The tears flow readily as Gemma Carlsson counts out the last of this week’s money. It’s coming to the end of the month, so she’s down to a pile of small change.
“It’s not where I want to be,” she whispers. “I hate it. It feels like I’m getting depression just from being here. It’s damp, it’s falling apart. The kids hate it too.”
She’s sitting in a room with damp walls, an ancient TV that only plays children’s channels, and the tell-tale smell of rat faeces wafting in from behind the sparse units in the kitchen beyond.
