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  Austerity Street is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental/fictitious.

  Table of Contents

  Whitmore House

  Ground Floor - Number 3

  Second loor - Number 29

  Third Floor - Number 40

  Tenth Floor - Number 93

  Twelfth Floor - Number 113

  The Food Bank - George Street

  Tenth Floor - Number 93

  Whitmore House

  About The Author

  Whitmore House

  PEOPLE say there used to be a rose garden on the spot where The Farm juts out of the ground and stretches like an enormous concrete weed into the clouds. There are no flowers now, not even the odd window box, nor so much as a blade of grass. Where delicate blooms once attracted admiration and filled the air with a fragrant scent lie the spoils of the mindless and the broken. Faded sweet wrappers, shards of glass, nasty reminders of addiction and chunks of broken, old furniture have sprouted in their place.

  Nobody cares about Whitmore House. Not anymore. The gigantic block of neglected greyness and its miserable black shadow have snuffed the heart out of the North London space it dominates. It was reported in The Chronicle newspaper that a rainbow arched over the tower block the day after its first tenants moved in. But, in the thirty years since, such a spectacle has never been witnessed again. Those who eagerly turn keys in locks to a new home at The Farm never find a pot of gold - nor a sense of belonging. Not here.

  Sometimes, mostly just after dawn, the sun casts a glimmering sheen on the tower’s upper four floors. Then, from a distance, The Farm doesn’t look that bad. But, of course, it is. Even on the most shimmering days, it could never be likened to the glistening towers of Canary Wharf or Kensington. Grime-encrusted windows ensure the effects of any glorious weather never penetrate the glass. The greyness that is so stark on the outside is just as potent within; as if every day in Islington brings rain.

  Only the authorities call Whitmore House by its proper name. To everyone else, it is The Farm. It’s been called The Farm for as long as most people who live here can remember. And the name is not derogatory to tenants. It is a reference to the small boxes that pen them in, one on top of the other for fourteen floors.

  People here have a sense of what it is like to be a battery hen or cows herded into a tight milking chamber. They feel like animals; caged animals. Or brine-soaked sardines, lined up and wedged between metal in a tiny tin.

  From the third floor up, eyes that peer down can spy another kind of life - one that is beyond reach. From their depressing vantage point, prisoners of The Farm can see the rich snapping up swanky flats in apartment buildings that have sprung up where council blocks have been torn down. Top-of-the-range motors are lined up in neatly manicured parking bays and, to the left, new restaurants and bars cater only for those with cash to splash. In this up-and-coming part of the City, the underprivileged are being displaced to make way for the fat cats who have no qualms about feeding off the misfortune of others.

  People who live in The Farm can’t afford to dream. They are too busy trying to survive. They are here, trapped in deprivation, because they have no choice. And, while they all look different, they are the same…

  Everyone is poor.

  Ground Floor - Number 3

  Jacob Barnes didn’t have time to think. The ice cold air that crushed his lungs every time he took a breath told him to hurry up.

  ‘Have you done it yet?’ a rushed voice whispered out of the darkness behind him.

  He couldn’t stop but wished he had a moment to pull himself away from the door and blow warm air onto his puffy, red hands. He longed for a pair of thick, woolly gloves. Cheap and cheerful Primark ones would do. Anything that could lessen the rawness dealt by a biting January chill.

  ‘Nearly,’ he whispered back. ‘Just one more… Done it!’

  Jacob stood up straight and turned sharply to face a young male with a hood pulled loosely around his face. The paring knife he had used to jemmy the lock glinted under a faltering light for a fraction of a second before he slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘You first,’ he said.

  The lanky youth hesitated. ‘You’re sure the old dear is in hospital?’

  ‘Yes, she’s been gone for weeks. Trust me,’ Jacob assured him. ‘Come on, Davey, what are you waiting for? I’ve done all the hard work.’

  Davey Bennett didn’t trust many people, but he knew he could always rely on Jacob. They’d been ducking and diving the law for months and never once registered so much as a blip on the radar. He had no reason to believe that their little foray tonight was going to be any different.

  Twenty years ago, they would have been termed ‘latchkey kids’; teenagers left to their own devices and neglected by inadequate parents who were never around. Today, if they got caught, they would be deemed criminals - not victims of poor parenting and malnourishment.

  They knew it, too. Once or twice, they’d talked about ‘maybe being better off’ in a detention centre or foster care. But, it seemed, the long arm of the law wasn’t quite long enough, or adequately resourced, to reach them. Sometimes, though, the thought of being in a cell with a hot drink and a warm blanket was more appealing than going home. It was only the fear of suffering brutality at the hands of their peers in a young offenders’ institution that forced both to keep their wits about them.

  ‘Give us your torch,’ said Davey. ‘I can’t see where I’m going.’

  Jacob pressed a pen light into his hand as he followed him into the pitch black flat and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Christ, it’s like a fridge in here. And it stinks,’ said Davey. ‘I’m not eating anything unless it comes out of a tin.’

  ‘Old dears always have loads of tinned food,’ Jacob assured him. ‘They stockpile it, don’t they? Force of habit from the war years. If she’s anything like my gran was, we’ll be spoilt for choice.’

  ‘As long as it’s not all Spam, lol.’

  ‘Don’t even joke about it,’ Jacob said, tapping Davey on the shoulder and making him jump. ‘The kitchen’s through there. I’m starving.’

  The last time solid food passed his lips was the day before last. That was when he saw Charlie Brookes, a boy from Floor Nine, throw two perfectly good sandwiches in a bin because ‘cheese is disgusting’. He fished the discarded brown bread, stuck to sliced, processed cheddar with a super thin layer of sunflower spread, and stuffed it down his throat before Charlie had made it down to Floor Eight.

  Nobody seemed to notice that a once strapping lad was wasting away. The only reason his trousers stayed up was because they were trackies. His sunken cheeks and wan complexion should have been a dead give-away, but nobody cared enough to ask questions. They just assumed he was on drugs.

  ‘Draw the curtains,’ Davey said. ‘I’m going to put the light on. We won’t be in here long. We’ll just take what we can carry.’

  He cast a thin beam of light around the room until it picked out a socket on a wall. Jacob crept away from him and flipped the switch, before darting back to his side.

  ‘Shit! She must be back,’ Jacob gasped, immediately spotting a carrier bag bulging with groceries on a dusty kitchen table.

  ‘Grab it,’ Davey told him. ‘Take it. Let’s get out of here.’


  Jacob snatched the bag, which was lighter than he had anticipated, and braced himself for a sprint to the front door. The last thing he wanted was to give an old woman a heart attack - or get nicked for burglary. He just wanted something to eat.

  ‘What was that?’ Davey whispered, reaching out and grabbing hold of Jacob’s arm before he could inch towards the hallway.

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘That noise…I heard something.’

  Jacob shrugged Davey’s hand away. ‘I didn’t hear anything. Come on, let’s go before she wakes up.’

  ‘Stop! I heard it again.’

  This time, Jacob heard it too. It sounded like two, heavy feet hitting a hard floor.

  ‘Run!’ he shouted.

  Davey dropped the pen light as he rushed towards the kitchen door and knew he didn’t have time to turn around and retrieve it.

  Determined not to let go of the carrier bag, Jacob stuffed it under his puffa jacket and followed Davey into the hall. He could almost taste the food nestled against his skin and his mouth watered at the thought of being just moments away from a feast. It was as though nutrients were already finding a way into his body.

  They’d get away from the flat and do what they always did, he was telling himself. Soon they would be sitting in a stairwell on the Thirteenth Floor, one of the places they were least likely to be disturbed, filling their bellies.

  ‘Oi!’

  A silhouette of someone tall and stocky appeared from a room just inside the front door and blocked their path. The enormous shadow that encompassed them reeked of anger. They instinctively knew it was not an old woman, but a well-built man.

  ‘Get out!’ a deep voice bellowed as the menacing blackness moved slowly towards them.

  Davey opened the door closest to them, figuring he could find a window to climb out of, and Jacob followed.

  ‘No! Don’t go in there!’ the profound voice screamed after them.

  Too late. The rancid, gut-wrenching stench that hit them in the face was like nothing they had ever encountered before. It was worse than weird. A hundred times more nauseating than gone off milk. A million times more stomach churning than stinky fish.

  It smelled like rotting flesh.

  ‘God, what is that smell? I can’t breathe,’ Jacob gasped, clasping a hand to his mouth as he tried to feel his way around the room in the dark.

  ‘I can’t see a fucking thing,’ Davey shouted, tripping over a bedside table and finding himself on the floor with a lamp in his lap.

  He nervously fumbled for a switch, knowing he’d have to risk being recognised in order to escape. His hands trembled as they furiously caressed the base of the lamp, searching for something to press.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Where are you?’ Jacob called out, fear etched into the sound of his voice.

  Davey sighed. I’ve found it!

  ‘I’m here.’

  The yellow glow of an old light-bulb illuminated Jacob’s relief. ‘Come on,’ he said, nodding towards a window.

  ‘I said, get out! Get out!’

  The silhouette was in the doorway, seemingly hesitant to enter the room. A man of that stature could have caught up with the scrawny teens before they had even opened the door, but something had held him back.

  ‘Get out - and don’t come back!’ he shouted after the intruders.

  Davey was on his feet, adrenaline pumping through his veins to every part of his body - except his legs. He was paralysed by fear, the realisation of the danger he had unwittingly placed himself in hitting home hard. He could do nothing apart from allow his eyes to dart around the room. His blurred vision bounced off faded, orange wallpaper, ancient, dark wood furniture and threadbare carpet before focusing on a sight he instantly knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  The same hideous image simultaneously struck Jacob. He backed away from the repugnant, decomposing corpse on the bed and found himself trapped in a corner.

  ‘What is it?’ Davey cried out, turning his head away from the horror. ‘Is it her?’

  Jacob buried his face in his hands as his body flopped to a crouching position. ‘Jesus Christ, say this is a nightmare,’ he whispered. ‘Please, don’t let this be real. It can’t be real.’

  ‘I told you not to go in there,’ the man said, showing himself for the first time.

  Through gaps between his fingers, Jacob chanced a look in the man’s direction. There was something familiar about the voice, he thought. He’d heard it before. Many times.

  ‘Mr Turner!’ he gasped, dropping his hands to his side. ‘You haven't…?’

  ‘Haven’t what, Jacob Barnes?’

  ‘Murdered that old lady? I mean, she is dead. Isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s practically slime, boy. Of course, she’s dead. Now, get out of there.’

  He sounded impatient when he did his best to coax the burglars out of the room with pleading assurances. ‘I am not going to hurt you,’ he said. ‘You know me. You both know me. I wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  If anyone else was saying that to Jacob Barnes, he wouldn’t have believed it. He was too smart to fall for a confidence trick. His sharpness had kept him away from gangs that commanded the lower stairwells at all hours of the day and night. He was determined he would never swell their ranks. But, Mr Turner? He was always so... so nice. Nobody had a bad word to say about him.

  Well, nobody apart from his ex-wife. But, then, she would. She couldn’t be nice about a man she’d cheated on and treated like a mug for years. She had to justify leaving him. Didn’t she?

  ‘Come on, boys. Give me a break…’

  Jacob glanced over at Davey, who was frozen with fear.

  ‘Davey! Snap out of it,’ he called over. ‘Come on, let’s go. Mr Turner isn’t going to hurt us.’

  ‘You’re definitely not going to kill us?’ Davey whimpered. ‘You are going to let us leave this flat, aren’t you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Of course, I’ll let you go - but not before I’ve explained what has happened here. Just so you don’t go jumping to the wrong conclusions.’

  Jacob and Davey exchanged a knowing glance before nodding and joining David Turner in the hallway.

  ‘See, I am not going to hurt you,’ he said, closing the bedroom door. ‘She was already dead when I found her.’

  ‘Are you going to call for help?’ Davey asked, sounding ridiculously stupid.

  ‘She’s been dead for yonks, you idiot,’ Jacob said. ‘He can’t call for help now. She’s well beyond help.’

  ‘Come in here, you two.’

  David Turner ushered his uninvited guests back into the kitchen where just minutes before they were helping themselves to his shopping.

  ‘Give back my food, and we’ll share it. You both look like you need a decent meal inside you. I’ll explain everything.’

  With the putrid stench of death hanging heavy in the air, Jacob couldn’t face the spread of sausage rolls, crisps and chocolate. It was surreal; macabre. He was hungry, but not that hungry. What he had seen in the room opposite had wiped out the pain of starvation and replaced it with an overwhelming desire to vomit.

  Grey, sunken flesh still clung to the old woman’s bones, and it had a green tinge. She must have died in her sleep, he was thinking. She couldn’t have known it was coming. He could still see her face, her eyes wide open. As if she had woken up and realised at the very last moment that she was about to draw her final breath. Her long, grey hair, clearly combed before she unknowingly climbed into her own tomb, lay spread like an electrified fan across the pillow that supported her rotting head.

  It was a sight he wished he had never seen, because he knew he would remember it for the rest of his life. It would haunt him into adulthood and through to old age. It would always be there, in the back of his mind.

  ‘Take some for later,’ David said, gesturing Jacob to help himself to some food.

  He managed to stuff two packets of Quavers in one pocket and a sausage roll in another. He was
on auto pilot. If he had been thinking straight, he would have taken two sausage rolls and a Wispa bar. He didn’t, because his mind was still in the room across the hall.

  Davey half-heartedly nibbled the corner of a crisp, its light, porous construction melting in the heat of his saliva. He thought he was going to throw up at any second, the tangy flavour nudging nausea closer and closer to an urge, but was too bothered by what he had witnessed to chance a confrontation with his host. He took what he was offered, determined to play along until he could get away.

  ‘Like I say, she was dead when I found her,’ David said. ‘She’s the only person in the block who still has milk delivered. I mean, who has milk delivered in this day and age? Who can afford to, come to that?

  ‘When I noticed three pints outside her door, I thought she was away. You know, in hospital or a care home. Got the shock of my life when I came across her body.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for weeks,’ Jacob said. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘It was a month yesterday,’ David confessed.

  Davey spat out part dissolved pieces of soggy potato. ‘A month? You’ve been here, with a dead body, for a whole month?’

  ‘I haven’t got anywhere else to go,’ David said, shaking his head and silently cursing his own lack of empathy. ‘She was stiff as a board when I found her,’ he persisted. ‘There was nothing anyone could have done. I suppose, I’ll have to leave now. The smell is getting unbearable anyway. I thought it would lift after a week or two.’

  Jacob couldn’t understand what David was playing at. He looked straight at the pot-bellied excuse of a man opposite him. ‘You’ve got your own flat, David. You’ve lived there for years. On Floor Seven. Remember?’

  David shook his head nonchalantly and looked away. He remembered. ‘I used to have a flat,’ he said. ‘After Angela left me, I lost the plot. I couldn’t concentrate at work and ended up having a nervous breakdown. That bloody woman ruined me.

  ‘I couldn’t get benefits for three months, because the job centre said I’d left work of my own accord. The doctor was bloody useless. Wouldn’t so much as write me a note to say I was depressed. I was already behind with the rent and… Well, I got evicted.’