EXTRACT ONE

Bexx was feeling edgy. All the talk of what they were about to do with her benefits was winding her up something rotten. She had even started trying to watch the news. And she hated watching news. News was boring crap. News was posh bastards from London looking down their noses. But now all anyone seemed to be talking about was the bloody news. In the pub and at the Bingo and in the Spar shop. News, news, news. It was doing her head in.
She rummaged in her bag and pulled out the wherewithal for a spliff. Before starting to roll up, she snapped off the news and trawled the screen for something less boring. After 13 hops she landed on some American show where a tearful husband was getting it with both barrels from his wife and mother in law for shagging his secretary. More like it. Stuff the news.
The sound of somebody being cut in half by a machine gun was piling out of the front room where her two youngest sons were camped out on the Xbox.
“Switch it down you little bastards. I cannae hear myself think in here!”
Nothing.
Little sods.
She pulled herself up and stomped to the door. “Listen. You either switch that down or it goes away.”
“That’s shite Ma. It’s only good when it’s loud.”
“I don’t give a shit. Just switch it down or I’ll batter the pair of you.”
Two resentful turned backs. A finger on the remote. An easing of the volume. Better.
She resumed her seat at the kitchen table, lit up and inhaled. Nice. That Donny Baldini was a proper little Dago git but he didn’t half punt some decent weed. The adulterous husband was now crying his eyes out and the studio audience were baying for his blood. Soft prat. Served him bloody well right. They should pin him down and let his missus kick him in the bollocks, so they should.
A tap at the back door.
“Who is it!”
‘Alright Bexx. It’s Sponge.”
Sponge the Junkie. They had been in High School together. Back then he had been a skinny nerd who was big into trance dance. Then he had walked the familiar Rollereton road from dope to eckies to smack. Pondlife, but useful pondlife. She opened up the door to find him looking like a drowned rat in his charity shop anorak. How old was he? Same age as she was, duh. Thirty one and he looked sixty. A bag of shivering bones with the stump brown teeth that only a decade of methadone could bring. Not that she had any great room to talk. When he had once been a speccy nerd, she had been blessed with big tits and a small waist. No shortage of dates back then. It had been her golden era. They had beaten a path to her door in their baseball caps and pimped up little cars. Her first ween had thickened her waist and numbers two, three and four had turned her to blubber. Now she tipped the scales at fourteen stones and gave the mirror a wide birth. When Darren, her eldest at thirteen, threw a wobbly because she wouldn’t give him a fiver to go out, he would get in her face and call her a sad, fat cow. She couldn’t argue really. Not that she gave a shite. There were still plenty of Friday night blokes eager enough to jump on board given half the chance.
“You alright Bexx, yeah?” Wheedling little bastard.
“Aye. I’m right enough.”
“Any chance of a wee cup of tea like? Freezing my bollocks off here like.”
“Go on then. In you come.”
He hunched himself onto one of the chairs and eyed her glowing joint greedily. “Any chance of a wee toke like?”
“Piss off. How many sugars?”
“Four please Bexx. You’re a bloody star like.”
She plonked a mug in front of him and spilt a bit on the stained table top.
“What you got then?”
He took a slurp whilst managing to wolf down a digestive at the same time which meant he spat some soggy crumbs as he spoke. Items started to emerge from his carrier bag.
“Got some sausages. Couple of packs of bacon. And gammon. Nice bit of gammon. Lovely like. Fiver the lot, right?”
“Fiver! You mad or something? Two quid. Take it or leave it.”
“Two quid. Ah come on Bexx. Two quid’s shite.”
“Two quid’s all your getting. I’ve heard nobody’s buying much. Everyone’s saving in case they get kicked out next month.”
His grey face creased into an expression of concern. “You dunnae think they’ll really do it do you Bexx? Kick us all oot like?”
“Will they hell. It’s just the usual politician shite.”
“Aye. S’ppose. You cannae manage three quid?”
“Two and count yourself lucky.”
“Aye alright then.” He pocketed two pound coins and pondered the long hours of frantic shop lifting that lay ahead before he could get himself a tenner bag.
“I’ll be off then.”
She ignored him, lost in the dope and the next televised victim from America.
More infidelity. More screaming accusations. More baying for blood from the studio audience. Her brain slowly dissolved into joints three and four to such an extent that she barely noticed a return to full volume in the front room.
However it was not an entirely contented fog. The cannabis was unable to remove the shiver of unease that had settled on her in the days following that jumped up pratt Pendleton appearing on the tele. Everyone seemed worried about it. And now even Sponge was worrying. Some of the women in the Spar seemed to really believe that everyone was about to get their money stopped. Not just some of it, all of it. And not just that. They were going to have to pay their own rent too. It was ridiculous. How was she going to manage to pay rent with four weens and that? Anyway, she was sick. Her doctor agreed. Every month he signed her off and doled out the Prozac and the Valium. There was no way they would be allowed to take money off a sick woman with four weens. Somebody would put a stop to it. Obviously they would.
Slowly her soggy brain registered more knocking at the back door. Christ. Like Hyde Park bloody corner. Probably Sponge back from another round of thieving. But it wasn’t Sponge. It was Sheena and the reporter bloke from London.
“Hi Bexx. Got a minute?”
“Aye, hen. Come on in. Just watching tele so I am. Want a cuppa?”
They took seats at the kitchen table where a half smoked joint smouldered in an ashtray. Bexx was all slow motion as she did the honours with the tea, finding it hard to remember where the sugar was even though it had been in the same place for ten years. “Have a toke if you want Sheena hen.”
“No thanks. All done with that now.”
“What? Even a spliff like?”
“Done with all of it hen.”
“What about you? Like a toke do you? Sorry. Cannae remember your name”
Jason smiled and shook his head. “It’s Jason. Once upon a time. Now the problem is that it would get me writing even worse shite than usual.”
Bexx shrugged, somewhat confused. It wasn’t like it was smack or anything. She deposited mugs in front of her guests and started the job of working her way through a pack of Maryland chocolate cookies that she had picked up the day before as part of a £2 carrier bag deal from Sponge.
“So Jason. What do you make of all this nae money shite they’ll all talking about?”
“That’s why we called actually. To get your thoughts on things. See what your plans are?”
Bexx spat out a disgusted batch of crumbs. “Plans! How’s the likes of me going to make plans? I’ve got four weens to look after and I’m sick. I cannae make plans.”
“But you’re going to have to make some pretty big changes.”
“Like what?” The shiver of unease was back.
“Well, have you got any savings?”
“How do you mean?”
“Money put by. In the bank. A back stop for a rainy day.”
Another shower of amused crumbs. “You must be joking. How can the likes of me save money? I’m not some stuck up bitch with a fancy job. I’m trying to raise four weens here.”
“So no plans then?”
The warm glow of her three morning joints was all gone away. Instead, a gnawing, chewing paranoia wormed its way into her guts along with the Maryland cookies.
“What plans should I be making then?”
“Well I suppose the big question is whether or not you feel you might be able to get a job to pay the rent here. Or do you think you will all have to move into one of the dormitories?”
“A job! Are you kidding? How can I get a job? I’m sick. I’ve got four weens. I cannae manage a job with four weens. How am I supposed to do that then?”
Jason crashed fags around the table. “They announced yesterday that all schools will be open from eight until eight. Basically you can drop the kids early in the morning and they can be looked after for up to twelve hours. It frees you up to work.”
“But I’m sick. I get depression.”
“That will be up to you. You will need to weigh up what makes you most depressed. Working and being able to stay here, or killing time all day in one of the dorms.”
“So I’m supposed to sleep in a room full of Neds and junkies? And ma weens!”
“Actually no. They say there will be family rooms. You will all have a room of your own.”
“What, all five of us?”
Jason nodded.
“But they cannae do that.”
“They can do what they like. They are the Government.”
Now the paranoia was chewing through every inch of her. “So if we get nae money how are we supposed to eat?”
“The food station. They promise three hot meals a day to anyone who wants them.”
“And clothes and that for the weens?”
“Clothes banks.”
“I’m not dressing ma weens in any charity shop shite.”
“Actually I gather the childrens’ clothes will all be new. From Cambodia I think. They will double up as school uniform.”
“And what about me?”
“Hopefully you will have enough clothes to keep you going until you get a job.”
Suddenly it registered with Bexx that this wasn’t paranoia any more. This was real and it was coming and it was an almost unimaginable nightmare. Suddenly her brassy voice was much, much smaller.
“Why are they doing this to me? What the hell have I done?”
“They’re doing to everyone Bexx. Nobody has done anything. The country has just run out of money, that’s all.”
“But how can a country run out of money?”
“It happens. And it has happened to us. It is going to be a very different world I’m afraid.”
There were tears now. Helpless and desperate. She had been putting her head firmly in the sand at the Spar shop and down the pub. Playing the could’nae give a shite card. Playing the what a load of bollocks card. But now it dawned on her that there might not be too many more cards to play.
“So when’s all this going to happen?”
“You will get your last payments next week. They will give you a month’s notice on the house. Then you either find a job to pay the rent or you’ll have to go to the dormitory. Or move in with family of course. Or borrow from family.”
“Are you kidding? All of us are the same. We’ll all be in the poxy dormitory together. The whole of bastarding Greenfield will be there. Then what? Are they just going to leave all these houses empty to become shooting galleries or what?”
“Probably not. The new rent will be about £30 a week. The waiting lists are full of people who are working who have been wanting a house for years. They just have never managed to get enough points to be considered a priority. Most are still living with their parents or sharing flats in the town. Now they will easily be able to afford the rent and get a place of their own.”
“That’s not fair. What makes them so special? They don’t even have any weens or nothing.”
“It isn’t about fairness. It’s all down to money. They have jobs, they can afford the rent. Simple as that. It is how things are going to be from now on. Anyway, look. I have a draft of the article we talked about. I changed all your details like we discussed. I’m calling you Jen and saying you have five kids. Nobody will know it is you. Would you like to read it over?”
“No. Just so long nobody kens it’s me like. Did you come up with any cash?”
“I did. £300. Maybe it would be a good idea to put it to one side and use it pay up some advance rent. It will give you a couple of months to try and find something..”
“Aye. Maybe.” She counted the money twice and pocketed it.

THE VIEW FROM ROLLERTON
By special correspondent, Jason Marsh
JEN

‘Ever read any Jane Austin? Or Charlotte Bronte? Or Thomas Hardy? Maybe. Set text for an English lit ‘O’ Level? Whatever. Bet you’ve watched a mini series on the box. Assuming you have either seen or read, then you will be more than familiar with the story of one of the female characters in the story having a thoroughly good match arranged for her. You know the kind of thing. Squire Engleby is interested and he has 200 acres with good shooting and a settlement of a hundred guineas a year. A hard faced mother will bully her tearful daughter into the wedding despite her head over heels passion for a penniless cavalryman. This kind of thing once upon a time went all the way to the top as the royal houses of Europe inter-bred with each other to forge alliances and build territory. It is nothing new and it is isn’t all that long since it was the height of respectability. Daughters followed the same path as their mothers and grandmothers.
In a way, Jen is no different. She never knew her dad. He was a great unknown. A one night stand when her mum was seventeen. Jen was the middle one of three and there was no dad for any of them. Mum never worked. Instead she reared her brood care of the state. The family never went short. They were housed and there was always enough in the coffers for food and a house and clothes and nights out for mum and an occasional holiday in the sun. As Jen grew up she was never around anyone who actually worked. Instead the lessons she learned were how to max up on the many benefits on offer. She saw school work as a waste of time and her mum wasn’t about to disagree. Her raw intelligence ensured that she managed to learn to read and write reasonably well, but that was about it. She was generally considered to be a bonnie lass and there were always plenty of local lads eager to have their wicked way. Like mother like daughter, Jen first fell pregnant a few weeks after her sixteenth birthday. How did mum feel about this? Was she distraught that her daughter would be tied down by motherhood and unable to go to college and start a career? Not at all. Mum viewed her daughter’s young pregnancy in the same way that those Victorian matriarchs once viewed excellent matches with landowning squires.
Had Jen avoided getting pregnant where would she have been now? Maybe she would have a job in a supermarket or a high street shop. What would that bring in? Maybe £160 a week after tax. Maybe just about enough to pay the rent and council tax on a small flat, but that would not leave her a lot for herself. Instead Jen followed the family tradition and pursued a far more lucrative career. By the time she was twenty seven her brood had grown to five and the cash was rolling in. Right now she receives almost £400 a week. There is no tax and all of her rent and council tax tabs are all picked up. Best of all, there is no requirement for her to do so much as ten minutes of work to earn the cash for Jen is signed off sick with depression which spares her annoying visits to Job Centre Plus and gives her a comforting base of free prescription Valium and Prozac.
Jen makes her £400 a week go a long way. Sometimes she visits the local supermarket or Spar shop for provisions, but not often. Every day she receives home deliveries care of a helpful heroin user who we will call Rolo. Rolo receives shopping lists from Jen and he fills them accordingly. Jen pays him about a third of the marked price for what she buys. A £20 bag of stolen shopping will change hands for £6 or £7. It is a well established routine. Rolo gets the list, nicks the stuff, sells it to Jen and races round to the nearest dealer for the next tenner bag. Then the process repeats and repeats and repeats. Jen’s kids are dressed from head to toe in top end designer gear. They have fancy phones and every electrical goodie the market can offer and all of it has been supplied by the gallant Rolo at a third of cost. Not surprisingly there is always plenty of disposable income left over for treats. Jen works her way through an average of £40 of cannabis every week and goes out at least three nights. When she hits the town, she likes to dress up and live it large. An average night of double vodka and cokes, a club, a Chinese takeaway and a cab home will run to £60 or £70. So no problems there then.
Well, you all know what is coming next. In less than a week’s time the gravy train will be pulling clear of the station. Jen is about to see her income drop from £400 a week to zero. The good news is that the rent on her house is due to fall by over 50% to £30 a week. The bad news is that this will have absolutely no impact for Jen as she has never paid a penny of rent in her life. So what are her options? Well the obvious answer is to get out there and find a job in order to pay the rent and put food on the table for the family. If the job is only enough to cover the rent, then they can eat at the nearest feeding station. Will this happen? Well, Jen has never had a job and so the idea is rather alien and there will be ferocious competition for the few jobs Rollerton has to offer. I wouldn’t bet the mortgage on her finding anything. A much more likely outcome will see the whole family decamping to one of the family rooms in the nearest dormitory. No more designer clothes, no more takeaway food, no more living it large up the town, no more daily payments for Rolo. It is going to come as one hell of a shock to the system for Jen and all the hundreds and thousands of other Jens all over Britain. Life will bring new and demanding challenges – a long, hard rocky path to find work and enough money for a house of their own. Maybe she’ll make it, maybe not. How will she take it? I suppose we are all about to find out. Jen and her children are very used to a very comfortable standard of life and it is all about to be taken away. Will they meekly accept their family room, free meals and zero income? Or will they and many, many others lose the plot and hit the streets to burn the world down? We will all have to watch this space.’