Salvation Row by Mark Dawson

that’s what we’ve done so far. The way we work it, we get the money together to buy a plot, we clear it, then we build. We can turn a house around, start to finish, in three months. The families pay us, we take the money for the house and put it into the next plot of land. It’s all cheap round here, no one else is doing anything with it. We could keep doing it until there was no land left to build on. And there’s a lot of demand for houses now. People who had to move out, they’ve seen the places we’ve put up, they’ve seen they’re nice, they want to move back again. We could sign up fifty families tomorrow, no problem.” She finished her coffee and rattled the cup as she placed it back on the saucer.
    “So?”
    “So, about six months ago, we find out that this developer is interested in all this land. They offered to buy the houses. Everyone told them no. They came back, offered more than the plots are worth. The Joneses said yes, needed the money for their boy’s medical costs, but most people still held out. We just moved back. Some of these families, they’ve been here sixty years, and they don’t want to move. I couldn’t understand why they’d be interested. No one else is interested in buying land down here, and then these guys come in. They’ve bought fifty acres all around us. Didn’t make sense. So I dug into it a bit and found out that this corporation wants to put up a mall. The kind of place with shops and cinemas, the whole nine yards.”
    Izzy frowned again. “We found out two months ago that the only way they can make their development work is to put their access roads right through the houses we just built. We own the land, but the city thinks the mall is more important than the houses, and they’re insisting we sell.”
    “Can they do that?”
    “We told them that we wouldn’t sell, so they’ve gone to court to get an order that’ll make us.”
    “They can do that?”
    She nodded. “It’s called eminent domain. That’s the case I’ve been fighting. There’s no way I’m going to let them do it. After everything we’ve done, the work we’ve put into these houses, just to let them drive a bulldozer through them? No way. That happens over my dead body.”
    She spoke more and more passionately, her eyes flashing with anger. Her father nodded, his face stern and resolute, and her mother reached across to take her hand. Milton didn’t know what to say. He had no experience in the law, but he knew what was right and what was wrong.
    “Can you fight it?”
    “Maybe,” she said. “I’m doing it myself, so the cost is as low as I can make it. But, even so, there are experts and fees to pay. The money won’t last forever. And they have deep pockets. I’ll make it as difficult and expensive for them as I can. We’ll see what happens.”
    “You haven’t had any time to yourself for weeks,” Elsie said. “You work late, weekends—”
    “You know the worst thing?” she interrupted. “It’s not that, or the stress. It’s that it takes me away from running the charity. It stops me from working on new houses, finding new plots, speaking to families who want to move in. We’re not a big team. It’s me and whoever else is prepared to work for nothing. If I’m not running things, everything will stop. We’re already losing momentum.”
    Milton heard the door open and, as he looked up quizzically, saw the concern on the faces of Solomon and Elsie. He had his back to the kitchen door and, as he turned back, it opened.
    Alexander Bartholomew came inside.
    Milton remembered him from that night in the storm. He had aged badly. He could only have been in his late twenties now, but he could have passed for someone ten years older. He was thin, wiry like a speed freak. His hair was a mess, a straggled ’fro that was shot through with grey.
    “Alexander,” Elsie said.
    “Mom.”
    “You okay?”
    “Just passing through. Thought I’d come say hi.”
    “You didn’t