White Trash

by John King

  Mr Jeffreys sat in his car drumming thin, elegant fingers on the steering wheel. His nails were clipped and filed and scrubbed clean. Knuckles squeezed dry with worry. Every so often he removed his hand from the wheel and clenched his fist, digging the nails into his palm.

  He was waiting at the edge of the car park, discreetly positioned yet able to see the main entrance to his right and Accident & Emergency to his left. When an ambulance barrelled around the corner he could not help but watch its progress. It slowed for the bump then picked up speed, passed behind a Portakabin before coming back into view. It stopped. What load would it give up? What new strain would be placed on resources? For once, he did not care, quickly switched back to his view of the main entrance.

  Mr Jeffreys was scared. Compromised. Under threat. That tart of a nurse had seen the old fool’s watch. Yet it was his own fault. His foolishness had jeopardised everything. He had become cavalier. Overconfident. Throughout history this had led to the downfall of great men. Carrying the watch in his pocket instead of removing it from the hospital had been a stupid, stupid mistake. What had he been thinking? Nurse James had seen the watch and even compared it to that of Dawes. How long before she realised that it really was the old man’s? Did she know the truth already and was holding her tongue as she plotted against him? That sort of woman possessed a primitive cunning. She would destroy him out of spite, because of his position and intellect. The politics of envy was about to rear its ugly head once more.

  She was a cheap floozie. Brain-dead and ignorant. The state could not protect him against her evil spell. His work was so sensitive that he would lose everything if the police became involved. The state could do nothing for him. Nobody must know of the cleansing. He did not blame the authorities of course. He knew the score. Yet perhaps she did not know. Was she really so dumb and trusting that she did not see the significance of his mistake? He thought about this. He could not take a chance. He was not thinking of himself. Oh no. Nurse James was a danger to his mission. An evil, scheming tart. Common as muck. With her endless smiles and friendly manner, the fake humility. He hated her.

  He took a deep breath and refocused his attention on the ambulance. With its paramedics running in circles. Add the nurses and porters and he doubted there was more than two brain cells between the whole sorry bunch. The trolley was loaded and rushed into A&E. He knew the routine. The concern. Diagnosis. Treatment. Recuperation. Forced a smile. The paramedics. The nurses. The doctors. The porters. The tea ladies. Every one of them acted as if it mattered whether these patients lived or died. Really, it did not. They were scum. White trash. The white niggers which infested every civilised nation. He despised them all.

  But he had to remember his mission. He was employed to serve the interests of the state, just like the bankers and politicians, the artistic elite and media, the generals and senior civil servants. Yet he was restrained by ideology. If it was his decision, he would privatise the whole caboodle. Force those who could not pay for their health care to die where they fell. It was more honest that way and what God had intended. Why would He have invented cancer if it was not to control the population? Why should a person live beyond their allotted working life if they were only kept alive by expensive medication? What was the value of retirement to a dynamic economy? He firmly believed in the survival of the fittest, and not according to brute strength either. It was superior intellect that led to survival. He was God’s trusty worker. Mr Jeffreys laughed. Tried to rein back his emotions.

  Yet he could not help himself. He was a good man and wanted to help the people help themselves. If the state prospered then so would the masses. But he was frustrated in his efforts, the anger rising up when he considered the dole queues and all those who were out of work and living easy lives. He was paying for the drug addicts and prostitutes, the single parents and loafers, the criminals in their luxury prison cells, the whining pensioners and sponging asylum seekers. He could not remain strong every single second of every single day. He had to let off steam sometime. Did they not understand how hard it was for him to keep smiling at people he despised every second of his working life, surrounded as he was by dimwits, dealing with morons and hearing about their stupid prejudices, thinking they had inalienable rights? He wished he could just stamp DNR on every single file, be done with it, DO NOT RESUSCITATE, that would do the job, and Jeffreys tightened his grip on the steering wheel almost rocking it forward to his chest, a police car arriving now next to the ambulance so he knew that it was either a road accident or an assault, a drunk-driver or a knife-wielding maniac, he did not know for sure but could find out, if he wanted to, but he did not, watched the two policemen walk inside, lackeys of course, but necessary, puffed-up nobodies, and he was glad they were out of sight yet did not fear them, knew they were a part of the whole sorry mess, and he thought of the boy with the cut face, how he had escaped the needle, a certain Mr Parish had had a very lucky escape, on the receiving end but guilty by association, it was a basic rule, you did not get stabbed for nothing, not people like that anyway, it was the same with cheap tarts crying rape when all the time they were asking for it with their provocative clothing, although he did feel some sorrow for old folk mugged by hooligans, yet it was their fault for living in the wrong areas, for offering an easy target, for living too long, they were slackers basically, the sort of bone-idle spongers who held the country back, and oh how he would love to get hold of one of those muggers, the dirty little golliwogs made him sick, as sick as the scum who loved their jungle music and had sex with their men, the whoring majority and the smelly immigrant minority, and all together they jumped into the pot that spun in a whirlpool of mutant spawn, corrupted genes that moved faster and faster until they were absorbed and regurgitated as another wave of white trash, no, these people had no understanding of culture, of the finer arts that lasted for centuries and refused to change, the rigid lines of music, art, literature, architecture that stretched back through the centuries and were as pure now as they were then, so instead the common people craved novelty, as if excitement mattered, corrupted the language with their ever-changing slang, created a din for entertainment, laughed at jokes that were not funny, moaned and complained and then when they were offered a basic service did not want to pay their share of the cost, expected the state to nanny them, well, it was not happening in his hospital, he was running the show, distributing some long-overdue justice, and Jeffreys smiled now, imagined a future health system where he could work openly and reap the respect he deserved for a tough job well done, yet knew it was impossible in this day and age, looked back towards the main entrance and scolded himself for allowing his attention to stray, he had to stay in control, the ambulance a distraction, he was no better than those open-mouthed fools who gathered around road accidents, staring and not knowing what to do, gormless the lot of them, guttersnipes and urchins, and he squinted his eyes when he saw three nurses come out through the glass doors, a big black woman with two skinny whites, he thought one of them might be Nurse James, but no, she was not there, and they turned and were coming towards him so he reached over for his briefcase and took out a file, opened it and inspected a sheet of paper which he propped against his steering wheel, showing that he was busy, merely taking a breather in his car, still working, nose to the grindstone, right down on the surface, he put on a serious expression and raised his head as the nurses passed but they did not even notice him, how he hated them, especially the prettiest of the three, the one nearest his car with the brown hair pulled back in a tight bun, did he say pretty, that was the trouble with working in a place like this, God, how he hated the tackiness of these people, the place, longed to be in his hotel room, ringing room service and ordering a club sandwich, two bottles of American beer and a bucket of ice, or back in his apartment, or in his gallery. Anywhere but here.

  He spotted Nurse James. She was strolling along with a smile on her face as if she was in control. She was a witch and he was not deceived. If she did not know a
bout the nature of his work then she soon would. She slowed down to talk to the fool who passed for a car-park attendant. No doubt planning some seedy rendezvous, a sexual encounter up against the wall of the crematorium.

  She continued walking. Bent down near a car. No doubt picking up cigarette butts. Swinging an arm and shaking her hand. Carefree and empty-headed. Selfish. Cheap. The car park quiet. Mr Jeffreys unobserved. The attendant disappeared around the corner and he popped the boot open and got out of his car. Called gently. Attracted Nurse James’s attention so that she smiled and came over. So gullible. Trusting. A stupid bitch. She looked where he pointed. Turned her head so that he could smother her face with his handkerchief. A nice touch. The handkerchief she had returned that same day. Cleaned and ironed. No doubt hoping to impress. He held her firm as she struggled against the chloroform, then sunk into unconsciousness.

  Very gently and with the utmost consideration Mr Jeffreys lifted Nurse James into the boot of his car. He covered her with a blanket and rested her head at a suitable angle. He did not want her to wake up with a stiff neck. He looked around but was in the clear. His confidence had returned. He shut the boot and got back into the car. Started the BMW engine and ambled through the car park with a friendly wave to the attendant. Who waved back. A nice touch. Between two men working for the common good. One a professional. The other a dedicated assistant. Doing menial yet important work. The directing of cars. Mr Jeffreys appreciated his efforts. Everyone had a role to play.

  But he had a choice to make. There were three options. He could take Nurse James to his hotel. Security cameras, staff and a constant stream of guests made this indiscreet of course. He was not thinking of himself but the nurse. She was a sweet girl. Dreaming sweet dreams. Yet she had a reputation to uphold. The hotel staff would get the wrong idea. Or he could invite her to his apartment. For dinner. This would be too forward of him. Too personal. Or he could take her to his gallery. This appealed. No one had seen his exhibition before and it seemed a poetic solution to a delicate problem. Had she ever visited a gallery? He doubted whether she had so it would be an education. His mind made up, he drove carefully. Obeyed the speed limits. Ever the professional.

  Mr Jeffreys shaved. Showered. Slipped into a fresh set of clothes. Poured himself a drink. Admired the decanters lining the drinks cabinet. So many shapes. Sizes. Cut crystal gleaming. He sipped his cognac. Walked over and sat in a chair opposite Nurse James, who was relaxing on the sofa. Dozing. Dreaming. There was no point standing on ceremony. He would call her by her Christian name from now on. Ruby. A precious gem. Much sought after. He laughed. Rolled the cognac around his mouth and savoured the warmth. He felt secure. At ease in the loft. His private gallery in the former factory beautifully refurbished to provide space for professionals and investors. His loft was the best unit within the development, in terms of both size and river view. The floorboards shone under layers of polish. The aroma incredible. It was hard to imagine the factory before the developers arrived. Derelict for years. A refuge for drug addicts and prostitutes. Before that a harsh industrial hell. Bedlam.