Sunshine Meadows Read online



  SUNSHINE MEADOWS

  by

  Pete Rossi

  SUNSHINE MEADOWS

  Copyright 2011 by Pete Rossi

  Once again, my mate Derek is on hand to proof read and correct as appropriate. Cheers, mate.

  Contents

  Sunshine Meadows

  Crime doesn't pay. Or does it?

  If you can't afford to buy something, you can just go and steal it, can't you? You'll probably get away with it. Unless you are really unlucky. Then you'll have to live with the consequences, whatever they may be.

  This is the tale of a robbery gone wrong.

  Jen lives right in the middle of a massive run down council estate with her fifteen year old son. For years, she has dreamed of leaving for a better life, but simply doesn’t have the money to do so. Until she wins the lottery, that is. But will that win be the start of good or bad luck?

  Sunshine Meadows

  When you hear the name "Sunshine Meadows", what image is conjured up in your mind? Fields of corn, shining golden in the morning sunlight as you speed by on an express train, maybe. Or perhaps the image of lambs, frolicking in a field, jumping for joy, chasing each other without a care in the world. Or it could be a barn owl, flying majestically through the sky at the dead of night, sleek and graceful, searching for its next meal with its piercing yellow eyes. Maybe a little field mouse, with his eyes darting, rushing back home to his burrow and safety.

  What it probably doesn’t bring to mind is a council estate in a grimy town in the north of England. However, Sunshine Meadows is the name that was chosen many years ago. The estate contains row after row of identical terraced streets, dating from the 1930s, followed by street after street of identical semi-detached houses built shortly after the second World War, and finally, the crowning achievement, three high rise tower blocks from the 1960s.

  Around half of the houses in Sunshine Meadows are empty now. Most of the residents, like the meadows themselves, are long gone. The only wildlife you will see when passing through now, hopefully in the safety and warmth of your own car, are rats, and if you’re extremely lucky, maybe a fox or two, scavenging from the litter that is strewn about everywhere.

  You won't be surprised to hear that crime is a serious problem, encouraged by the empty houses. In an attempt to keep the resourceful youths out, council workers have started to wait outside each house for the last tenants to depart, checking watches and smoking, before making each house secure. Electricity and gas is shut off straight away, 'Gas Off' scrawled on the façade. Originally, windows were boarded up and additional padlocks were added to the doors, but this didn't prove to be anywhere near enough of a deterrent for the local youths. More recently, the workers have taken to welding metal shutters over all possible entrances and exits, on doors and windows, on the ground floor and higher, but even this has not proved a good enough obstacle. All appliances that can be removed are, but this doesn't cover everything. Valuable copper piping remains, cast iron radiators in each room, far too much of a temptation for the local youths who can easily sell them to scrap dealers for a little extra cash. Every new method to secure the houses is defeated within hours - it's like a game to them.

  The locals current favourite entry method involves scaling the wall of the house using a ladder and is usually carried out in the dead of night. The ladders are climbed, roof tiles are then ripped off and thrown down onto the street below to make a hole big enough to climb through. It's reached an epidemic, almost like a little cottage industry - get in, get as much as you can and get out. Be done in half an hour and move on to the next house. They stand little chance of being caught.

  Street lamps that work are rare. Those that are still functioning are often smashed before entry is made into a house. The police have long since decided that they are better off staying out of the area unless they come in large numbers, and even if they do come, there is little they can do. Tiles rain down onto the officers and their vehicles.

  The houses that are still occupied are coming to the end of their useful lives. The terraced ones were well built, but have suffered generations of abuse by uncaring tenants. The war time semis, not built to the same standards, are in poor condition, with many becoming damp, and others starting to subside.

  But it is the tower blocks that are in the worst condition of all. Built on the cheap, with substandard materials. Heralded as being the future, they will be pulled down soon, and that is all they deserve. Graffiti covers both the inside and outside. The lifts rarely work. Glass from broken bottles litters the stinking urine stained corridors. A number of arson attempts have taken place, with bottles flung throw the windows of some of the flats on lower levels.

  The small shopping precinct located below the flats had thrived initially, but only a single shop remains open now. The others still stand, many gutted. The newsagent, open from six in the morning till midnight is still well supported, and well defended. The owner keeps a baseball bat behind the counter, just in case. It regularly sees action.

  Only a single pub remains on the estate as well. The Duke of York has survived eighty years, and opened its doors for every single day, all through the war - bar a forced one month closure when a rare police raid had occurred at exactly the same time as a particularly large drug deal was going down. The three days of rioting that followed ripped the heart out of the dying community.

  Sitting in the middle of all this, at home with her teenage son in one of the damp semi detached houses, was Jen. She was relaxed on the sofa after a long day job hunting. Jen was a single mother, the father of her son disappearing as soon as he found out she was pregnant, aged only fifteen, never to be heard from again.

  Born and bred on the estate, Jen wanted nothing more than to leave. As soon as possible. Her education had come to an abrupt halt with the arrival of her son, Ben. At thirty two, standing five foot four inches tall, she had a good heart, unlike many on the estate, and hadn't given up on life. She was determined to bring better times for herself and her son. Still, she had her vices, and the money she receives on benefits is regularly frittered away on cigarettes and alcohol.

  Single mothers are common on the estate. A child living with a father, especially his own, is the exception rather than the rule. The school, as you may imagine, is not a paragon of learning. The students have never known anything outside the estate, so didn't aspire to better themselves. Ben would be lucky to get 2 GCSE's when they came up for him at the end of the year. Most students would leave with none.

  Jobs were hard to come by. Money was tight. Christmas and birthday presents were usually small and, in bad years, nonexistent.

  At least Ben was home with Jen tonight, listening to music on his iPod rather than hanging out with his no-good mates outside the newsagent, pestering any adult who walked past by asking them to go in and get them some cans.

  The lottery was another of Jen's vices. The idea of spending twenty or thirty pounds on lottery tickets was too hard to resist when the prize could be several million pounds and their ticket off the estate to a better life. As the draw time approached, she walked over to the hulking great CRT in the corner of the room, the remote long since vanished, and changed channels.

  ***

  "Welcome to the midweek lottery draw. Let's get straight down to business. First out of the lottery machine tonight is 24. That's ball 24," said the draw master, his voice high with fake excitement. One matching number for Jen.

  "Next up is 37. First time that one has been drawn out in a month." Two numbers out, two numbers matched. A good start.

  "And which ball is next out in our midweek draw tonight? It's number 8. And next up, it's 25."

  "We've got four, all four so far," screeched Jen. "Just two more numbers and I'l
l have eight million quid. Just think what I could do with that, son. We'll be out of this council estate faster than Linford Christie."

  "And next out," the announcer continued, maintaining his fake enthusiasm in front of a cheering audience, "is 11. That was drawn last week as well."

  "Five! Five! We've got five numbers. Just one more!" Jen shouted to her son Ben, her voice raised another octave. Ben still sat hooked into his iPod, barely paying attention. That had appeared one day, presumably taken from a weaker child at a neighbouring school. Sometimes best not to ask where things have come from. "Come on!" she shouted.

  Jen held her breath. Clasped her hands together. Crossed her fingers. Ben just sat there, still listening to his music. Ben was fifteen, a typical teenage boy, interested in the things that most teenage boys are, namely football, hanging around with his gang, getting as much alcohol as possible, and trying to get as many teenage girls panties down as possible.

  "And the next ball, the last of our six before the bonus ball is forty seven."

  "Oh, bollocks," Jen exclaimed. "One frigging number off. Forty eight, I have. Forty eight. Can't believe it."

  "Not over, mom. Bonus ball." Ben obviously was paying attention as money was involved.

  "And for you lucky people who have five matching numbers, you need the bonus ball for a much bigger prize. And it is," the announcer said, pausing as though he was ready to announce the next contestant to be voted off X-factor, “is twenty nine."

  "Oh, god, don't believe it. One out again!" Jen grabbed a cigarette from a nearly empty pack and lit it. Would have thrown the remote control at the TV if it had still had one.

  "Mom, don't sweat," Ben said. "Still won something."

  "Wonder how much? If you want me, I'll be in the pub with Caz and Ange." She stormed out of the room.

  ***

  Jen liked a good girls' night out, and Wednesday was ladies night at the Duke of York. She much preferred spending the night with her mates than stuck at home in front of the TV, with no man and a son to worry over. That was the reason they still had a fifteen year old hulking grey monster in the corner of the living room instead of a 60 inch flat screen HD TV like the rest of the houses on the street.

  Yes, she enjoyed an evening with her girlfriends, steadily getting more and more pissed on cheap booze. The worst thing was that they had to go outside every time they fancied a smoke. And it always made sense to go the pub with her mates - after dark, you didn't want to be out alone around here. Always safety in numbers.

  "Girls, won the lottery," she told her mates.

  "How much?" Caz asked her.

  "Don't know, but I got five numbers. Only one out on the bonus ball as well."

  "Can I borrow a grand?" Caz asked, joking.

  Loud mouthed Ange, already well on the way to getting hammered at barely half past nine, shouted, "drinks on Jen tonight for all. She's won the lottery." Cue a rush to the bar.

  "I reckon it's about ten grand," Jen replied. "I'd have liked more, then I could be gone from here."

  "More like twenty," Ange said as she headed over to get another round to go on Jen's tab, pushing her way through the growing queue.

  "Think it could even be thirty or forty," Caz said. "If it's eight million for six numbers, it's going to be thirty grand at least for five, surely."

  "What you gonna spend it on?" Ange asked as she came back with three pints.

  "It'll keep me in fags and booze for a couple of weeks," Jen joked, "but I'm going to get Ben something. It's his birthday tomorrow."

  "What you getting him?"

  "Thought I'd get him a nice new TV and then Sky Plus. The one we've got is knackered. I'm fed up of getting up to change channels. Might keep him in on an evening."

  "Here, my husband can get a nice TV for you. Hundred quid, no questions asked. Interested?" Ange said.

  "I would, Ange," Jen replied. "Thanks for the offer." She wasn't averse to getting knocked off kit every now and then. It's stupid to spend money when you can get the same item for a tenth of the price from someone down the pub. "But for once, while I've got some money, I'll buy something legit."

  "Caz," she asked, "can I come round to your house and order one off Amazon on your computer. I need it tomorrow before Ben gets home from school."

  "Sure. My other half can fit the dish for you," Caz replied back. "I'll send him round soon as it arrives."

  "Cheers Caz."

  "You'll have to hide the adult channels or he'll have half the school in his bedroom watching Babestation."

  "Not worried about that. He's fifteen. Probably screwed half the slut girls in his class already. I'd rather have him at home getting off on Babe channels than with his mates outside the newsagent."

  "Has he had any more trouble with the police then? Since last time?" Ange enquired.

  Jen shook her head. "Not yet. Not since that crash he was in last year in that nicked car. The crash and the bollocking I gave him afterwards seemed to work. He couldn't sit down for a week. I'm worried he's slowly drifting back into bad habits again."

  They chatted and drunk for another hour or so, shouting to each other, when the karaoke started.

  "We ready to go home yet? It's getting late," Caz said to the girls later.

  "Just time for a few more, then we'll all walk home together."

  ***

  At half past ten, the girls had smoked their way through several packets of cheap fags, drank their way through several bottles of wine, knocked back quite a few beers each, murdered a few songs, and were ready to head home.

  They left the pub, crunching through the broken glass in the car park. No cars ever parked in here. If you parked here and were very lucky, all you'd get is a puncture. If you had less luck, you would come back to a car with no wheels, smashed windows and the CD player ripped out. Or worst of all, come back to no car. Jen had a suspicion that Ben's joyride had started in this very car park, and although he had never told her, she was right.

  The wind was cold, but wearing a coat was seen as a weakness, so the girls hugged themselves to keep warm as they walked home, their tiny skirts cut maybe an inch below their buttocks providing little cover from the elements.

  They crossed the road, past the phone box that hadn't worked in years and would probably never work again, past a couple arguing with their windows open about who had been caught screwing who, and then past a couple of six year old kids demolishing a fence to gather wood for bonfire night. Long past the bedtime of a normal six year old, but you didn’t find normal six year olds on this estate.

  They passed boarded up houses, houses with half the roof tiles missing, most shattered lying in the middle of the road from a raid the previous night, past the burned out hulks of old cars. Past mountains of decaying rubbish lying outside the newsagent, a large brown rat making a dash across the road in front of them with half a burger in its mouth.

  The girls got a few wolf whistles as usual, Caz giving the finger to anyone who dared to whistle at her. A car flashed past without lights, five teenage boys squashed inside, the radio at a deafening level, the horn blaring as they shot around the corner. Ange lifted up her top and flashed her breasts at them which brought a large cheer that could be heard over the radio as they went by.

  Don't do that. It just encourages them, thought Jen.

  "Bet that's nicked," Caz said.

  "Course it is," Jen replied. "Least Ben wasn't in it. I think."

  They reached the end of their street, the street name sign defaced with obscenities, and Jen and Caz walked off one way, Ange the other. Nobody would dare tackle Ange alone.

  Caz lived next door to Jen, Jen in the left half of the semi and Caz, husband and six noisy children in the right. Jen breathed a sigh of relief. "Got back safe again. Thank God."

  Caz got her key from under a flower pot. No room for a pocket in her figure hugging top and certainly not in her skirt. She thought underwear spoilt the look as well.

  She jammed the key in t
he lock, twisted it, gave the door a good kick, leaving a muddy footprint on the white PVC. A second kick sent the door flying backward, smashing into the wall, taking out a lump of plaster, and they were in.

  Caz walked in to the living room. Her husband, Don, was sat in front of the TV, watching Shameless. This place is just like that, Jen thought. Don held his can of lager up to Jen as she came in. All the greeting she was going to get. Either that, or he was asking her to get another one for him.

  The girls walked upstairs to Caz and Don's ramshackle bedroom. The computer was on. It was a top of the range iMac, and had apparently ‘fallen off the back of a lorry’ a couple of months ago. That was Don's excuse when he arrived back with it one day anyway.

  The huge monitor was still showing the last website that Don had been on. "I'll kill him, the perving bastard," Caz said. "Look what he's been looking at." The monitor was showing a picture of two young girls playing with themselves in the bath. "You're disgusting you are," she shouted down the stairs.

  The iMac stood out in the room. It didn't go well with the tatty decor and stained bed sheets, it was blindingly obvious the computer had not been bought and paid for legitimately.

  Caz grabbed the mouse and navigated to the Amazon website. The girls spent ten minutes or so going through the huge range of TVs they had on display.

  "I'm so shit with technology. Do you know what's good and what isn't?" Jen asked.

  "You don't need to know. Just look for what has the most five star reviews. How much are you going to spend Jen?"

  "I don't know. A grand maybe?"

  Caz's eldest daughter, Beth, popped her head in the door. She was eighteen and just out of the shower. She had a pink towel wrapped around her head, another wrapped round her ample figure. She was getting ready for a night out on the town. "You need to get Full HD, mum," she said. "As big as you can."

  Another one of Caz's offspring, her eldest son, Harvey, bounded up the stairs and straight in to the room. He hadn't realised the three girls were in there. He looked up, his face a picture when he realised they were using the computer. "I was just..." he said