie veering towards Terminal 3, pulling up at the barriers of the multi-storey. He stopped and stretched for his ticket.

  —We used to come here when we were kids, sit on top of the car park and watch the planes taking off, guessing where they were going, pretending we were on board.

  The light was dim inside the car park, the sweet smell of petrol swelling in through the window, the bays almost full on the ground, and they bounced up the ramp leading to the first floor, rocking on the angle, slowing down at the top for the blind spot, turning right and following the arrows through the grey columns and colourless shapes of Fords and Datsuns, a man with a suitcase marching towards the stairs with a woman in a red coat, and Ruby loved the smell of the petrol, going up the next ramp, following the arrows, looking out at the buildings, on and on till bang, they were up on the roof, an explosion of fresh air hitting Ruby same as an oxygen mask, they were the only ones there and Charlie let the van drift to the edge, the sky fantastic in front of them.

  Charlie stopped by the wall and turned the engine and lights off. A plane rose up, past the terminals, coming off the runway and into the air, a boom reaching them against the breeze.

  —It’s the next best thing to going on holiday, Charlie laughed.

  He took out some Rizlas and looked at Ruby, knowing what she’d say, and it was like they were the only people in the world now, so near and yet so far away from the terminals, the people who worked in the airport, most of all the jets roaring into the air and heading off across the world. It was magic, better than sitting in a pub with DJ Chromo and the others, not that she didn’t like them, she did, but it was her first time out with Charlie and this made it special somehow, better than the dark of a cinema, and she was thinking how she loved watching the traffic pass by from the banks of the motorway, everyone hurrying somewhere else while she could sit back and enjoy the show, that’s what it was like now, and maybe they were made for each other, you couldn’t say this early, but it was as if Charlie liked the same things, felt the same way, and she stopped that one dead, wasn’t thinking ahead, savouring the moment as they had a smoke and watched the night sky, the blinking of lights and motion of planes building up speed and shrinking into the dark, sitting in silence.

  —That’s a new sign, Charlie said after what seemed like ages but was probably only five minutes.

  Ruby looked at the board nearby, a warning that parking was banned on the roof of the car park and anyone who did so would be arrested and fined.

  —It’s so they don’t get terrorists coming up here with rockets to shoot down planes, I suppose, Charlie said.

  —A sign’s not going to stop them, is it? You know, ‘Please Don’t Fire Your Anti-Aircraft Missiles Here’. That’s not going to work.

  They sat for a while.

  —It would be a good place to put up an aerial, Charlie laughed. They’d get it right away though. Th
ey’re probably watching us now. Definitely, I’d say. They’re not going to put up a sign like that and not have the roof under surveillance. Wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t a camera on us, filming.

  —Do you think so?

  —They must have, he said, sitting forward over the wheel. They’re not going to muck about with something like an airport. It’s big time when it comes to terrorism and shooting down planes. If you had the gear you could set it up in a minute and knock out a jet, kill hundreds.

  Ruby looked out into the dark but couldn’t see anything suspicious, just the tops of other blocks, terminals and offices, dark outlines with some stray light coming off the road below.

  —They’ve probably got a sniper out there looking at us through the sights of his rifle.

  —We shouldn’t hang around if they’re watching us. I can’t see where they could be, can you?

  —Could be anywhere, one of those buildings over there. They’re not going to put a neon light up, are they? They work in the background, pick their targets out with special sights then get you when you don’t expect it. As long as it’s got the official stamp it’s legal and they can get away with anything. There’s some nutter out there with a high-powered rifle with an invisible dot on our faces, a cross or something, his finger itching, moving slowly from me to you, back again, zeroing in ready to pump a round into each one of us, blow our heads to pieces.

  —Don’t, Ruby said, shivering, looking into the shadows.

  —I’m serious. Wouldn’t be surprised. Some official killer sitting there weighing up the odds, wondering if he can get away with it, seeing us having a smoke and getting all righteous. Probably thinks we’re scum even though he knows we’re not terrorists, just looking for an excuse to tap the trigger and wipe us out. There’d be no sound, and he’d come over and cart the bodies away, no questions asked.

  She didn’t know whether to believe it or not, couldn’t see that happening to be honest, but it was possible, shooting down airliners was big league and maybe they didn’t take any chances, but no, what would be the point, what would they get out of it? The sign was loud and clear and even if the sniper and his mates weren’t going to shoot them they’d be watching, no doubt about that, and you sort of got used to the spy cameras, walking down the high street, through the precinct, anywhere the shops might get robbed, even some clubs had CCTV, and it didn’t matter because you were in a crowd of people and could merge in with everyone else, but up here, out in the open and separated from everything, that gave them strength, and what made it good being up on the roof was also the danger. They were on their own and she felt scared, the fear growing, just the two of them trusting in someone they didn’t know, putting their lives in the hands of an executioner, and any second he could squeeze the trigger and end it all.

  —Why don’t we go? I don’t like it up here.

  —It’s all right. I was only thinking out loud.

  —No, they’ll come hassle us and do us for the dope. It’s spooky up here now. It’s all changed. I don’t like thinking about the sniper.

  Charlie laughed and started the engine, and she knew he wanted to move as much as she did, but like all men had to put on a brave face, pretend he didn’t care, and he did a circle of the roof first, doing his bit swerving side to side, and then they were going down, floor by floor, and the fear was gone, it was irrational she knew, a touch of paranoia, and she was glad Charlie had brought her here, it was an exciting place. He paid and they left the car park, lost in traffic.

  —Shall we have a coffee?

  Ruby nodded, happy again, the lights of the cars spread out, picking up the motorway and then pulling into the services. It was quiet and she could hear the hum of a generator, the machines showing silent space rangers on their screens, heroes exterminating aliens, joysticks carrying thousands of fingerprints from thousands of players, and Ruby thought of all the DNA evidence gathered in one little spot, none of it admissible in court because it had all merged together, and they went into the cafeteria and bought two coffees and a cake each, sat by the glass wall, looking at the motorway, and Ruby leant over and breathed in the coffee fumes, felt the heat on her face.

  —I hope I get that Cadillac one day, Charlie said, talking quietly, so the few people around them couldn’t hear, a family near the door, a couple of lorry drivers, a teenage couple sitting in silence.

  —I could chauffeur you around in style if I had it.

  Ruby didn’t know if she fancied that, everyone turning to look at them as they passed, and anyway, it was a dream, it was like the puppy in the shop, it wasn’t really going to come true, but it was good to pretend. She stroked his hand on the table.

  —We wouldn’t have been able to go on to the roof of the car park if you’d been driving the Cadillac. It wouldn’t have got through the barrier. We’d still be there now, stuck, with the paint scratched, ruining the car’s good looks.

  —I never thought of that.

  He looked sad suddenly, the first time since she’d known him. Even when he was in hospital having his wound cleaned he’d been upbeat, it wasn’t in his nature to be unhappy, another reason why she felt they were the same, both of them looking for the positive rather than the negative. She knew he was thinking he’d never own that car, same as she knew she’d never have the puppy, and it was like she didn’t have to even speak to him, could read his mind, and she looked into his eyes so he laughed and smiled and finished his drink, the roar of bikes turning everyone’s heads as three Hell’s Angels rolled in. The Angels bought three teas and sat near the door, keeping an eye on three shining Harleys parked outside. Ruby couldn’t help thinking how quiet the place was, really silent like a library or something, the family getting up and leaving, Charlie holding her hand now and maybe wondering if she wanted another coffee, getting ready to speak.

  Mr Jeffreys checked his watch and pushed away the file he had been studying. He unlocked a drawer and took out his special box, running his fingers over the teak. He rubbed at a small smear. It was a stubborn mark so he wet his thumb and pressed harder, using his handkerchief to polish the wood. When it was spotless he straightened the box on his desk. It was a gift from his father, an antique, and while this in itself meant a great deal, Mr Jeffreys loved the box more for what it contained.

  He opened the lid and appreciated the way the light caught the barrel of the syringe inside, a classic instrument from a bygone age. The hypodermic rested in a velvet mould. He enjoyed the manner in which the syringe fitted his hand and became an extension of his body. Plastic syringes were toys in comparison. Cheap and disposable, they matched the age. Everywhere standards were being eroded and it was up to him to make a stand for traditional values. This hypodermic harked back to a time when the social order was rigid, medicine a brave experiment rather than a human right.

  He lifted the instrument from the box and wrapped it in a new chamois leather he had bought from one of the valets who cleaned his car. The shop was convenient to his hotel and specialised in prestigious automobiles. It was a curious business run by a Sikh who employed numerous young skinheads in blue overalls. The shammy had taken his fancy and he now bound it with a length of cord, specially measured and cut for the purpose. He slipped the package into the left pocket of his coat, the thickness offering protection from the needle which he naturally pointed away from his body. He returned to the box and took out a phial. Placed this in the right pocket. He returned the box to its drawer and turned the key, picked up his clipboard and left the office, ensuring that the door was secure. He was doing his best to remain calm yet could not help but feel excited. He stopped and counted to twenty before continuing.

  As he headed towards his destination Mr Jeffreys managed to strike a calming rhythm. His feet moved easily and his breathing was steady. The next few minutes would see the practical aspect of his work, the reason for his presence within the hospital. It was also the act that gave his life its deeper meaning. This was his chance to truly serve the com
munity and make a difference, yet he was nothing if not honest, fully aware of the primitive instincts lurking inside every man, even educated and sensitive individuals such as himself. He was an expert at controlling emotion, but even after all these years there was a degree of exhilaration. It was a balancing act of course. This energy must be channelled in the right direction, the end result was all. Professionalism was essential and he prided himself on the manner in which he carried out the most crucial element of his work. There was no room for mistakes and he made none. His success was earned and the same would be true if he ever failed.

  As ever, the walls of the corridors were blank and bereft of character. Occasionally he noticed clusters of official notices, posters and leaflets, then drawings and paintings, none of it worth a second glance. These sheets of paper were lost in the plaster much the same as the windows of the surrounding houses merged with the concrete. His journey via local roads always emphasised the importance of his work as the corridors of the hospital and the streets of the town mirrored one another. Too many things had been left to slowly rot and decay, decisions ignored because they were either too painful or required a modicum of effort. Too many people sat around pontificating, delaying the inevitable. Choices had to be made and decisive action taken, no matter that these decisions were hard and laced with regret. He was a realist and believed this with his whole heart. Would have been unable to continue if he did not.