Smith

by stewartgiles

FIFTY

  CONSCIENCE

  Tuesday 5 January 2009

  White and White exporting owned a small flat above an Indian restaurant in Leicester city centre. David White had decided that this was as central as possible for distributing all over England and Wales. He had converted half the flat into a basic office with a phone, computer and a few small filing cabinets. He was busy finalising a contract with an antiques firm in Cardiff when Jason Smith had phoned. He was expecting the call but it still took him by surprise.

  “Smith,” he said, “it’s been a long time. Where are you?”

  “In Leicester,” Smith replied, “this place is a nightmare to get around.”

  “You get used to it,” Whitey said, “what road are you on?”

  “Aylestone Road,” Smith said, “No, now it’s bloody changed. It’s now Oxford Road.”

  “Ok,” Whitey said, “keep left, turn onto Saint Nicholas and follow it round to High Street. There’s parking at the Shires shopping centre. I’m just round the corner on Silver Street. Look for the Magic Balti restaurant; there’s a plaque with my name on it. Just ring the bell and I’ll let you in.”

  He hung up.

  Whitey’s directions were perfect. Smith found the shopping centre and parked his car in the multi storey car park. It was raining as he walked outside but it seemed a few degrees warmer than in York. As he walked he was overcome by a feeling of dreadful expectation. If what Whitey had said was true and his sister was still alive, what had become of her? What happened on that beach over ten years ago had determined the direction of his life. Laura would be nineteen now.

  The Magic Balti restaurant was one of those typical tacky Indian restaurants that had sprung up all over England in the past twenty years. The windows were dark and over them hung an awning in the shape of the Taj Mahal. To the left of the restaurant there was a plaque. It read ‘White and White exporting. Perth, Leicester, Hong Kong, Bejing’. Smith noticed that room had been left on the plaque for additional information. Whitey’s done alright for himself, Smith thought as he rang the bell. The door clicked open almost immediately. Smith went inside and closed the door behind him. As he climbed the stairs he suddenly had feelings of doubt. Should he be here? What did Whitey have in store for him? Smith had despised Whitey when he was growing up and he was sure that the feeling was mutual. The door at the top of the stairs was open but Smith knocked anyway.

  “Come in Jason Smith,” Whitey shouted from inside. He still had the annoying nasal drawl. Smith walked in to find Whitey sitting behind a desk next to the window.

  “David White?” Smith said.

  Whitey had changed almost beyond recognition. His once blonde hair was darker with grey stripes on the side; his face was ashen and puffy. Whitey stood up; he seemed shorter and he was definitely a good few pounds heavier.

  “Ten years can change a person dramatically,” he said noting Smith’s surprise, “You haven’t changed a bit though.”

  “I’m very different inside,” Smith said but regretted it instantly, “do you usually open the door for just anybody? You should be more careful.”

  “Like I said,” Whitey said, “you haven’t changed a bit, I saw you from the window. What’s Jason Smith up to these days?”

  “No Smith shit then?” Smith joked.

  Whitey smiled.

  “I was a bit of a prick back then wasn’t I?” he said.

  “Just a bit,” Smith agreed, “you seem to be doing alright for yourself now. Leicester, Perth, Hong Kong, Bejing. Very impressive.”

  “We’re just about to crack Canada too,” Whitey said, “we tried to get into America but those sepos are so full of shit.”

  “Sepos?” Smith asked.

  “Septic Tanks, Yanks. You’ve been away from home too long.”

  “York’s my home now.” Smith corrected him.

  “So what does Jason Smith do in York? I believe the surfing’s not too hot there.”

  “I’m a Policeman,” Smith said, “Detective Sergeant and I love York.”

  “A Policeman?” Whitey was amused. “I never would’ve had you pegged for a cop,” he said.

  “I studied law for a while but that’s another story,” Smith said, “why did you come looking for me and how did you find me?”

  “I thought you were the detective,” Whitey joked, “come over here, I want to show you something.” He pointed to his computer.

  “Unfortunately you have a real pain of a name,” he began, “You can’t just punch in Jason Smith on the Google search engine; you’ll get a million hits but you can narrow it down.”

  Smith was confused.

  “I don’t get it,” he said.

  “Ok,” Whitey said, “what do we have? Jason Smith, Australian, York, Guitarist.”

  He pressed the enter key and a familiar sight appeared on the screen.

  “The Deep Blues Club,” Smith was amazed, “they’ve got reviews on here.”

  “Yes my friend,” Whitey smiled, “you’re famous.”

  “But how did you know I’d be there on New Years Eve?” Smith asked.

  “For a copper, you’re pretty naïve,” Whitey said, “I’m a business man which means I basically bullshit for a living. I phoned the club, pretended I liked your style and asked them when you’d be playing next.”

  “As simple as that?”

  “As simple as that.”

  “But why?” Smith asked, “It’s been ten years.”

  Whitey took out a packet of cigarettes.

  “Smoke?” he said.

  “No thanks,” Smith replied.

  “Probably for the best.”

  Whitey lit a cigarette, inhaled and coughed loudly.

  “Listen Smith,” he said, “are you sure you want to know what became of your sister?”

  “I came all this way didn’t I?” Smith replied, “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Mortality,” Whitey sighed.

  “Mortality?” Smith repeated.

  “When you realise the extent of your own mortality you do strange things. Your brain triggers off emotions you never thought existed.”

  “You’re not making much sense Whitey,” Smith said.

  “A conscience is a very destructive thing Smith. I’m a very rich man. I have land in China and Hong Kong that is worth more than most people earn in twenty lifetimes. It hasn’t been handed to me on a plate though; I’ve built up an exporting empire through lying, cheating, scheming and crushing anyone who got in my way. But at what cost? What cost Smith?”

  “You’re dying aren’t you?”

  “Now the Detective is showing his face, well done. I have lung cancer; I’ve known for some time but now it’s too late.”

  Smith did not know what to say.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “You can get treatment for it.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Whitey said, “and besides, I don’t want to be treated. You sound like my doctor. I’ve accepted my fate but this new found conscience is eating away at me more than the cancer. My affairs are in order; Lucy will be a very rich woman when I go.”

  “Lucy?” Smith exclaimed, “You married Lucy McClean?”

  “Lucy left me five years ago,” Whitey sighed, “we never quite got around to getting a divorce. I was trying to make enough money so we could have a nice life together. It’s the cruellest of ironies, the more money I made, the more she despised me. Lucy was the one who told me I was going to work myself into an early grave; clever woman that one.”

  “I’m sorry to hear all this,” Smith said, “but what about my sister? What really happened to Laura?”

  “Listen to me,” Whitey said, “I used to see self pity as a weakness. I hope you’re ready. You’re going to find this hard to take in but let’s go back to that day on the beach in ninety eight.”