Trevor strode across the dusty car park into the site office.
“Hi, can I help you? I’m Aaron.” The man rose from a shiny wooden desk and thrust out his hand. Smart suit, flashy watch.
“I can’t believe this. I’ve lived here yonks. Never thought they’d build on this shitty scrap of land.”
Aaron blinked. “Infilling is an efficient way of developing greenbelt land. Were you interested in a plot?”
“Oh yes.”
“Oh,” Aaron blinked a few more times. “Right… Let me show you around then.”
Outside, Trevor marched off down the tacky road, acrid tar invading his nostrils, ignoring Aaron’s gasped attempts to describe the layouts of the townhouses. They progressed past glossy show homes and half-built shells, until plots that were no more than scruffy outlines gave way to the scrubby grassland of before.
“Over there,” Trevor pointed. “Right o’ that tree I reckon. S’there a plot there?”
“Err…” Aaron consulted his site plan. “That’ll be number seventeen, a super two bed…”
“Perfect,” Trevor interrupted, staring at the hedge line.
“Is there a particular reason…”
“West, innit?” he waved his hand out. “I remember the sun settin’…”
*********
Nine months later, Trevor sat in his garden at number seventeen, beer in hand, as the sun set before him. Digging down to lay the hardcore for the patio had been a nightmare. Hard ground this time of year. Panic had been creeping in until he struck the blue plastic tarpaulin. He’d stopped digging and tipped rubble into the hole.
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